Noir Street Choir

Purple plaque plugs these rose drowsy lines
Cowled slugs slow tunes wet needed nibbling speech
Crawls to neck to nip & gnaw ear snack signs
Where moons have placed your pierced panache.
One day we’ll dance this sonnet for Monet
Gather green garden bonnet bright flowers
Moist morning your sweet toes curled sachet
& place feathers in quick fallen embrace.
Breathless word sighs don’t keep us paced spoil
Rhyme misalign pillows cockeyed up side
Down marigolds spill orange & yellow roil
Lemon grass whispers timed noir ride:
Crimson lisps smear across smoke screen gloss
While robed within plush toilet rinse & floss.

Grapes

Oblique Obligato

  1. Moon fresh ribbon
    smooth platen
    ball dust sea
  2. Fastened to fish
    risk bamboo
    water chills
  3. Homespun shark
    teeth reek bark
    oil tea tree
  4. Screeched scrounge scrawn
    crested pinch
    ear reach thrills
  5. Stringing brew broils
    cooking pot
    catch read bin
  6. Critical swarm
    goat bearded
    bee attack
  7. Smoked fuzz moss
    yucky hot
    sunder skin
  8. Feet faintly sweet
    & ditties
    sour retract
  9. Poised hipster red
    shower cap &
    surf sandals
  10. Now turns one last
    again then
    salt pearls
  11. Ask brack weed meme
    vandal cleaned
    type taste twirl
  12. Spring Selene not
    bald booby
    care fool horse
  13. Trifurcation
    from dear morph
    solo bliss
  14. Under deep stays
    curling waves
    allusiveOblique Moon

Not one but two needs relish sweet sorrow

Not one but two needs relish sweet sorrow.
Wooden shoe wish new saga song bonnet?
Purple flower here now gone tomorrow.
One knows not lief, and if hair be sonnet,
Wold eat polka dotted cotton culotte.
Back seats escape too simple bounded rules,
Schemes where at smart turn deer quickly departs,
Shirking away from linked coupling rope pulls.
Gears thrown greased ball bearings plop soft thudded,
Rustling rough yon fat fig leaf yellowed grass
Into well palms of gleeful looped poet,
Frogs Voila! in deep wide throated bass:
Now twanged by gee sang plus web danced for thee,
Not two but three may now exclaim in glee.

Theory

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Line 15 currently detours across the Hawthorne Bridge due to a temporary weight restriction on the Morrison Bridge, which is under repair. I hopped off the bus at the west end of the Hawthorne Bridge, passed the Salmon Street Springs Fountain, and walked south along the Willamette to the eye clinic, just over a mile upriver. I saw some strange markings on the sidewalk, as if math really is fun. A gaggle of signs befouled the views, whispering orders, dangers, and cautions. I noticed there were no warning signs near the mooring bollards, and wondered how many people walking along ogling the view have tripped over them. Rarely do I have to yield to slower traffic.

Just south of the Hawthorne Bridge, I noticed an interesting, kind of improvised, lean-to-dock moored just off the west bank between the bridge and the park beach, downriver from the yacht harbor. The boat and dock set-up reminded me of Anais Nin’s “Houseboat,” and of Penelope Fitzgerald’s “Offshore.” And the usual gaggle of geese casually befouled the park beach area. I don’t mind the geese, though the city has been taking precautions to minimize the goose poop problem. But I was wearing the new Fila walking shoes Susan recently scored for me, and I wasn’t sure the goose path was how I wanted to break them in. Portland is called the City of Roses. You would think the roses wouldn’t mind the geese.

Modern accommodations for travel, appurtenances for getting around – what a mess! Just north of the Ross Island Bridge, workers were just about finished dismantling the Project Pabst Festival. It was a little early to be thinking of a cold PBR Tall Boy. I walked along “River Place,” above the small harbor, and passed by the “River Walk Cafe,” enjoying the cliches, and at the corner of Meade and Moody thought, how about “Mead Place,” or the “Moody Walk Cafe”?

A rowing crew rounded the pilings of the Marquam Bridge (a concrete brouhaha that spans and expands the definition of bridge), the submarine moored behind them on the east bank, below OMSI and the Portland Opera. The Pabst Horse trotted off on a trailer. The Portland Aerial Tram (constructed at a cost of $57 million), juxtaposed with the old Ross Island Bridge, reminded me of the 20th Century: “Turn! Turn! Turn! (To Everything There Is a Season)”.

Packsaddle Off

what is this sound sprinkling glow
yellow doilies weaving thru blue
fescue glass chandelier worm atrium
air city surf gas soup & jazz salad

sitting under dwarf apple waiting,
waiting, wanting nothing save
green this wait as Thoreau’s
Wangle Dangle backyard rhetoric

drinking can of Okanagan
Spring: “natural, simple, & pure”
pale ale & all bronze
gone Henry’s lawn

this dog’s lair
cut once a year
then go to seed
rampant & wild
tainted ear

so much depends upon so little
take this green garden wagon
for example
go on, take it, really take it
grab the handle and pull
you’ll see the wagon is full
of ripe red tomatoes
kids’ toys
bucket of finished garlic
bowl of basil & cilantro
some zinnias to dry inside

there’s no one in that pink
ceramic bird house hanging
from the golden rain
tree imagine living
there your nest
waiting for your mate
come home yr turn
go to store & supper

you call the kids
Caw! Caw!
& they call back
Not Yet! Not Yet!
Summer! Summer!

a cloud like a clown down
pillow on clean blue sheet
perhaps it will drop a load
somewhere near soon &
sweep weep sleep deep

A Fourth of a Poem

Grand Ave Beach

All around us,
the plants whisper
in dry brittle voices,
“water us, water us.”

Sotto voce,
there is no water,
and what falls is not wet
or gentle,

but drops of chthonic fireworks,
urban, rural, coastal infernos.
The plants dig and pray to Hades,
and cooler there

than here in this air.