Portland Casket Gloom

I. Monaco Morning Delusion

The maids have forgotten to draw the shade for us
While crane labor screams
Old men with hardhats at work on a weekend
wrestle with the warmth of their pockets
Mill around and point to beams
Stable the frames of the shell of the shed
hammering new wounds on graffitied rooftops
Fifth Avenue doom impends throughout
the crane is crooked, bevvied, old
And the ton-scale molds do creak to its fulcrum
Flanked each horizon by jutted parking monoliths
taller than most hotels
And the Monaco concierge implores the
will of the housekeepers to rush the
turning of the bed.
But we're not awake yet
Just tossing
turning
yawning with the maw of the crane.

II. My Father's Place

She reads like a racecar;
sputtering, lightning fast, stuttering
stanzas in sordid soliloquy
in din of dim diner smoke

III. Division Walk

Oh Portland casket gloom,
illuminati peeking through the cloud
to warm my neck but for a second.
Why do I punish myself
on crooked, cobbled walks
to count the steps between the slats;
to trip on root-jutted faults in concrete
where nature yearns to best the modern world;
and cats' paws labor for the
cushion of quartered plots of grass;
and crows perch the power lines,
ignore the trees and peck at littered chip bags on the street?
Oh Northwest teasing rain:
Show thyself or never fall again...

The rainbow rows of Hawthorne fan
like Chinese foldups,
manipulate the grid to
labyrinthian treasures of gold.
But all you find are faux doubloons in rustic yesteryear
bottles in ditches
behind cordoned projects;
tenements spaced 'tween dream homes and cafes;
the streets urbanized by aluminum siding and spiral-stained condos;
tricking the tourists expecting the lore.

IV. Over The Rhubarb Bounty

Beyond the sizzle-grill suare,
just past the cubbyhole clubhouse in the shed,
the rows of citrus, berries,
dandelions, ancient deciduous trees,
snakepit monoliths and cooing blackbirds wait,
taunting sinful beauty
and cutting to the quick,
wincing in the face of this electric world.
I can go to corners of the hill,
quartered in the plot
beyond the music and the masses
to sit and shut my eyes to dream;
to fashion silhouettes on tree trunks
with my hands in the sun;
to lie in trippy flower beds
and brush bees off my face.
And you and I and no one else
will ever need another thing.
Over the rhubarb bounty,
the tudor-home rooftops domino and squeeze the sun away.
The motorbike coughs and sputters
by the will of the throttle,
poisoning the berries and the grass
with its luminescent howl
and I suddenly remember now
that someday I will die.

V. Post-Closet Revelry

I stabbed myself today
in the knee
by fleshy jointed cap.
I didn't mean to;
I just hate everyone, that's all.
The ballpoint shank pierced the goosebumped skin
to spurt the crimson truth
on all the nascent babies
Nowehere near the navel-lathe
where nothing thrives but native suns.