Foreword: An Urban Anchorite
I no longer write in cultural hubs
like Manhattan, Berne, Zurich, or Paris.
I tried writing in Portland’s Irish pubs,
but my doctor’s warning and prognosis
shifted me from microbrews to white teas
in silent laptop desk establishments
where no one bothers to offend or please.
No longer able to afford the rents
in rich cities with caché and élan,
where my literary career once twirled,
like Prospero exiled from proud Milan,
I have learned to live in liminal worlds
far from the Corso’s evening parade
of men with their costly sweaters neck tied
and girls with breasts half covered, half displayed,
hoping by fashion to be verified.
Now I have taken to my yogic cave,
where alone with Daimon, angel, and jinn—
and sometimes on the Shakti’s Tantric wave—
I write seized in Daimonic transmission.
If that way solitary madness lies,
in the other way vision atrophies.
