In Portland I’m going
to be very nondescript.
Twelve years later I’m
looking in the same
general direction. Sun
shine! I don’t want to
pick up the clock for
fear I’ll let some of
it go. I pick poems up
instead. The air condi
tioner rattles the rust
outside the window,
bright orange. I’m
in the Ace Hotel in
the room with the
Best and Strongest
Ladder and wool blank
ets, military issue-esque,
that make me think of my father.
Portland rain. The last time I
was here, he was still alive.
Yeah, that. But I’m not
melancholy. I’ve got a big
ladder and I’m going to climb
up to the roof and sink my
teeth into a big Portland raindrop.
Goes well with Stumptown coffee.
And poems by Kevin Killian which
in Portland seem even more romantic
than in San Francisco. But this is
my love for Portland, Oregon.
And the little bit of sunshine
I brought with me on
the train. And a
kiss on the cheek
to my very first love,
with whom I lived here
years ago, but long after the
cacophany had dissipated,
and whose namesake I
ran into just last night
after searching hours
for a dancefloor; a
pleasant stranger
in whom to find
that old and heart-kindling
familiarity.
