No trout here.

It is legend that snow does not fall in Portland, or at least, not like this. The calves become soaked, the knees dampened, the feet dancing with the numbness of a snow packed toe. I’ve been inside for what is now 4, perhaps 5 days, writing barely a word and becoming antsy for that moment of  Portland exploration I have yet to embark upon. Today, in the freezing snowdrift of this strangely impacted city,  I will wander, despite the hype, up and down the streets looking for that small cubby-hole in a wall that will, for a short time (maybe one half hour) define my existence and make the place seem whole and mine- and perhaps if  I can see my breath inside it, it is just another sign that BEING here is indeed the purpose of my arrival and will be followed through most diligently whether the intention stays entire or crumbles. I’ve half a mind to grab some cash and board a greyhound to Seattle for the next two days, spending Christmas inside the complete stranger of a city, but it seems that where I am is unknown enough to be carried on with.

God bless everything that is moving or still.

Like the dust, or…

Reaching into my pocket

I search for that momentary metro card

the fare the way on

on to

the public transportation system

clutching dearly to my wallet

spelling non such luck comparisons

and waiting to give in the cents I’ve paid prior to

this

this 

moment

in Glory! Oh Glory! Transportation

in the ice age snow

of a mellow calm city in half bewilderment-

with its wildly different mannerisms-

I enter, nearly. “Brewwp” such noises

coming from the door

the bus,  halted, waiting,

I respond, one

slushy dank foot

after another slushy dank foot.

“What is that?” A retort,

a handsome gentleman in his watch cap, “Tri Met”

spelled on its outer perimeters-

“Its.. my payment.”

In cities as this

in places like these

there are rules.

there are payments to be made that exceed my coherent ability.

Cash, only.

 

My metro card is incapable, shallow, distant in the seas of papers and identification cards that dance within the small leather bound red moment that is my cash-less wallet.

The metro card has lost its moment.

Lack luster. Gone.

 

There are rules.

There are payments to be made.

In the act of a near limp,

my arm retrieves the satchel which is upon my back,

sliding it about,

 I reach.

It is time, for you, dear friend, to return to your post.

With the smirk of a sea-less sailor

I grab two dollars,

and board.

Here we are now. We are now here.

Somewhere inside outwards.

Sing, wonder, words scrawled on busses boring

and too caring

noises emitted from the basement

sounding off

explosions in the highest possible necessity.

Talking,

speaking,

useful words, calm collect. 

The madness walks out the door,

calling on telephones to other countries

it will be found, though still in slumber-

becoming  like the Hindenburg 

in one unknown but sure moment

fire everywhere,

Here we are now. We are now here.

Upon Wood Upon Grass

Grass upon wood

makes sound

Where does love go in such heavy rain?

Long distances and away

making thunder over the plains too far from sight

Elliot in these times…

He writes all over plastic bags in cave man scriptures of tears, the next Jackson Pollock.