In the hotel I am meeting no one
and the shopkeepers swap tales
of homeland and journey.
Traveling alone, feeling safe,
I have no need for more of the same.
A watercolor artist at the zoo fence
and I lefthandedly discuss right brain theories
redefining the role of discipline and art.
I came here in order to write
so far, it's all rubbish, twaddle,
but I'm collecting so much data,
I feel viscerally ill at the end of the day.
I keep losing things: camera, keys, wallet,
camera bag, and I an far too laid-back.
Polynesian paralysis takes hold of you
while you sleep, it stealthily slips in-
between the sheets, like an errant lover,
right into your waiting arms.
8/5/84
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