That night in Nuwara Eliya
When Dom and I stumbled
Into the Grand, we had just re-met
And every moment was precious.
It took us ten minutes to find the bar
It was cold for Nuwara eliya and we
Needed a drink, desperately.
A single malt for Dom and a Port
For me. This was in 1993,
I turned towards the barman to place our order
And stopped, shocked. Next to us was the most
Extraordinary man I had ever seen, he was approx.
7ft tall. His ears were pointy, nearly as large as his head
A beard that tapered to a degree
His sideburns, thick, wide, designed
Angled to his mouth
A sweet smile. It was disconcerting.
Basically, your friendly neighborhood werewolf.
He bought us a round of drinks and
Seemed very glad to meet us.
We drank with him up to a point.
Said our goodbyes
And staggered outside into a sea
Of mist. It must have been midnight
the moon was full.
Shining bright with light
To show us the way
To the car-
Drove the windy
Road back to the club.
Quietly distressed by the
Meeting of the man
Who looked like a wolf.
Short days in Michigan
When the leaves turn to
colours of the earth.
The old man mowing his lawn
Wearing his slate cashmere v-neck with
holes under the arms, has never bothered
to get the thing darned.
Billy used the season to shoot
He would walk out into the woods with his Colt 45
Looked for Rabbit, Deer, if lucky, a Bear.
He wore a brown, round, wool neck sweater
that kept him warm.
It also camouflaged him really well.
No-one mentioned the time he was down by
The creek – – a body floated up, face down–
bloated and gross from being in the river for over
The sheriff hushed It up,
Billy was his son, you see.
The Sheriff wore a red lambswool sweater
to suggest authority, or perhaps, danger? and to keep visible.
He was beautiful to look at – A Cary Grant—with manners.
How us County people respected him.
The sole reason we never pursued the body story.
His word was Final.
Me, Autumn in Michigan, meant road trips—a six pack of
Molson in the car; Ruben sandwiches and my best girlfriend.
We’d sing to Joni Mitchell and Carol King—perfect tunes for a fall sunset
that seemed to last forever. At night, Deborah Harry
blasted from the CD deck the stars shining brightly.
We did not need the moon or headlights to show us the way.
My girlfriend wore her purple sweater, made of Angora.
It smelled of Opium. I wore a cashmere jersey
in lime green.
We drove for days hitting the west coast
Got down at Full Moon Beach.
Threw our sweaters off,
and with it, our angst spinning emotions
Jumped nude into the Pacific Ocean
The water was cold.
We could very well had been swimming in
It was worth it.
For the Road Trip.
2261 miles of it.
NS May 7th 2017.
A low slung Volks
turbo charged, fast
did 130 miles on
‘A poor man’s porsche’
my friend said.
Leonard Cohen crooning
as we looked
at the mountains
light poured in
the driver seat
comfortable enough to
I down shifted to third
then, back to fourth, fifth
as we turned the corner
on two wheels
the car did a one eighty
and smashed against
we poured out
stunned, bruised, bleeding
we were ok
the car ok, too
I loved this car
I was biased
Thank god we weren’t
driving the Prius.
NS FEB 13, 2017
Buttala, South Sri Lanka
Me, american pancakes, blue jeans.
Appuhami, rotis. sarongs.
British, Sri-Lankan children
To eat breakfast.
Daub and Wattle, Illuk Roof
I whisk the batter
I-pod on Leonard Cohen
Croons; “Love gone wrong’
For the moment.
I am lost
earphones in music
carries me away
to another place
congruence and context
(at home anywhere)
It’s all in the making of it.