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You're the Lloyd Center of my recollection
with the buttery pretzels and underpaid cashiers
beckoning you with bullshit and internship-grade enthusiasm
The mall, the congregation of commerce and the accomodations
for the handicapped
the pooped
the elderly,
but we go to the heart of your mall
past your delightful food court
and I read of the accommodations
on the Mall Directory
various shades of congregated business
and I think of how to infiltrate your version of commerce
a six-letter word from someone who doesn't belong starting w/ "g" and ending with "enius"
"Oh, its the genius" said this fat reception girl in Portland's drunk tank. Hooper, damnit, I was here again. This time I was dressed in a Santa Claus costume. A bearded drunk sat up and said, witless, "Shit, they arrested Santa Claus," and then he sprawled back out.
A Marine got thrown in with us, so that our number began to converge on the only bench seat and small table. The table was like some Portland art-oriented project gone wrong. It was bolted to the floor, of course, but its relatively small size was sure to draw some conflict with whoever had chosen it. All four of us were now converged on the table, easing the sorrows of impending sobriety. Then again, it was Sunday morning, and at least those 24 hours of incarceration would shield us from the whiplash of Monday. The hangover was punishment enough.
In the corner was a slumped man in a radiant, Varsity-style coat. It was University of Oregon schema, the reflective green with gold lettering spelling out "U-O". The Ducks. Eugene was miles south along Interstate 5, this being Portland, the man who had been caught must have been attached to the school in more than an alumnus way. Was it arrested development, a youth caught in the body of a man more likely to be found living in his mother's basement?
"I'm a journalist," he said. We talked about journalism; me curious, him rambling. He wasn't much of a journalist so the conversation veered towards literati. It was like fencing, but I was well-prepared with long summers spent with F. Scott and the rest of the Lost Generation gang. Sherwood Anderson was my ace card, Theodore Dreiser was the atheistic Jew soothing me with his lyrics to the "Banks of the Wabash". Parry parry thrust! The Varsity-wearing drunk was wearing on me, especially when the homoerotic tendies started to spill across the table.
The Marine denied any reason to be in the drunk tank with us, but his boastful manner would be reason enough for any police officer to detain him. When I told him that it would be 8 hours before he'd be let out into the world, he protested. "Wait until they hear from my C.O.! They're gonna fucken be sorry they put an enlisted man behind bars! Dumb fucks!" He eventually just curled up like a child on the concrete floor and was the first released into the black Portland morning.
I continued on my way to comforting all the fallen souls in Hooper. A goth kid that looked like a 18 year old Elliot Smith was depressed about how much his girlfriend was going to hate him for getting thrown in here. "She told me not to drink," he said. I replied that she would most likely forgive him since they were in love.
An old man and I eventually started conversation about his family, his work--a mechanic. We shot the shit, and eventually he shot out a Hallmark Greeting Card phrase I'll never forget: "That's why they call it the present, you know. Because you never know what each day brings, its a gift..." I was still so drunk I believed it.
Finally, I was released at 5am. I figured that Stumptown Coffee on 10th and Stark would be open a half-hour later. I still had some cash and coffee would be a wonderful hangover cure. The barista eyed me oddly but good-naturedly--Santacon was still on. The showers at the adjoining hotel were open, so I snuck up to one after the cleaning crew left it ajar to vent, soothed my skin with cilantro soap and driftwood-scented shampoo. It was a good Christmas, and I was still a little drunk to believe it.
poem to jelly
You do know I'm a man of my word
a crooked word,
a word, nonetheless,
in a crooked world.
And you do know I'm a man of
meager means
and ugly smile
I'm liable to put on pounds
or starve to death
in the matter of week
And for all this self-effacing
I plot hypothetical trips on spontaneity
Of making love on moss under a purple-and-black tree landscape
fumbly silhouettes cast over a grey-black field
with coyotes being given a run for their money
in the category of Howling
No, really
I do.
I make lists of odd things to do
social norms to challenge
our mutual struggle
towards something called intimacy
Yeah, lists.
Like,
one, drink a gallon of water in five mintues, and then have a peeing contest in an hour
two, stealing bikes and going joyriding in an unfamiliar town
three, hopping a train for Philadelphia
four,
and so on.
Its the closest I can get to love
before the floodgates open
and we trade off
one, the patient,
the other, the amateur psychologist
But really, all we need is a day at
some cheap rollercoaster park
puking on one another
the stomach acid sweet and bitter
and I'll fall in love with the chunks of fried dough
caught in our matching eyebrows.
So, I keep my word
Leave the phone fully charged for a call
from a voice that says
"Sooo, I'm laying on my bed..."
and that's when the promises start coming
out come the oaths
and my pen gets ready to start some more lists.
You're the Lloyd Center of my recollection
with the buttery pretzels and underpaid cashiers
beckoning you with bullshit and internship-grade enthusiasm
The mall, the congregation of commerce and the accomodations
for the handicapped
the pooped
the elderly,
but we go to the heart of your mall
past your delightful food court
and I read of the accommodations
on the Mall Directory
various shades of congregated business
and I think of how to infiltrate your version of commerce
a six-letter word from someone who doesn't belong starting w/ "g" and ending with "enius"
"Oh, its the genius" said this fat reception girl in Portland's drunk tank. Hooper, damnit, I was here again. This time I was dressed in a Santa Claus costume. A bearded drunk sat up and said, witless, "Shit, they arrested Santa Claus," and then he sprawled back out.
A Marine got thrown in with us, so that our number began to converge on the only bench seat and small table. The table was like some Portland art-oriented project gone wrong. It was bolted to the floor, of course, but its relatively small size was sure to draw some conflict with whoever had chosen it. All four of us were now converged on the table, easing the sorrows of impending sobriety. Then again, it was Sunday morning, and at least those 24 hours of incarceration would shield us from the whiplash of Monday. The hangover was punishment enough.
In the corner was a slumped man in a radiant, Varsity-style coat. It was University of Oregon schema, the reflective green with gold lettering spelling out "U-O". The Ducks. Eugene was miles south along Interstate 5, this being Portland, the man who had been caught must have been attached to the school in more than an alumnus way. Was it arrested development, a youth caught in the body of a man more likely to be found living in his mother's basement?
"I'm a journalist," he said. We talked about journalism; me curious, him rambling. He wasn't much of a journalist so the conversation veered towards literati. It was like fencing, but I was well-prepared with long summers spent with F. Scott and the rest of the Lost Generation gang. Sherwood Anderson was my ace card, Theodore Dreiser was the atheistic Jew soothing me with his lyrics to the "Banks of the Wabash". Parry parry thrust! The Varsity-wearing drunk was wearing on me, especially when the homoerotic tendies started to spill across the table.
The Marine denied any reason to be in the drunk tank with us, but his boastful manner would be reason enough for any police officer to detain him. When I told him that it would be 8 hours before he'd be let out into the world, he protested. "Wait until they hear from my C.O.! They're gonna fucken be sorry they put an enlisted man behind bars! Dumb fucks!" He eventually just curled up like a child on the concrete floor and was the first released into the black Portland morning.
I continued on my way to comforting all the fallen souls in Hooper. A goth kid that looked like a 18 year old Elliot Smith was depressed about how much his girlfriend was going to hate him for getting thrown in here. "She told me not to drink," he said. I replied that she would most likely forgive him since they were in love.
An old man and I eventually started conversation about his family, his work--a mechanic. We shot the shit, and eventually he shot out a Hallmark Greeting Card phrase I'll never forget: "That's why they call it the present, you know. Because you never know what each day brings, its a gift..." I was still so drunk I believed it.
Finally, I was released at 5am. I figured that Stumptown Coffee on 10th and Stark would be open a half-hour later. I still had some cash and coffee would be a wonderful hangover cure. The barista eyed me oddly but good-naturedly--Santacon was still on. The showers at the adjoining hotel were open, so I snuck up to one after the cleaning crew left it ajar to vent, soothed my skin with cilantro soap and driftwood-scented shampoo. It was a good Christmas, and I was still a little drunk to believe it.
poem to jelly
You do know I'm a man of my word
a crooked word,
a word, nonetheless,
in a crooked world.
And you do know I'm a man of
meager means
and ugly smile
I'm liable to put on pounds
or starve to death
in the matter of week
And for all this self-effacing
I plot hypothetical trips on spontaneity
Of making love on moss under a purple-and-black tree landscape
fumbly silhouettes cast over a grey-black field
with coyotes being given a run for their money
in the category of Howling
No, really
I do.
I make lists of odd things to do
social norms to challenge
our mutual struggle
towards something called intimacy
Yeah, lists.
Like,
one, drink a gallon of water in five mintues, and then have a peeing contest in an hour
two, stealing bikes and going joyriding in an unfamiliar town
three, hopping a train for Philadelphia
four,
and so on.
Its the closest I can get to love
before the floodgates open
and we trade off
one, the patient,
the other, the amateur psychologist
But really, all we need is a day at
some cheap rollercoaster park
puking on one another
the stomach acid sweet and bitter
and I'll fall in love with the chunks of fried dough
caught in our matching eyebrows.
So, I keep my word
Leave the phone fully charged for a call
from a voice that says
"Sooo, I'm laying on my bed..."
and that's when the promises start coming
out come the oaths
and my pen gets ready to start some more lists.
