Sit-still sun;

A luxury,

Given gradient grays that

So often grace these solemn skies;

Pacific peoples preferring

Precipitation for the

Green greens and

Emerald trees.

Population—Portland’s

Promiscuous gift—

Grants a permanent schism:

Social-science study of

Predominant socio-political

Preferences,

Geared toward utopia;

Feared for faulty

Propaganda.

All of this slips furtively

From my mind as I sit—

Steady,

Solitary—

Reading Sayaka Murata,

Sipping ice-cold sweetness—

Peet’s percolating behind me—

As a real-world

Portlandia skit

Unfolds in front of me.

I know I want to live somewhere

Smaller—

Somewhat smaller,

Not too small—

Still significant,

But not this place;

Not Portland.

It’s

Too much.

Too many.

Too loud.

Manhattan in a man-bun.

I know as I sip my iced

Coffee:

This ain’t my cup of

Tea.

But it’s where the Journey

Has taken me, with

Toto literally tagging along.

…It was supposed to be

Billy Idol

But he’s getting nasal surgery.