Wrong Side

This morning I awoke to find in my bed: 35 cents in nickels, one forgotten red mitten, a dead turtle dove, two tickets to "The Barber of Seville", a pair bloodstained cutoff shorts, a half eaten Tupperware dish of pasta salad, a very frightened looking tenor, 3 incandescent light bulbs, the plumbers section of the yellow pages, and my shoes.

Throughly Postmodern Millie pt. 1

Hipsters drink Coke and wear 10 gallon hats. Or they will, at some point. My efforts to define and classify the elements of Hipsterism began after a encounter with an acquaintance in which he offered me a swig from the ball-jar he was using as a water bottle. False, it began when I noticed the frequency of my friends buying animal t-shirts from Value Village.

Though my knowledge of eastern wisdom comes primarily from what I read in "The Tao of Pooh", I believe that Lao-tse, the Chinese philosopher, was the world's first hipster. "Those who know the way, do not speak it. Those who speak the way do not know it." Such is the Taoist proverb and the ultimate challenge with defining what makes a hipster.

Things I Have Not Written for Kelly

1.
In the morning frost
Footprints melt like dreams
Erased by the dawn
2.
We are the snowflakes
The bliss of mortality
Melting on warm tongues
3.
Said moth to himself
as the white light grew brighter
How fragile we are
4.
Owl called to Moon
night wind rustled the branches
Moon made no reply
5.
When the storm has passed
I stand barefooted and wet
Smiling at gray skies

The true mystery is that no one is attracted to redheaded men, and naturally redheaded women are extinct, yet somehow they still manage to reproduce. And the male redheaded subspecies flourishes. If only this were true of the Whidbey Island Pygmy.

Portland: #1 Best Smelling City in the North West

Roll on Columbia!!
I wander the streets of Portland. Half drunk on cheep champagne, found chilling in our hotel room, addressed to one Mr. Woolsey. My companion has a poor sense of direction. we navigate by smell, the scent of each street corner floods my limbic system with the vapors of recent memories. Sandalwood, the Hotel Monaco and its oriental rugs. We run through the labyrinth of Powells books. The aisle, the shelves, the pages. In the Purple room, and elderly gentleman overhears us talking. It is Carolyn's birthday, the stranger serenades her. Donut zombies, mill around Voodoo. Barbara wants tapas and Allen knows of a Peruvian place on NW Gilsan. We, the young ladies, sip our canary yellow Inca Cola, Peru's official national soft drink. It is flat and it tastes like Bazooka bubblegum. We are children lost in a gray city. On Nob hill we explore the boutiques, hat shops, curiosity shops, and galleries. In Cannibals I discover the dioramas. Miniature studio apartments arranged in the taxidermied heads of deer. Dark cherry wood furniture and a small window that overlook a bloodsplattered Mr. Potatohead. Portland simulates every sense. It leaves my neck sore and my eyelids heavy. On the drive back we count the MacDonald's. 14. There is so much to remember, as the Columbia rushes bellow us. So much to look forward to at home: the aroma of pulp mills, and low tide, our own gray city.

Head First

I am not a Vegetarian, but I do eat fish. People are sometimes confused by this. It is not uncommon to hear a person of the Vegetarian persuasion say that they wont eat anything with a face. I however, prefer food with faces. If I had my way I would just eat the face. Recently I had an unpleasant encounter with a large Sockeye salmon. This particular salmon was faceless and its lifeless body flipped and flopped as I carried it to the auxiliary freezer.
I have heard of sushi restaurants that serve live shrimp. The shrimp are stripped of their shells and it is the duty of patron to bite off the shrimp's head and kill it. This is the most noble way to eat an animal. To kill it with your own jaws. To acknowledge that this creature has given its life for your benefit. If I were a shrimp, that's how I'd want to go.

Midnight Peaches

Methinks it absurd that you businessmen and Beefeaters waste your night hours swaddled in sheets and blankies. Sleeping is for willows and I have no cat to nap with. For what is a pillow but a footrest rest for your head. A bed is but a coffin for the sleeping. What do I do when the sun goes to Tokyo? I spend my night hours with the Bob Cats and the fluffy foxes. A-HUNTIN'! Through yonder window I descend and make my way down the leaf covered footpaths of my suburban neighborhood.
It was by day that I first caught sight of my quarry, while pursuing the distant chimes of the Good Humor Man. Tripping over the golden orbs, which in my haste I mistook for sun-bleached tennis ball. Now, in night-dark, it is not the fuzzy skin of tennis balls to which I sink my sharpest mouth-teeth. No, the foxes have deceived you. Illuminated by the distant glow of lamp-light, I stand by the feet of a solitary tree, and devour the soft and dripping flesh of Midnight Peaches, Midnight Peaches.
Abloom through the last warm weeks of the summer. The lone tree bore its fruit in the depths of misty valleys and the shadows of pine boughs. I have been drawn from my bed; like a bee to nectar. I eat and eat and eat Midnight Peaches. They taste like moonlight, and loneliness, and peaches. Weeping, the sweet juices drip down my chin and stain my night shirt. By dawn, the foxes and I are buried alive in our beds. Bob Cats and Japanese children rub their tired eyes. But I never sleep. I wants me some Midnight Peaches.