Portland

Oh arched land of a thousand bridges,
posing many ways
amorous arms reaching like zombies
over the grand expanse.
Calming the heartbeats of
the rooftop dwellers,
the common city folk.

Ruling the states with an
understated quota met easily,
and empty coolness,
frosty, effortless,
quintessentially misunderstood.

Oh city of a thousand memories.
Moments rolling out
like a factory's endless belt.
Newer each second,
pushing at the heels of the last.

Silent dusk drops.
Rain falls on the concrete roses.
People open their doors
to the new wave.

Oh city of a thousand hairs.
Growing longer every unmet hour.
Curling in the damp air.
Waiting on the train,
hiding in the storm drain,
notifying each identity
with a sharp reality
charmed by fate itself.

Oh city of real faces.
Unmasked, unmade,
plain and beautiful,
stark in their openess.

A walking place,
unmapped expanse of dark.
Beckoning doorways,
Only accesible at the
perfect light of noon.
Long fruitful days spent
challenging space itself.
Challenging urban realities.

Oh city of people,
oh city of aged brick,
oh city of travellers passing,
oh city of roses,
carry on home.

Heirlooms

Plaster molds
stretch
caress
the quickly diffusing
arm of the past.

Haunting,
comforting,
as only a knowledge
that other hands held,
and maybe a few
courageous skin cells
are still crying
that it was too soon.

What's the worth?
Worthy weight, wrought from
careful palms,
censoring their fantasies
of mighty beauty.
To please the modern
working woman?

Did that woman's treasure,
held dear
between a toothy smile,
and a sweaty palm,
did it survive the test of time?

You are a rented elegance.
A tub full with harbored planes
of temporary belonging
crashing into my shins.

Making a fool of me
in front of the wise old men
in musty suits
waiting outside the elevator.

Le Secret, waiting like
a half used bottle of perfume,
it's chic taper posting
a high flag to all.

I'm not sure what will become
of my kamikazi strike.

I lost my chance to be neutral
with my only whole heart.
All arteries intact,
beating with the real thing.
Commitment.
It was easy, like breathing.

But each sharp, stilted addition
to my wall of fame
is a new tell.

That may likely be gone forever.

I'm a roamer,
wild, and I hope to
become untamable now that
I've lost my heart
to the windy Sam's town
musical novels of killers long before
whose ghosts are in this very room.

Habits Die Hard

You are flights of fancy.
You are all smokestack curls
and constant climax.
You don't do things halfway.
I think that means
stuck in the primary colors,
that you don't do much.

But when you do things,
they're california crazy,
racy, experimental,
extraordinary.

We are drawn, halting,
to your dynamics,
and you just sit
and watch
with those true eyes.
The only truth in your
whole, lounging body.

You are lethal.
The truth in your eyes
and the lies in your body.
Your body, that was made
for what?
You tell me.

That's how you want it anyway.
You want to tell me.
So do it, and give yourself
something to talk about later.