...never really left portland

Tues, 3/13 this year


through this inner ear infection
everything sounds damp and rushing
voices lost under pressure



ghostly white eagle hotel
the night maidens light violently blown out
between the walls where we'll sleep tonight
broken body sprawled across these very floorboards
Euphoria painted in plain sight
"do what you do, don't do what you don't: be what you be,
don't be what you wont"



A fine establishment
dark and intimate
music flowing freely through the heavy wood moulding
Italian falsettos and Celtic verve
in light starved lofty nooks
little ceramic creatures hide
peeking down upon the patrons
guzzling away the days rain
with rouge with broken halos



an old man in thick rimmed glasses
sharing the resemblance of woody allen
with a soft face behind all his lines
sits to my right,
towards me
slowly munching turkey
I scribble, he reads
aware of each other
eyes never catching
one another




our table has been placed in a set back nook
rectangular in shape with a chunk cut from one corner
across from the missing part, where a support beam has been fit
i sit alone and blow my nose and try to ignore the increasing pain in my left ear



The boys talk about grass and politics
the towns they've loved and the ones they are in love with
and all the ones they hope to meet
the bar fills up a bit more
distracted
i've barely touched my drink