it was the first line of the first return

the sky had already received a five star review

in the great cities of europe and the americas

the magician and his assistant wife

the cafes du lait with creamy walls

the old aerodromes a carafe of fresh orange juice

all possible places at once are imposed upon each other

all these cities in one city

all these rooms in one room

all these stories in one story

all these words in one word :

imagine

bizarre and random life in the sun

you are old and young with your rippling reflection

you are no man or woman

you are a character

you live so this thing i write on you may exist

sitting at this table guzzling sangria with you inside your new skin

under these palm lined boulevards in endless dusk

lost into the alleys of brighton and paris which stink of piss

unafraid on some hillside i stroll confidently through the slums

i do deals with the beggars who fool me over and over

later i order expensive meals i cannot ever pay for

overlooking the gorges the rivers the cathedrals

the birdseye gaze of a madman as he drifts out of his world

throw open the doors to the weeks to come

old fisherman repeating the 1000 names of maria mother of god

the candles splutter on in warm dark of another church

some dashing waiter like a b grade zorro against vista panoramica

a guy shows up in a building to read the meters

a ruined garden of frenzied gardenias

estates in decline with doors for windows

conesuela sits on her train going endlessly to the beach

almost never arriving where the castles hit the shore

and one million mixed up casanovas in casinos and bars

their phones are full of distant voices they hear from as within a haze

we cannot approach their lives

with certainty they face the same day after day after day

in the swirling turmoil of the stage i have lost my locus

in the spells and all the tinkling little bells

as the lights flash and change the faces

in the bolted lightning struck lake villa nova

in white verse the poet bangs out his poem

coffee and hash and the orient as always and as ever

the world is snatched away for him

in germany for afternoons of grey sky peaceful suburbs

my wander down the streets of closed saturday evening shops

the epic work always beyond your meagre reach

you meet people outside your magic shows

you shake their hands although it was a hundred years ago

the peasants and nobleman all accept you now

many by their arrogance have ignored gods admonitions

the famous rivers cut across the famous places

the many friends we once had…where are they now?

in some pastelaria i dangle little estevao on my knee

in my old black clothes and my busted wand

i still struggle to understand all the small gold coins in my hand

at home conesuela lies in bed all day dreaming of her train

the atlantic beach the neglected sea calmly awaits her arrival

another blue day dawns and the foreign birds sing

the washing fades away on the lines

at another cafe at another monument

the cold beer flows and the touristas all gawk

which ever way i walk

i hardly ever find my way home