I was born in California
and apparently
that wasn\'t enough.
I started moving.
Sailing around the country.
Missouri cattle ranches.
Ponds and streams.
Sunlit meadows
with a cicada soundtrack.
Dust.
Cows.
Long roads
and a kid
trying to figure out
where he belonged.
Then Denver.
Dinner theaters.
Strange rooms.
Productions that confused
and fascinated me.
The stage made
a good playground.
Different faces.
Another version of me
trying on another life.
Then California again.
As a teenager,
I lived on a sailboat
and thought that was normal.
I went to the horse track
with my dad
and watched great horses
and great jockeys
fly around the oval.
Thundering hooves
of my youth.
For a few minutes,
everything made sense.
I enjoyed the gamble
of life.
Then came the drinking.
Maybe I found it.
Maybe it found me.
It became the ocean
I couldn\'t get out of.
Riptides of destruction.
Marriage.
Divorce.
Hospitals.
Promises.
Broken promises.
Friends died.
My parents died.
People I thought
would always be there
disappeared
one by one.
I ended up homeless
and learned what it meant
to carry your life
in your pockets.
If Odysseus
had been an alcoholic,
maybe we\'d have had
more in common.
He had storms.
I had mine.
He had monsters.
I had mine.
Plenty of snake-haired women.
He was trying
to get home.
I was trying
to stay alive.
Somewhere along the way,
I finally stopped running.
Now I live
in a little resort town.
I write poems.
I play golf.
I go fishing.
I watch the stock market
and worry about bulls
and bears.
I drink coffee
at my desk
and wonder
how the hell
I got here.
Maybe this is Ithaca.
Maybe home
was never a place.
Maybe it was the moment
I stopped trying
to find the next adventure.
I\'m still here.
Still writing.
Still learning.
Still screwing things up.
But the sea
is behind me now.
And for the first time
in my life,
I\'m not looking
for another shore.