Northwest Rumination

Laurelhurst Hoof

Living in infamy, vagabond operatic
hiking up lost hills
through the floral walks of Laurelhurst,
I concede now to the pre-fab
pleasantry of the pond,
where ducks and black swan swim
and dip for food before me,
Looking for handouts of bread
from dirty hands of tempered man.
Soon it will rain,
and soon I'll be drenched with the dew
of a foreign cloud.
Lonely, lusting, poor
save for the wealth of spirit hiding
somewhere in my heart.
And now the ducks and swan come rushing
to the shore to take the bait from children's hands,
their biggest thrill today by far.
Their mother sees the penman scribble,
lurking, looming,
and ushers her offspring away with the knowing glance
of a wary jungle cat,
seething with frothy mouth, cunning and counting lives in nines.
So I just smoke and look away...
I can see now why Olmsted's visions of scenery
flanked and bookended the plots of park we now take so for granted.
With sweeping strokes, the willow droops for shade
and hides the island birds,
the douglas firs jut to kiss the sky
and glint like pyres 'gainst the pond's murky sheen,
But the moment has passed now and bullet-boys
march by as reminders that without them
we'd all be nothing but ash in this pensive, plaintive grove.
Long live the Empire of Greed.
Greed in the Grove of Green.
But tell me, decorated generality: What flower wouldn't droop to bow
and note you as you pass?
Which nightly, pining, wanderlust will finally be your last?

Streetside Provincial

Wet thumb to air for wind,
to tell me which way I should walk.
Drop lines in code to speak
but I forget how to talk.
The neons have all died out
and the sidewalk's scorched and gray.
Now all that's left to do
is tread 'til sunlight fades away.
In fits and starts we step and trip,
pretending not to fall.
In puddles we can splash the grime
to paint upon the wall.
Mud splat splinters, trickles
like a Pollock phantom genius;
psycho Braille explosions
feigning only now to rue us.

For when I am lonely,
I pace and whisper to myself
that nothing's needed;
only greed and drugs bring on the dawn.
But when I'm happy,
I've got starlight tracers shooting
from the rapture that I've pleaded;
like a ripple in the muddy river
where comfort comes from specters I've withdrawn.