Cold on my neck

The spring set.
Grass ways.
A lemon spring cucumber
sprung from the side yard,

I could hear crying in the bus tunnels this morning.

One-ninety-four straight south.
She was holding on to his arm,
the same one gripping a suitcase.

A part of you swept through the bus tunnel this morning.

The grip of Union,
Pioneer and King Street couldn't hold it.

Have patience.

With much banter, it is quite beautiful.

So long, Ron.

The rain makes the roads swell lately.
I can't compare the sky and the ground
to anything else.

I've always lived here and here.
I know the Northwest.
Sometimes, when the moon would rise over
an Idaho ridge, I would imagine that forever
is only the state you live in

all the bricks are layed for someday.

on high strung lines
i've strung lights that burn out
and get replaced with seasons that change
with barely a whisper of

more rain
more wind
and a bounty of what we see as good days.

The Perch

Sitting on a porch,
a perch for a better view
of the instant tense,
much better than the present,
Of course, it's not the words I say
but the ones I don't that sting
a little. They aren't meant for you,
you see. They are meant for the
the vent pushing out a draft of stale air.
Staying for awhile, suspended,
until it's pushed out
above the atmosphere,
waiting for wind.

Inside Eleven Two

Could you ever,
never,
turn your voice in to a song?
I hear falsities,
a persistant kick drum,
a recording played backwards
until the words are a drill.
Proclamations broken in hours,
and excellence in bullshit.
It could be ten years ago,
the way stories are told, retold, told louder.
I don't care.

The story you write for your self will
have one ending, same for all your friends.
I'ts not a whiteout I see coming, but the sound of the
phone that eventually stops ringing.