Portland, who are you?
I drove into the city late last nite and thought for a moment I was just passing through like a modern-day vagabond.
With no bonds to time or place or system(s) based on oppression.
Then I remembered that I have a bed here and a house and a community and a cup of coffee waiting for me in the morning.
Let's make these coming months count. Through the rain and intermittent sunshine and seasonal affective disorder. Always a disorder.
Always an order. Wait in line to get your coffee. Acknowledge the white male barista so his ego doesn't burst. Position your politics and condition your voice depending on whose company you are temporarily keeping.
Keep me only as long as I keep you.
Keep me dependent on this bubble.
Keep me on the verge of a pop.
And then spit me out into California.
Spit me out onto a manmade park named after Cesar Chavez that used to be a landfill and now overlooks the island of Alcatraz and the city once home to the Ohlone.
Will you take me as I am?