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A Simillacrum Jun 2018
There are poor neighborhoods
that are tucked into towns,
where the less educated,
where the lesser of means,
find in the dregs, the ability
to coexist with higher society.

Society is grown to the point of disease,
killing the feeble, disabling the lost,
in the name of and for some ease.
So here comes the city, meaning so well.
They said, "Let's add a train line
to a town that has none!"

Well, there goes the block.
There go the people who
barely have homes.

The Council wants to drop a line
where they see shoes bounce power lines.
What's the harm in displacing
the part of the community already dead?
The town now seems to be just fine
now that the poor are paying fines.
Why not double down and just
gentrify when history tells the story best?

Expand Portland, rid Tigard of blemish,
trade your rug for cement and track.
Beautify Tigard, please your ill desire,
don't be surprised when your eyesore
comes back.

Go ahead, pave your poverty.
Go ahead, clean your streets.
You're thinking, "Lines for dimes."
What do you think a new line means?
What do you think the traffic brings?
The sweet guillotine repeats.
Zero Nine Nov 2017
Must have been the end of a delightful dream
Had my fingers around a power leak
******* up the light when I came to,
loosening my grip on a can of beans
68 cents, tacos on demand
counted the change pushing
through my pockets and
leaking through the seams
In a life like this I wish it
was considered decent to
decide for death even with
in proper company,
but only sometimes.
sip slip away
Zero Nine Nov 2017
Sad songs had their place
In the coming of age,
My songs sound the same
The sound, blase
Sad songs had their place
In the coming of age,
My songs sound the same
My songs are blase.

The answers I need, who do I ask?
Where's my fire?
Where's my immediacy?

The roof is overhead.
The walls surround my bed.
Food in the fridge.
Necessary electricity.

The ends I seek, where do I ask?
Where's my fire?
Where's my face in smoke and mirror?

Sad songs had their place
In the coming of age,
My songs sound the same
My songs are blase.

Where's my face in smoke and mirror?
Where's my face in smoke and mirror?
The End
The mileage added up to just a grand
Not a lot for 20 days,
No crossing of a dateline
Or a continent’s divide.

But still that world seemed somewhat foreign
and I saw streams of amazing things,
That were echoes of my teenage self,
As different now as I was then.

A hazy forest, dark and damp
Where the mist turned into fairy snow
And we walked on in muddy shoes
To learn the mysteries of falling water.

A midas treasure of wave-borne findings
Spilling from a cavernous hall
Pieces of so many lives found
Floating on the morning tide.

Stories of a Nippon sailor’s life
From things that got thrown overboard
Images of fishing boats
In round glass ***** and floats of cork.

Carve the circle with a line
That led to a reunion of
The ones that I grew up beside
But never quite was welcomed in.

A rounding up of recollections
Shared at tables set for eight
Where those left out still don’t fit in
And bonhomie was the music played.

To the ocean of my childhood days
Waves that tell me who I am
And fill up all the empty spaces
City life drained out of me.

A shining tower with ninety steps
That wound around like pizza slices
And tripped me up to ******* blood
As balsa airplanes spiraled to the ground.

No time for wounding on the schedule
Shedding blood but never tears
The leader of the band played on
Admiring a Tsunami boat

Come all the way from far Japan
With cargo of the local fish
Still swimming in the unspilled sea.
A miracle born from true disaster.

Another beach, not like my own
A warmer, calmer span of sand
With jutting rocks in shallow surf
That dare you out to climb them.

Drawn once more to city lights
And the grassy ***** where mother lies
There were other gardens to enjoy and
And contrivances with just two wheels.

How quickly we grew shuttered in-
Just two days in big city life,
The restaurants and funny shows
Still told us it was time to go.

Longing for the beauty of the Gorge
We were met by smoke and blackened stumps
And exits blocked to waterfalls, ravaged
By the fires of hell, and ugly now for 50 years.

A teenage boy with fireworks and no sense
Destroyed the loveliest drive on earth
And bragged to all his awestruck friends
That all the news stories were about him.

With fingers crossed at Mount Rainier,
The sunny weather turned to slush and
Fell two inches in an hour.  I ate fresh snow
Off branches as we hiked, and froze my tongue.

We wore the heavy coats we almost didn’t bring
And cheered when sunshine took the snow away
And we could walk in forests once again
On trails we never knew were there.

A wonderland of cast off parts and metal bits
Became giraffes, seahorses and other marvels
In the hands of a roadside welding artist
Who sold a giant piece to my home town.

A visit with a sister who shared my youth but not my soul
Who grew one way and I another
Leaving not a thing in common for us
Except the love that comes from blood.

No way to avoid the final city
Hellish place of one way streets
Endless detours and construction
Pay all you own to park two hours.

Yet there was the comedy and
Segways once again to ride.
A troll under a hulking bridge and
Poor Rapunzel in the tower.

Passing up the tourist musts,
Visited in journeys past, we saw
The small and quirky things
That make a foreign city yours.

Twenty days, almost no rain
Unheard of in that rainy clime
A lot of sun, some cloudy skies
A bit of snow to frost the cake.

Twenty days to drive a circle
On the map of who I am
And where I came from
To bring it all back here with me.

To this place so vastly different
I wonder how I found a way
To fit inside this giant tumbler
And plant a seed that actually grew

A would-artist long ago
I wonder how I mixed the paint
To make a life so changed, in colors
Blended from Seattle’s soils.

Painted on a Portland canvas
With a brush of Longview bristles
Wetted with Pacific water
To present my image to the world.
                       ljm
Should anyone be curious about our route, here it is:  Fly to Seattle, pick up car, Ferry to Kingston on Olympic Peninsula, drive to Hurricane Ridge and Sol Duk.  To Forks (No interewst in Twilight locations) to Beachcomber museum, and Hoh Rainforest.  Aberdeen (skipped Curt Cobin park) and Longview.  Class reunion.  To Long Beach  (the only REAL beach on the west coast), To astoria to climb the tower (and fall).  Maritime museum and that tsunami boat.  Seaside, Canon and Red beach.  Tillamook and the cheese factory.  Portland.  Mom's grave.  The poor mutilated Columbia Gorge, to Umatilla.  Then through Yakima and Ruchland to Mt. Rainer Nat. Park.
To Puyallup (properly pronounced pew-al'-up) to see sister and on to Seattle for the last 3 days, then home.
*** - I've just done a boring vacation letter.  Be glad you aren't on my Christmas newsletter list !!
Laurel Leaves Sep 2017
Hoarders houses
Filled to brim
overgrown fig tree's
fallen chestnuts
heat no longer rising from the asphalt
faded American Flags
TV's blaring

The pink clouds of
warm blooming roses

the musky air of
freshly put out forest fires
stale aftertaste of bitter coffee

is this your home?
Do you reside here?
How can you breathe with all of this smog filling your lungs?
Do your legs ache for a new path?

Neighborhood cats
curiously follow you
making no sudden movements
tense
on the verge of making it
past.
I'm leaving Portland in a month.
Zero Nine May 2017
If it's no problem,
please join me.
There's a city outside in the rain.
In the side of an archive coffee shop,
I saw you reading, leaning
-- more like pressing the world away
-- fully removed.

After the shop closed three years later
the weather changed. In the dry dust
the sun burned on the blacked out window,
your face curved more like the sword,
less like the first observed orange light
of hope on the edge of West horizons.
Where are you but in the glass?
But in the mud puddle's flipped throwback?
....
Alex Mar 2017
There are empty coffee cups all over this room
Somehow, I only notice when you're gone.
It reminds me of you, my cup of coffee
You take yours black one sugar,
I get a white peppermint mocha
Sweet with just a hint of bitter
Kinda like me in a way.
You can always know a person by where they get their coffee,
We like the local places, if we have time.,
But when we don't, we're Starbucks fans.
You know all the best spots in town.
Not just for coffee, foe everything.
When you took me to that park on the hill,
On that freezing winter night, I almost cried.
Because I thought, no I knew,
I'm in love and I've never felt better!
And even though Portland is freezing,
I was warm, because I was with you.
Zero Nine Mar 2017
Used to be frail, and pale, weak inside now
the darkened leather of skin has done much
more than save my life.
It's consumed.
Dark steel armor has worn, formed rusted spikes
that slowly push to impale with blunted
and poisonous points.
I've inhaled
After one long, deep and drawn out sigh in
to twilight's heels, it feels as though it kills
to survive the night.

. . .

To survive tonight
Welcome to the party
Trash can lights light, illuminate
To survive tonight
Free junk and dry cardboard
Beckon, calling out names
That sound like yours
I had a lot of fun with this one.

I've lived in the area surrounding Portland nearly my entire life, and over time, I've realized its appeal is that it's just a big pile of junk. I can't help but think cardboard meets clean steel, skirts/suits meet black duster jacket and ****** crew.

Who the hell finds that appealing? I guess I do. I haven't wanted to leave yet. It does something to your insides, though. Literally and figuratively. I like being a rat.
Zero Nine Mar 2017
I thought you were my friend
we shared herb and spirits
with an addict in recovery
I've never really left this town like you
I broke my new tablet
while watching ducks from rocks
This ***** river bank
This ***** city may
Be the only ocean for me
...
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