the highway

Jai Jai Jai Jai Ganpathy Deva

Pure afternoon sun a blessing in this part of the world

Riding on the M8 out of Glasgow, Scotland.

Auric grasslands and towns

sight-seeking mountains, but there are just clouds,

scattered woods of small trees, violet hillocks, seagulls.

Eating dried Turkish apricots and listening

to an album of chants from Skanda Vale.

When Scott put it on my external drive, I thought:

I probably won't listen to that.

We left the ashram only a week ago.

I smile remembering the red-white stripe and spot on my forehead

ash and turmeric, they said. I sang a lot there, cross-legged

on the wooden floor, elevated by a couple

flat cushions. Sounding out new combinations of vowels.

Letting the mantras sway me. I do

miss it.

Landscape is changing now: stone castles perched on stone

outlooks. Sheep at pasture. Bird's nest chalices of twig in empty

beeches. Windmills. A clear November evening. No matter where I am

in the Western Hemisphere, this time of day and time of year--

I can feel it, smell it. It's the same in Port Townsend, Portland,

Portugal, Perth. Crackling leaves, wood smoke easing

out of chimneys, smell of dinner, cold hands

seeking pockets. Steps on the pavement. 

Street lights on, though the sky is

full of beautiful colors and

the moon is going to come out later.

Heading north to Aberdeen this fine evening,

peeling a grapefruit the exact same color as my corduroy trousers.

Kali Kapalini Durga Laxshmi Saraswati

I left my boots in Glasgow, for my friend's Swedish flatmate,

having bought a new pair at the Salvation Army

5 quid only. They may not be

as good with the rain. So far they seem

more comfortable. Cream suede with teal laces,

flat soles. Don't think I will get blisters. Traveling

moving through places—towns, villages, cities, pure

wildernesses. You see

all the lives that could be

Yours.

They are.

They are all

yours. And they will never be

yours.