portland. the eve on the eve on the eve of whatever

the person who is seen across the dark street
revealed in a passing window
between the glare of the screen and
the body bent forward trying to become one
with what will never be.

just when we think the rush of our life
is beautiful
it is not.
just when we think the trash of our life
is beautiful
it is not.
it's about how we do something. not what we do.

how many times have i been caught
thinking i was transcending
when two steps back worth of perspective
i am revealed to be
another fashionable drunk
another reclaimed consumer
another hipster.
hoping this time around i'll
deserve this high.
i deserve this gaud
i am different.
ive been through the fire
ive been on the mountain
ive felt extremes of pleasure of pain
i met death and we made love
im a drug addict's son
i write poetry i make art
i speak with my eyes
what i say matters
because hardly anyone anymore
says something with heart.

mt hood choking river bearded head asymmetrical haircut
says dont worry world, recognize me. i got the right kind of consciousness.
i vomit looking out onto the scene, but nothing
comes out because what i feel has already been felt.
ive seen the names on the shelves, ive been to the museums, ive heard the records.
this is grief.
i dont care if it can be spelled different ways
like s-h-u-t u-p
y-o-u-r-e d-e-p-r-e-s-s-e-d
y-o-u-l-l n-e-v-e-r b-e s-a-t-i-s-f-i-e-d.
this is grief
i'll never be silenced
i reject my possibility.