I remember the spring of 79
as me and Bob Seger left for Katmandu

dad
a retired railwayman was befriending Feodor Dostoevsky
later I learned that his life had become a boat without paddles
an important word lost in translation

meanwhile my name
indigo painted
was hiding like Euripides in cave
oftentimes I'm checking myself for signs of rust
every morning God throws a silver coin in my hair
not keeping evidence of the bell gongs stuck in my ears