All I want to do is to climb a mountain, fucking bellow some cock-eyed diatribe improv production mile-high to the waxen ears of the horizon. Some half-baked, quarter-stewed myth unto my clumsy brood of stupid, sluggish, piecemeal gang of bums. Because we all need a little shelter from the cloaking clang-clang harangues of our fathers. Something that makes sense to us.
We don’t need flowers in our hair.
We need to plant a bomb in our beards.
We need a revolution of the ruse and the rivulet.
And incentives glimmer in the dewy sheen of our dangling carrots, betrothed and bewildered we lurch and heed, live and breathe, lie and hang our hats in stranger’s homes, walk in puddles to die a transient death, cuddle our own biceps to sleep, and preen our oily hair to tufts, and muster up the profundities inherent in total confusion, like a rhino in a hat, or a toothless lion in sub-Saharan lands.
Oh how I loathe you, Europe, for smashing all my brains into a soup, for stewing the pickle of my fickle heart, for feeding my dirty eyes a supper of ancient streets, for ladling the scents of leather boots, and pomade, and cigarettes, and brittle skeletons of a thousand wars into my sensitive protuberance and not allowing me to visit.
Oh but I hate you, Australia, even more, for stealing the sanctity of dreams for dreaming’s sake, for Outbacking my Central Valleys, for kangarooing my brown bears, for g’daying my hellos, for Sydneying my San Franciscos, for wiling my love to tread on crocodile miles in the bush, to read in foreign suns, to hike a crimson hill and blush at the winking, sinking sun, to forget me wholly and finally as that sun drops to blacken her nights and to begin my day anew and not allow me to interfere.
But how I love you, Portland, for sticking your sore thumbs out to welcome even thieves, for pounding hail upon your slacker hack intruders to test the mettle of a generation broke and bored, for making the most of the marriage of melting pot Multnomah, for bridging the poor idealisms of the east to the bourgeois has-beens of west in solidarity, for Tabor, the last of the primeval volcanoes grumbling in a land that knows no heartbreak.
And how my heart breaks for you, Portland, to choke your skies with clouds year-round, to shield your roses, to soak your sons with rain, to fool us all that somewhere else is where we want to be, when we know full well your sleeping sun is yearning to reward us, and to treat me like a little king in every way.
