I. Under those hills

The bums are great patrons,
they polish up the streets after the beer festival—
finished just in time to welcome a bicyle army
I was standing on a bridge
watching them rake in cash from the Columbia River
and on the hill hugging the city
I felt the weight of mansions silted out from dammed up treasures
while we overlooked smart growth—it makes such magnificent scenery,
but I’m just pondering
how you can bury a lot of indigenous under those hills
and still come up roses


II. Pitch and yaw

On the sidewalk of Upper Terrace
trace my ascent
A stone sky a wing above feral
dwellers that thread skeins below on the plain

Reverb dust from the Fillmore across whisper wind park
in crashing parallel E strings

Take care, for
machine teeth gently crush pitch and yaw of cosmoses under clinking lights

But an unsupervised fecal churn rises Because life here is mostly uphill








III. Stops at the city line

I was trapped in an AT&T facility till the night action started
Amateur bands drunkened me
Can I grab a hit of any deal?
I paced from West César Chávez to the river aimlessly
(Never trust a bar where you can’t bring your gun)
Gender neutrality stops at the city line

And it’s going to stay hot, so try to hide
maybe in the museum where I could sit for an audio extravaganza
Hear that LBJ was truly folksy

And yes, maybe, who knows, now they regret the napalm

Andy Oram
October 4, 2020

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