howling frog, portland 1992

walking treefogged parks, coloring pictures. no sooner do i question the value of place,
and my hand lifts coffee mug to drain the suggestions the messages arrive to a bladder, but it isn't mine. writing has crystallized time
gestation; sharpen pencil edge, scribble more.
the weightlessness of the world walks with me as a stockingcapped woman laughs,
ng frog cafe on sixth street in portland; reading walden, smoking pot,
nose behind her paperback novel. some man's hacking lungs blows its horn.
     i'm a deaf libarary of experiences, looking in on an amber odyssey, a retarded cajunboy,
a dyslexic prophet of some crawdad's revenge. our ship looms on the watery horizon
like oilrigging platforms pioneering a loneliness; waves crash barnacle hips, the sun
escapes. as a function of swamp. across the street are art lofts, no one has rent. (1992)