public service announcement

PLEASE DO NOT FEED THE HUMANS

HUMANS CARRY DISEASE 

AND CAUSE A NUISANCE

THANKS

rapping in the rain

smoke lingers among the blood red cursive's crests while a bearded man drives by in a white minivan, tugging with both hands on his partially rolled down window, as if trying to escape from his own trip. across the street a young guy presumably waits for his bus, standing beside a wooden bench set atop a couch shaped block of concrete, wearing a low slung backpack over a dark blue down vest, snow white spaghetti dangling from his bobbing head as he rants to himself, or so i think, as the people in my neighborhood sometimes do that, which always makes me feel like i've somehow stumbled into a closet, bursting with argument, but then i noticed he was bouncing on the balls of his feet like a boxer getting ready to enter a ring, eyes open but empty, as if he was crouching down inside of himself, away from those windows, while his wrists swung his hands from side to side as if there was a wind in there blowing those pale shutters, open & closed & open again, one of them clasping a cigarette, and then he'd pause for a drag while his head counted the beat, release what he took in & begin again, turning to the side & away from the street, not performing for, but in, a spare shelter framed by burgundy wood, cat tails undulating beside the stoic pine, there are some things we need to hear & some things we need to say before we enter the space where we compete, in between home & work or school, it's all the same:

you must inhale the song before you enter the ring.

we no longer know how to light the fire

"When my father's father's father had a difficult task to accomplish, he went to a certain place in the forest, lit a fire, and immersed himself in silent prayer. And what he had to do was done.

When my father's father was confronted with the same task, he went to the same place and said: 'We no longer know how to light the fire, but we still have the prayer.' And what he had to do was done.

Later, my father also went into the forest and said: 'We no longer know how to light the fire. We no longer know the mysteries of prayer, but we still know the exact place in the forest where it occurred. And that should suffice.' And it did suffice.

But when I was faced with the same task, I stayed at home and I said: 'We no longer know how to light the fire. We no longer know the prayers. We don't even know the place in the forest. But we still know how to tell the story."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fAZrJFmpRr8

Quote by Paul Kingsnorth

"What do you do," he asked, "when you accept that all of these changes are coming, things that you value are going to be lost, things that make you unhappy are going to happen, things that you wanted to achieve you can't achieve, but you still have to live with it, and there's still beauty, and there's still meaning, and there are still things you can do to make the world less bad?"

—Paul Kingsnorth, environmental activist

http://www.paulkingsnorth.net/

alone together

all alone as if you could ever be 
partially alone. eclipse witnessed 
but only if our minds are clear 
enough for that scheduled shadow.
exhausted sighs grilled beneath the mottled blue
as we throttle through this miami music morning. 
i need a plan for the unexpected, i think
what to do when the civilization you're in,
not that it was your idea, begins to collapse 
as the severe metal man marches past
and it's all downhill in dark shades for him 
at least until she leans 
her sunny blonde smile over the table,
adding unintentional dimensions to the frame. 
a new you must find a way to repeat the bursts again
for that sweet strange being begging on laps for treats,
coat the color of sooty snow, cut from winter's final storm, 
sprung for the blood moon that's almost passed.
outside this voracious dream sits a man on chrome 
leathered down for the growl while a crumpled face 
fumes over the headlines, puffs preloved smoke into 
the tepid shade while a paprika haired young man 
paces from metallic table to curb in a black sweater 
& olive green pants, one palm pressed flat to ear 
as if stopping his head to keep some precious thought 
from dripping on his girlfriend, quietly eating her granola 
in a black hoodie, black skirt & maroon tights, her 
wet black bangs dappled neon green, spilling over 
her pale contemplative brow. a red straw, 
planted like a flagless pole in a translucent cup of ice 
water, salutes beside her bowl while the paprika boy 
pauses beside a young tree, still talking as he reaches 
for a skinny limb, the young leaning upon the young. 
i watch them saunter across the street when he finishes, 
where they recline beneath the bus stop's burgundy 
shelter, legs crossed in an impromptu picnic  of wine 
& olive, stoically shaded by the mini plaza's lone pine, 
all together, as if they could ever be, 
partially alone.

Gregory Crewdson Photo

sitting outside 

the Madison

smoking inside 

the Mystery

sunday journal

i love late march in portland. i love the temperature of high fifties, low sixties, warm with a hint of chill.  i love the how the sunset goldens everything & everyone, making them look beautiful or wise. i love that i can leave my windows open & feel the air for awhile. i love how happy the walked dogs look when i encounter them on the sidewalk. and i love how i am constantly ambushed by bursts of color in my neighborhood, as if the gardens had decided while we were sleeping to throw a surprise party. turning a corner i walk into the arms of perfume. 

learning 
to take

one bite 
only 

abandoning 
the rest. 

i yell out her name as she's about to go in. she looks around, quizzical, as if i was the answer to a question she hadn't meant to ask. "i don't have to explain my presence in this neighborhood" i say with a mischievous smile as i approach the peach painted porch. she pauses at the door and turns around, caught on the threshold, smeared in amber honey light, while a simple sign behind her flatly states: 
no soliciting. 

that was massively unmassive, the violinist said.
you must mwah both cheeks.

i took the long way home from the madness of movies, circling around laurelhurst park where i found a heart in the grass. i marveled at how ducks can skid directly into the water. i stopped to place my hands on a fat old tree, paying my respects to the elders. i almost shot a photographer who accidentally walked into my frame. shooters don't like to be shot, do they? baffled at my failure to rejoice in its splendor, i resolve to spend more time reclining in the oasis of laurelhurst. 

her hips had the jauntiness of a woman who could do things with cherry stems that you would very much like to believe in.

i have a crush on a couple of the women who work at the video store (so nineties!).  one of them is very curvy & smoldering and just gives off an evil vibe. she's got that sexy french store clerk thing going on, but without trying, which of course, makes it even sexier. i asked the other one, a cute, slightly gothy & short woman, and strangely, that doesn't it narrow it down much, if she's seen anything good lately, and she replied, do you like documentaries? and i felt like, what! are you kidding me? but i said yeah, and she told me she saw alien boy and i told her that movie made me really mad at the police and she was like i know! (apologies if i like, used like quite a bit there)

i'm having an affair with photography and poetry is getting very jealous. where have you been all day? poetry demands when i get home in the evening. been out ALL DAY with that camera again, haven't you? didn't even write this morning and we ALWAYS write on sunday morning no matter what. but you took pictures, didn't you? it's true. i've been gleefully shooting all day. i've never felt this way about another medium. poetry has always been my lady. sure, our marriage has had its ups & downs, and yeah, we've kind of gotten into a rut lately, but man, i love shooting pictures! it's like all these places i see everyday have suddenly sprung to life. everything feels so new & alive, so vivid. and the sex? well, me & photography, we rompin'!