three parter...

I am unable to now
to find you in grace
something you'd never allow
when I tempted you in lace.
suddenly less than perfect
you've made messes
I will never see you the same
all the lipstick and dresses
will never make you mine again.



running til i'm sulking
makes shining unattainable

I showcase nothing
this arch is unshakable

keep going friend
you are sure to uncover
what's beneath will bend
and you may find a lover.


I'm having a love affair. We have strolls in the evening, in the morning when I can be selfish with my love. We have coffee at peculiar hours and dance to strange music. We often take the long way home and venture into the bookstore. We are used to the rain. We secretly say hello to the regulars. The man who lives above the mechanic shop and collects art. I see him everyday, so we say hello. We do a quick shuffle on the medallion marking the historic significance of that place. We always look into that pub on the way home to see who's dining. We pick out which are first dates, who's about to break up and who's stupid with happiness of couples we do not even know sitting in little booths in the pub. We laugh at the stories you can make up about people you are merely glancing at through a window while passing by. We sometimes take the streetcar instead of walking which invites strange characters into our lives. Like the little Irish lady who I've seen before. She still dresses, pristinely, like a flapper. She has a gorgeous finger wave blond hairstyle on her 80 something year old little head. She recommends her hair stylist to me when I mention how much I admire the quality of the style and call the finger wave a lost hair art. I am not at all surprised when she describes the retirement home a few blocks from my apartment and that her hairdresser is a war veteran, a man, named Kelly. From morning to night, we share secrets and enjoy familiarity in the known and comfort. My lover is the city that I've inhabited and made my own everyday until we eventually break up, like all good loves do, and the memories will be in buildings, sidewalk cracks and street signs.

and if and when a true love is sent he's sure to have a cajun accent.

The cold air bursts in without an invitation and I curl up in this old red sweater for warmth, but mostly so I can remember what it was like when this sweater was new. when I bought it while shopping with my mom. It was on the clearance rack and I thought it was just ugly enough it may have passed for something a sensible girl would wear. It is red with flecks of white in the knit with oversized red plastic buttons and a collar. I remember wearing it to movies, on dates. I also remember wearing it while I read or studied and sipped coffee alone or with friends. Now it mostly doesn't leave my house. partly because I am not that sensible girl anymore, but mostly I am absolutely petrified to lose something that can instantly and so vividly take me back to that time in my life. I draw the sleeve cuffs over my hands and imagine a smell that is 124 behan street when all of my friends were no more than 6 blocks away and the world was practically banging my door down.

This presents itself without the obvious and overwhelming truth that to hold something so precious only for you is to stifle the very spirit that makes it so great. With gratuitous reluctance, it is now free. And should be.

A fraction of existence solves all inquiries too deep to dissolve. A portion of self loathing and self obsession and vanity is a whirlwind of balance and health for emotions and feelings in check. Backwards looking hurts muscles and too much leaping for the stars wears one out. A steady pace walk or even jog can do wonders for the clean bill of health that you seek. This is as pessimistic as it gets. Sorry to disappoint you my darling.

Being around her was like leaning into the crater of an extinct volcano. Thrilling but dangerous because it might erupt at any second. - bunny.

Insignificant banter of words that neither of us really mean. It is the play of command over the vernacular that penetrates me deepest. I can't look to the side after a sentence without your pursed lips calling me out as being too pensive. I cannot stop my thoughts. Sadly they are the only company I have during nights where they are more damaging than any wound inflicted by love or something similar. When I am alone, I find that the very tip of my tongue has suddenly found its spotlight. Where everything that I couldn't say over the beautiful candlelight early in our evening, can suddenly, no longer maintain in the wings. I sometimes long for quiet. If only it all didn't bother me so much. I cannot be too forward, I cannot be too coy. No matter what I do, it's never right. No one is ever right. I watch so many pairs of people carry on perfectly unhealthy though lasting relationships and I think, why can't I just do that? Why do I have to be so picky and distracted. A friend of mine told me frankly that he stopped chasing me because I was always distracted. Like no matter the situation, he always sensed he was only getting 20% of the real girl in front of him. Sadly he is right. I don't give my all to anyone. I rely on the notion that when I meet someone worthy of all 100% I will know and bare it all. Until then I will be stuck here alone with those very thoughts that cause me to be so pensive in every situation and being my nature I am unable to hide the fact that I am a million miles away with my thoughts. And so the cycle continues that suitors grow weary of such a feat.

I dreamt last night that I had a pet rabbit. The rabbit scared me and so I always left it in its cage. Then one day my mom came for a visit and did away with the cage and the rabbit roamed around freely. I was desparately seeking the cage but it was no where to be found. I was so preoccupied with the cage, in fact, that I didn't notice the rabbit had started to change. He was jumping in my bed with me and I kept shooing him away. When I was trying to read the newspaper he would try to sit with me and read too, but I'd give him a section and make him move. Eventually and what seemed like overnight, the rabbit was no longer a rabbit anymore actually it was a man. A marvelously handsome man at that who was well mannered, thoughtful, and absolutely in love with me. How had I not noticed this! As wonderful as this was, I was still searching for his cage.


white lettering. Chrome shiny and all over. The tires are white wall and the lines are curvy and round, never harsh. I got a new bike today. And it is seven speeds of goodness. I remembered how to stand up on the bike when at top speed and pretend that I am flying. My summer in Portland 2008 is going to be a good one. I feel just like the 8 year old me would feel about this new bike, but I don't have to come in when the street lights come on.

I met this guy who speaks like Bob Dylan sings. The highs and lows of his voice are liquid and smooth. His attitude is consistently positive and he is as thoughtful as he is polite and from Los Angeles. He's had girls break his heart, and lost jobs, but he perseveres with gumption and grace. He did not surprise me when he said that Dylan is his favorite.

Chanel perfume, cheap aerosol hairspray, countless strands of pearls, pearl earrings and other pearl baubles. Matte 10 reddest of red lipstick, dramatic, old hollywood starlet eye makeup and big, bouncing hair. Black dresses hiding delicate lace slips as an icing toping to the gorgeous patent leather black mary janes, the ones with the double straps. Hailing cabs while dressed in gloves and a tweed coat, sometimes even an elegant hat. Champagne and everyone smoking. I trade the bubbly and the tar for a dirty gin martini and twirl about the place. The music is hot but a new wave sound with a tune that I can predict, unlike the old time music of a time slipping away, but I know it'll be heard soon. Welcome to the speak easy. I'll sit in the side, round booth. I'll sip from the same lipstick mark on my martini glass, while my eyes dance lit by the pink lantern at the center of my table. I may sit at my table alone, but not for long, everyone here shares the same pull to the red hues of the curtains here, and the hot, fiery notes spilling out from the the brass lip and making you sweat. "Let's go!", they chant. "One more time..." we'll beg and they'll repeat as an order to the rest of the band. "a one, a two, a one, two, three, four...". We'll here Iko Iko and how you can find Love for Sale. We'll be carried away to Summertime and sing along with Lady Day while she soothes us with her sorrowful lyrics. We'll laugh at the trumpeter's cheeks ballooning out and sinking in with every heartfelt blow. I'll check my hair and lipstick in my compact, indiscreetly from my seat, leaning forward as much as can go unnoticed to use the soft lantern light from the table. I'll glance to see my eyes dance as they do in this space. The crowd at the speak easy is fast getting into a frenzy. The music is just getting excruciatingly wonderful.

It is Rose Festival time again. Four years ago this week, I flew into to Portland with two suitcases and a backpack and the love of my life waiting for me there. He showed up smiling and glowing to see me. We were positively euphoric in each other's presence, armed with the knowledge that I lived here now. Our long weekend visits had ended. Now it was just the two of us and all of the city to enjoy together. That first night we dropped my things off at his apartment on SW Broadway and Columbia and left hastily for the fireworks at the waterfront for the Festival. We walked the whole way, smiling and kissing for the length of the journey. When we reached our viewpoint, we stood stacked with his arms around me and kissing my shoulders. It felt like a homecoming and a brand new start all at the same time. Every year since, we had celebrated my coming to Portland. We never missed the festival or the fireworks. It was one of the happiest days of my life that day. This year as I walked through downtown, trying my hardest to ignore the fireworks, I lost all of my composure. The tears ran down my face as I caught a glimpse of the fireworks between buildings. It was too much for me. Everything over the last four years, and all of the pictures with him in them, sent me spiraling downward. I had to stop in a hidden corner and release all of it. I somehow felt every kiss, hug, touch, and embrace. I felt it come and linger and go. The sensation sent my body into violent motions timed by my chest rising and falling with each painful breath. If anyone passed me, I didn't see them. My world spun faster than I could tolerate my own human form. I braced myself against the walls and felt the brick digging into my hands while I grasped for stability. I couldn't yet think of stopping my own tears. I let it all come over me. I craved that closeness again so much that I also welcomed the hurt just to feel again. It all started to take word form in my mind, when before it had just been blurred pictures that my body knew and remembered along with my mind. The words started to form saying, "Is he having the same thought? probably not, he is with his new girl now. He told me he doesn't think of me. But then again, he also asked me what good it did for him to tell me that he misses me. i want him to feel me in dates, intersections, restaurants, shops, and festivals the way that I feel him. I want him to hurt so that I know that I had such a powerful impact on another human the way that he has done this to me. It is permanence and validation in emotional connection that I have been doubting the need for in my life. he has stripped this from me when he told me that he doesn't think of me. It's all of this hurt that I have knowingly avoided thinking about, but now I can't avoid it. It is too present and too strong. I am plagued by so much optimism and skepticism all at once. Step 1: stop crying in corners.

Something has happened to the romance of this city. The charm of an old building used to be enough to send me into such a ponderous spell that I would have to toss my thoughts around for hours to settle them down. Now I pull from nothing but stale adventures robbed of their luster.