“Luck be my lady,” I think is how Frank Sinatra sang it, but I didn’t
want any part of it. Maybe I was sick or even psychotic; it was all
possible I guess. I had absolutely no reason to feel bad, but I
did feel bad. I wanted all composition out of my life. I was in the
process of being undone. I didn’t want luck. I wanted meaning. And I
wouldn’t be happy until I found it.
When we reached Sault Saint Marie it was dark and rainy. John wanted
me to stay until we reached Toronto, at which time I could hitchhike
home in the morning. I thought about it, but only for a moment. After
riding in a packed car for three days, I was ready for a change. Once
I made it over to the American side of the Sault, I found a car that
looked abandoned, so I crashed in the back seat. It rained the whole
The next morning I headed out early. I was full of mixed emotions.
Not knowing how to practice my “wanting to be undone philosophy” made me
especially anxious. I was anxious about going home too. After living
out doors for so long, I felt claustrophobic when I thought about
the four walls of home. When I got out of the car at the Houghton Lake exit,
instead of going home, I hitched in the opposite direction. When I got
to Reedsburg Damn, I hiked back into the Deadstream Swamp (the place
where I felt most at home) and set up camp. The “drama of a
homecoming” was just too much for me to deal with. I decided to camp
in the swamp until I got things sorted out– until I felt I could deal
with reuniting with family and friends.
on timbers womb
grace my sight
in waves of light
that rise above my tomb.
and all we’ve
lost is what we’ve
the humbled flight
of empty thought.
When men and brew
and dames and love
are made to rhyme,
then all too soon
the drunk will sigh,
excuse this night
I have no lies.
Great is my yearning,
be it new, be it old,
be it whole, be it bold,
yet, until yesterday,
heaven and earth,
you and me.
And The Wren Chirps
wind in the trees,
sun in my face,
lazy day backwaters
by yesterday’s rain.
Fall you be, oh
to blow and make
the storm away;
I welcome you
again this day,
but please, your leave
my camp to stay.
Sitting by the Stream
Like the soft breeze
that gently pats
my cheek and hair,
like the meandering brook
that ripples away
like the sand piles
streaked and winding
about my feet,
I sit happily
Now it’s time to go home.