Portland Community College | Portland, Oregon

The mud on the ground felt lumpy and cold under my feet. Big chunks of
dirt made up our farm as we had just harvested the potatoes a few days prior. I
ran, feeling the wind in my hair, enjoying the sound of it whistling past my ears
as gusts whizzed by trying to play with me. The ground was slanted at an angle
providing more of a challenge for my balance as I weaved in between the two
rows of grape vines, barren for the season. Their naked brown mess of branches
backlit by the solid gray sky, the overcast a preview of the weather for the next
few months.

The horizon was broken up by the silhouette of an ominous forest. It was
hard to explain but the forest always gave the feeling that if you stared at it for
too long or, god forbid, went inside of it, you’d end up on the receiving end of
the terrible misfortune it seemed to promise. This feeling was accented by the
neighbor’s house, just over on the next plot of land about a quarter of a mile
... Read full post »

Before city, Before town, Before tribe,
       Fire,
A camouflage of perfect design
So demanding of attention
One hardly notices the flaws of ignited wood
    When light gently holds your eyes,
It is when liquidated, bottled, and produced
That such champions of flame as we
Should find a light in

Every city, Every house, Every street,
       Bulbs,
Like buds blooming into nighttime stars,
One hardly notices the dying moth
    When captured by its light
Who but we, could claim such mastery
As to grant a mundanity to flame
That its blooming prevalence should sprout in,

Every machine, Then appliance, Then pocket,
       LED,
Like a mating bird flashing its rainbow plumes,
One hardly notices its clipped wings
    When lost in its color
Scissors still clamped on its feathers,
Not even knowing its own lullaby should be
    Wounded,
    Shackled,
Cities making mockery of stars,
Sun sighing into a night still well lit,
One hardly notices the shadows
    When eaten by the light,
Starving ourselves of the dark,
Never once to see,

The flawed burning... Read full post »

I pass people I recognize on the train sometimes.
I’m never sure how to feel about that. I knew you a lifetime ago; we chatted last week. It’s a selfish kind of love to know someone only in that way.
I’ve never met you, but for a single moment in January, our eyes met and you waved right before I could look away.
I never learned your name, but we’ve passed each other hundreds of times.

The sun sets differently on the train. I think it’s because you don’t choose it.
Everywhere else travel is a constant process of choices. There, on the train there’s nowhere to reach, and no way to get there faster. We’re already in motion. I wake up, and I run out the door to get to work. I can taste the urgency in the morning air of the city. I swap breath for the exhaust of a car that carries a person as jittery as me.

People hate ‘sonder’ now, and it makes me sad.
For someone who has just reached a newfound understanding of everyone else's lives, it seems cruel for that same ‘everyone else’ to pretend this newfound... Read full post »

Bundled browsers sip sweet bitter brew, scents of smoke and chocolate,
crowds sample speared slices of crisp pink spheres, stored since September,
feathery fronds of fragrant foliage fill bins and bags and carts and bellies.

Bright red bunches of swollen roots, celadon stacks of threaded stalks,
variegated hibernal venation, gleaming white tap roots, purple petioles,
paper-wrapped bulbs contain sulfurous layers, destined for sautéed silkiness.

Foraged forest treasures, tube-shaped and dome-capped, soft-toothed and earthy,
sealed plastic packets of sea life and ruminants, stored in ice-packed coolers,
clear glass jars filled with bubbling ferments, salted cabbage and peppers.

Lines form for eggs and chiles and cured meats wrapped in hot blistered shells,
casings stuffed with fatty ground meats and aromatics, sizzling on blackened grates,
flakey baked layers of flour and butter, piped full of fruits and sweetened cream.

Babies in fancy strollers, dogs in quilted vests, old ladies in plastic raincoats,
students with tattoos, chefs with soft-sided wagons, peddler of painted rocks,
honeys huddle on slightly damp wooden slat benches, taking it all in.

Rest Stop: Newton, no, Wayne, NJ, 2:41 am:

We had smoked the morning away joint by joint.

This morning slugged along, as did the rest of the day. We drove, and stopped at every Walmart and Burger King. We lived off one chicken sandwich at a time and free refills of coffee at every juncture. We must've hit about three or four Wal-Marts and five or so Burger Kings. It was all in a day’s adventure to stay alive.

From Highway 30, we got into Philly after a two-and-a-half-day drive from Pittsburgh. Normally, this drive should take about three hours. I stopped at a church next to a turn-off on Hwy 30–Gettysburg, a small town in PA, where the horses and carriages still roam the asphalt streets, and sorrows of one of America's most gruesome battles.

With the modern times rapidly rushing forward, the traditions of the past are still practiced to this day by the long line of descendants of those who keep Amish ways alive. The night before, I had slept in the car of a Walmart fifty feet away from a horse and buggy parking facility that resembled a stable—never have I seen such a thing. The... Read full post »