I
My friend John the would-be-writer
rebel & outsider a latter-day Beat Dharma Bum
or Hippie carries a hunting knife
gives lectures on the use of fire-arms
suddenly says he's hungry
after sitting half the day
in our favourite café
drinking strong Columbian coffee
& chain-smoking all day long
no wonder we can't sit still
no wonder we are both on edge
though I need fuel of crude stimulants
to keep my mind alert & waiting
for some stray bit of inspiration
carried along on a banner pulled along
by my muse flying a single-engine plane
over the city of confusion inside my skull
over this dull uninspiring end of the line city
of a thousand & one dead ends
we take our leave of that café on Brunswick street
we each order a clubhouse
at the Greek restaurant
which recently added a whurlitzer Jukebox
flashing colourful lights as the music plays
the place has been remodeled repainted
all in the scheme to give it a throw back
1950's classical diner look of sorts
these feeble half-baked attempts remind me
of a Hopper painting 1935 3am
of some man sitting alone in a diner in New York
essence of the modern beast
my friend & I talk about writing
little else interests me
I talk to him about some novel or other
like the Horses Mouth by Cary

which I reread a couple of times a year
or whenever I hit a wall of despair
how it renews me renews my desire to write
the story of Gully Jimson a painter early twentieth century
overstuffed with mad Blakean visions
in his seventies still eluding fame
an artist to the end
creating giant murals of Creation on walls
torn down by wrecking-crews
just carrying out the orders
of the narrow minded bureaucrats
sent in by the dull unimaginative
jealous resentful outraged public
and I tell him about Joyce's work
a Portrait of the Artist as a young man
which recreates his defining moment
choosing between being a priest or an artist
to serve God or the Muse-

I need these books to ground myself
in the here & now & in my journey
as a would be artist of the literary kind
a rare bird someone once announced
expecting great things from me
carrying this burden around for decades to come
interrupting my lecture he asks
if these books are essential reading
where should I begin he says
he has written some poems & songs
& plans to write a novel so
I say it might be a place to start but who knows
it depends on where you are at this moment
he asks me to make a list for him
I tell him I will if he is serious
well you should read some Hemingway of course
a moveable feast & the Sun also rises


& the Green Hills of Africa
old Hemingway reveals a trick or two
to assist wayfaring writers
trapped in adolescent style angst
some in the grip of more mature moral outrage
over injustices & indignities
twisting wide-eyed innocence
into dark cynicism yet here we are
always reaching out for a single scrap of hope
and I ponder over all those books I poured over
some times to unravel a secret or two
to lose sight of myself to pass the time
some painstakingly read for some college course
only much later realizing the importance & relevance
sometimes only with the passing of time
do we recognize certain truths
finding a healing balm of words
for my raggedy soul stuffed with brick-a-brack-

My friend asks for my advice
as if I carried around some hidden wisdom
tucked away in my brown leather shoulder bag
or is he just stroking my weakened ego
so I won't mind paying for his supper
and in the end does it matter-

II
Remembering a closet-size rented room
Thoreau's Walden on the bedside table
my latest Bible
pages bent dog-eared
notes scribbled here & there in the margins
sections underlined
waiting all day for my return
late at night searching its pages

wisdom in a clubhouse sandwich
Gordon Coombes

for a passage to lighten the burden
of another day dragged like an old sack behind me
with the passing of time
other books replace it for awhile
by whatever my latest mania demands
a catalogue of voyages taken or just begun
like the Tao of Pooh
& Zen & the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
or Voltaire's Candide or Dante's Inferno
Joseph Cambell's Hero with a Thousand Faces
needing nourishment needing to stop
my wandering distracting mind
before I finally fall to sleep
sometimes lost in the intricacies of labyrinths
of Plato's dialogues
of the teachings of the Buddha or Lao Tzu
of Moses Christ or Mohammed
or some other enlightened soul
hitting the wall
unable to crack open such a tough nut
going for long walks at night
around this or that city
sometimes roaming about for hours
waiting for the solution
to some philosophical or theological
metaphysical ethical or aesthetic puzzle
to reveal itself to me-

III

as I remember all of this
I turn for solace & inspiration
to Jack Kerouac plaid-shirted rebel
in Chino pants & hiking boots
so I read again & again his cannon
from On the Road & Desolation Angels
to the Dharma Bums & Big Sur
to quiet my restless soul
in need of adventure
I turn again wandering
over this rough & tumble world
in the imagination of another-

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