brief moment

Who was the first one to get inside?

Who made you hide in the safety of your solitude?

Don't be mute.

Contrasts

Contrasts

Between light and dark

Between pleasure and pain

Are blurred.

She is familiar

Like a part I left standing at a far off place

Somewhere in my travels

Who has stopped in again to say,

“I’m here. I’m here again.”

At the edge of that cliff

We parted ways,

And although I did not jump

My soul left something

And she found it

Fed it

And brought it back.

out of my

I'm not a passive person

Allowing life to wash over me

I feel the contrary

I wake

I eat

I drink.

Then I dive into the different manias that propel me in life.

School offers countless interactions with like-minded-drifters and unemployed-poets.

On my rides,

through the city,

Alone

like the wolf I am,

I make the neighborhood mine,

I know the shadows, trees, 

The cracks in the sidewalk,

I smoke in the hidden places.

I know who's home.

I observe.

I may be a stranger to these parts,

But I live among you,

looking passive,

heaving forward.

"It slipped my mind
And for a time
I felt completely free

Oh what a troubled,
Silent, poor boy
A pawn into a queen

I laugh now
But later's not so easy
I've gotta stop,
The will is strong, but the flesh is weak
Guess that's it
I've made my bed, I'm lying in it"

Cut

You’ll never find me there

In all the familiar places

Now I sit

Under the moon

Glistening

Like I never have

Before

With stardust

And clarity

Not under

Your dark clothe

Smothered

By hope

By the thoughts

Of a future

Of what could be.

Farther, further, forward. I cut through.

The Dual Nature of Being

• Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia.  – E.L. Doctorow

[B]ut I was still cursed with my duality of purpose; and as the first edge of my penitence wore off, the lower side of me, so long indulged, so recently chained down, began to growl for licence. Not that I dreamed of resuscitating Hyde; . . . no, it was in my own person that I was once more tempted to trifle with my conscience. . . .
[However,] this brief condescension to my evil finally destroyed the balance of my soul. And yet I was not alarmed; the fall seemed natural, like a return to the old days before I had made discovery. It was a fine . . . day. . . . I sat in the sun on a bench; the animal within me licking the chops of memory; the spiritual side a little drowsed, promising subsequent penitence, but not yet moved to begin. After all, I reflected, I was like my neighbours; and then I smiled, comparing myself with other men, comparing my active goodwill with the lazy cruelty of their neglect. And at the very moment of that vainglorious thought, a qualm came over me, a horrid nausea and the most deadly shuddering. . . . I began to be aware of a change in the temper of my thoughts, a greater boldness, a contempt of danger, a solution of the bonds of obligation. I looked down; my clothes hung formlessly on my shrunken limbs; the hand that lay on my knee was corded and hairy. I was once more Edward Hyde.

-DR. JEKYLL AND MR. HYDE

-Robert Louis Stevenson

Wanton Soup

My horoscope said, “Nothing is gained by overstating your case today.” But how can I let my words not spill out of my mouth,

Held wide open by the universe flooding it with uncertainty and want.

“Endless rambling” like a car with a loose muffler; that’s me.

“Inflating your ego might backfire...” And three, two, one, “POP.”

These manifestations of the mind fulfill the pleasures of the night, but in the brightness of day all those images and moments of heart beats fall back into the cracks and remind us that we are unaware pawns

We are the unaware populous of destitute conditions. Seeking to capture a butterfly that will burst into fire in our closed hand.

We can’t find ourselves unless we stop looking.

We are like vapors touching a void.

We are like newts failing to evolve.

We are like Quasimodo ringing the bell for sanctuary just as the wrecking ball hits the tower.

So there I go,

overstating my case. Just like I do....

Just like they knew

I would.

After all, it is not the words that break us. It is the silence.

            

Summer

Hola companeros,

I am happy to be heading into summer. What it means for me; picnics in the park, long bike rides, camping, good times with good friends.
My vision of summer is skewed by my childhood nostalgia. I rode my bike, as an ambassador of the block. I took inventory of every sidewalk crack. I was the leader of the neighborhood kid-militia. The canal banks were to the south of my house -- that was an extension of our backyard. Our dogs would swim and chase sticks. The water would rush out of the city to the fields, we were a fleeting glance before the water gave life to the crops.
Nothing can come close to the summers of childhood. But we try.

Fire Steel

Today I tried out my new fire steel and made a good little fire in my hobo stove. I had hot chocolate in less than ten minutes.

This is a typical day in Portland, overcast, drizzly . . . but the element of fire and hot beverage made it quite pleasant.
I used Cedar bark I had collected from the neighborhood as my tinder. Fun fun.

reciprocity

Definition of RECIPROCITY

1

: the quality or state of being reciprocal : mutual dependence, action, or influence

2

: a mutual exchange of privileges; specifically : a recognition by one of two countries or institutions of the validity of licenses or privileges granted by the other

Reciprocity, one of my favorite words. Every time I heard my history teacher say it I wanted to jump in his mouth. It was like he was talking about some far away place...

A place of mutual like, mutual needs, reciprocated. How exotic and foreign a concept. 

Gravity

I don't think you really miss me.
I think you miss me in theory.
Like the theory of gravity.
That the magnetic pull is what's keeping us planted here.
As if we have anywhere else to go.

Volunteers . . . my favorite flower

This summer, well, since July, I've been volunteering because I am unemployed. I volunteered with Basic Rights Oregon, donated blood, went to Orientation with Community Cycling Center and picked fruit with the Portland Fruit Tree Project.
How do I feel?

I feel lucky and productive. However, it really is one of those thankless things.
I'm not a bleeding heart liberal. I do do things for my self. I like to give back. If I have the time, why not?

I rode 39 miles in one day. The most I have ever done probably. I rode past fields of tall dry grass and picturesque blue mountains that stood majestic behind them. I sang songs to myself and whistled without a care. When the mood struck me I stopped in the shade and drank water. After consuming an apple I tucked it neatly away in the weeds for nature to take care of my waste. It was beautiful. It was a challenge. By the time the weekend was done I had ridden 67 miles. My goal of riding more than 80 was not reached. I felt accomplished though. I was proud. I built an Eiffel Tower out of Popsicle sticks. Because Popsicle sticks is what I had.

Lee's Launderette

I was at Lee’s Launderette on a Saturday night, watching my red panties swirl around in the dryer. My plans that night had fizzled. I was struck dumb by the glow of the Launderette’s florescent lighting and past issues of Mademoiselle and Good Housekeeping. The featured article in Good Housekeeping was an account of how to maintain that story book romance as well as prepare a delicious Thanksgiving meal. I salivated over the delectables pictured. Mashed potatoes glistened with melted butter. Sliced honey-glazed-spiral ham jumped off the page, and oven-baked sweet potatoes were garnished with a few miniature marshmallows (watch the calories ladies). The pièce de résistance was the turkey. It was a headless mound of golden meat. It rested its weary legs on a silver platter in the middle the dining table spread. It was waiting to be sliced, served and dished to starving cousins, nephews, nieces and aunts. With bright delight the turkey gets gobbled up, smothered with mom’s grand gravy. The Waldorf salad slides merrily down everyone’s gullet, with intent and gluttony. Aunt Flo helps clean up the dishes afterwards and stores away leftovers for turkey sandwiches. The men folk gather around the big screen and watch the game, and before long, grandpa Ted snores graciously, tummy bulging beyond capacity, in his favorite easy chair. That’s the way Good Housekeeping told it anyway. I remember Thanksgiving different.

Last year’s Thanksgiving at my house was like this . . . .

I left the crumpled post-it on the dining room table with Ollie’s home number on it. He wasn’t the only one in town who still used a landline, yet he was never home! I kept trying the number over and over, but Ollie wasn’t going to answer, because Ollie was dead. Ollie had wrestled with that turkey for five hours before the turkey finally got the better of him. Heart attack and just like that, Ollie was gone.

It was only noon, but I had already had it with this damn Thanksgiving. I needed to get out of the house. “I’ll be back in a couple hours to fix the green bean casserole and finish the laundry!” I yelled after to the kin around the TV set. As I entered the carport, I soon realized I was standing in a pool of water. The washer had busted a hose. I hurried to the launderette to get the good table clothe clean and dried for dinner. “Shit shit shit!” I declared as I rushed away in my Corolla.

Mom and dad were going to beat me back to the house. I could picture Dad in the recliner, with an opened can of Milwaukee’s Best in hand, just minutes after walking in my house. And mom will be there, bringing her famous rolls, quickly taking to scouring the inserts on the stove with steel wool. I can hear her now, “I taught Arlene how to clean better than this.” Oh my my. Why the hell do I want to go back there? And why the hell does every Thanksgiving end up with someone dead?

At night I am restless.
I flicker like the flame in this candle before me.
I read the fiction
the romanticized notions
the picture perfect couples.
I sit flickering.