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April 28, 2015 by musehick

Reading Kerouac on the bus takes me back. When I first came over here I was reading a Kerouac book and Bukowski poetry as I moved from one friend’s couch to the next. Spoken word and couch surfing, with a little bit of sight seeing.

I wasn’t here liken tourist, and I never felt like one. People notice I am English, obviously, but it seems more irrelevant than ever after being out here nearly 8 years.

I don’t know if I write from a nationalistic viewpoint any more than I ever did, because I always felt I wrote more from a philosophical stance, and from a political place in the sense of the personal as political.

My poetry and a lot of my writing, of late has come from the life I am living, and it feels qualitatively different. Will there be an evolution in evidence when I have done with this mortal chapter in the story? I hope so. We’ll see, won’t we? For now I am happy concentrating on the next project.

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