Bulletproof Glass

Words hang between
us like glass
about to shatter
Once touched
they fall
flat, a din
sad sound
with an edge
in the throat.

I heard crying
but felt nothing
I feigned sleep.
It’s not my place
any longer.

It’s nice
to read back
over old stories
but your chapters
are over
and I’m writing new ones
without you.

The cracks
you made
are gone
from my skin
and now I
am bulletproof.


Strange Muse

Feeling inspired to update here and to write some whimsical unedited free form crap about my feelings. I really need to remember to keep this going. May be crap, but helpful for mental soothing. Was also encouraged to post more online, even anonymously, even on dumb unread blog, ahah. Maybe its the lack of sleep. Inspiration truly is a fanatical mistress; knocking on the door when I am ill equipped to deal with her!

Maybe its because I stuck my head out from the cave, saw a glimpse of the sunshine, and remembered how pleasing it is. Cave still too cozy and safe to want to leave though.

I’ve been feeling like a rock for months. A boulder wedged into a cliff, stuck and about ready to fall and crack to pieces. Can’t leave the house, can’t talk to anyone, barely create. Just a crusty old unproductive rock. But I feel different today. I think a waterfall is coming to unwedge and push away in a blast of water. It’s terrifying. I’m not sure I’m ready for the dam to be broken! May also be false alarm.

How is it possible to fall in love with the black and white shapes of words? Just text? Not even a name or a face to it. This muse comes unexpectedly from an unexpected place, though a muse wouldn’t be as musical if it could be expected. In strange form too, not even physical. No name, no face, no body; just words. Like a ghost whispering through my head at night.

I think I am just under illusions created by my own stupid forlorn heart. Enchanted by a mind that isn’t like the others. I might as well be a puppy, latching onto and following after the first kind gesture after being kicked. Sad, desperate, little puppy. But any spark of life is good, right? So long as I don’t go running blindly after it?

The ghost whispers, desperately seeking help, but it doesn’t care to hear. Any sound pleases it, urges it on. This is bad. Definitely not a good sign. Helping the ghost feels good, too good, but after? It will only be bad when the ghost has moved on. Must remember to not become attached. But right now, basking in the music is nice.

It’s also very confusing. I don’t understand why I like it. Ghosts are cold, unfeeling to anything outside their own form. Yet…what is it, exactly? I am an overemotional, hopeless romantic, enchanted by what? What do cold, logical, unpassionate ghosts see in that? I don’t understand why the ghosts like me, or why I like them. Opposites attract? It has happened before. Drawn to whispers, only to be left behind with my own whispers disappearing in the dark. Can’t let it happen again.

I am happy to say that this rambling has been helpful. The egotisticalness of wanting to say my own words almost makes me cringe, but I suppose that’s the curse of a writer.

Friends Before a Camping Trip

This is just a silly, dumb, short piece of dialogue inspired by my friends. It amused me greatly to write.

Also, am I supposed to warn about cursing and hypothetical drug use? Or is that just etiquette? Eh, whatever, you’re hopefully all adults.

“Get in already, slowpokes! Let’s goooo! I want to see some trees, man!” Rich yelled with his head sticking out the passenger window. He cradled a bong in his lap, careful not to let loose its contents. The truck hummed, already on and warming up. It was parked backwards in the driveway. Matt knelt on the beds lowered door, double checking the gear and supplies, while Cynthia stood nearby reviewing the list of camping gear in her hand. Hunter was in the garage, looking for things they might have left behind, or might need and hadn’t thought of yet. All four campers wore mild weather clothing; hoodies, jeans, light jackets, and hiking boots. It was August and sun was already shining hot and bright, but they were prepared for the mountain; chilly all year long.

“Shut up, dude!” Matt called from the truck bed. “You’re going to get sick of those trees after a few days!”

“Yeah fucking right. Natures dope, man!” Rich said and tucked himself back in his seat. He yanked the hood of his black sweater up and flicked the lighter.

“Natures dope, man.” Cynthia repeated in a mocking voice quietly and snickered. She noticed the white cloud leaving the truck. “Hey! Don’t smoke all the weed!”

“I won’t!”

“Also, we’re sharing that! I’ll kick your ass if you smoke it all before the trips over!” Matt said. He jumped off the back of the truck.

“Seriously, dude! Save it for the mountain!” Hunter called.

“Fuck you guys!” They heard muffled Rich from the window. Hunter chuckled as he approached the other two.

“Watch,” Hunter said just for Cynthia and Matt. “when we run out of weed, Rich’ll start bitching about camping.”

“Oh, man, that’s totally going to happen.” Cynthia laughed, a little too loudly.

“Let’s agree now that we won’t bail out if he starts acting like a baby.” Matt said and smirked as he shook in mock irritation. “No repeats of last time.”

“Definitely. Maybe a good week in the forest will toughen him up.” Hunter said with an eye roll.

“He’ll never want to go camping with us again.” Matt said. Hunter grinned at the thought.

“Maybe the clean air will help clear out his lungs.” Cynthia added timidly. “Or something.”

“He’ll be trying to smoke pine needles by the end of it.” Said Hunter. The other two snickered.

“What the fuck are you guys doing?” Rich called. His voice was nearly a whine. They couldn’t help but laugh harder.

“Making sure we don’t starve or freeze to death on the mountain, asshole!” Matt said and pushed the truck bed door up. They heard more curses from inside the cab.

“Alright!” Hunter hooted. “”We’re all set! This is going to be so bomb!” The last words came out high pitched. He made his way to the drivers seat.

“We should stop at, like, McDonald’s or something before leaving town.” Cynthia said and climbed in the backseat behind Rich.

“Aw man…” Rich said, “Let’s get Taco Bell.” He said it in an awed voice and stared blankly out the front window.

“It’s nine in the morning!” Matt said from the seat next to Cynthia.

“So what? They got those breakfast burritos.” Rich snapped as Hunter sat in the drivers seat next to him.

“Fuck fast food. That stuff is starting to make me shit paste.” Hunter said and rolled the truck down the driveway. Cynthia made a noise, a mixture of laughter and disgust.

“I just want more coffee.” She murmured.

“Addict.” Matt smirked at her. She made a psh sound. “We ate already, let’s just get to the mountain and eat before we set off. It’ll only be a few hours.”

“Sounds good to me.” Hunter said.

“I can’t last that long…” Rich whined.

“You just have the munchies. Eat some fucking beef jerky.” Hunter said with a glance at the orb in Rich’s lap. “And put the bong away!” He paused thoughtfully. “Oh man, we’re going to need to make sure we don’t eat everything when we’re high up there.”

“I think we’ll be okay so long as Rich doesn’t get his hands on the food.” Matt laughed.

Rich retorted his curses groggily. The other three campers began to plan meals, hiking, and weed rationing as they drove their way to toward the mountain.

Lifey Tidbits #4

Previous bunch of tidbits.

While sitting in the urban park next to the Engineering Building, I began to hear a mysterious loud metal thudding in the distance coming from the river. I couldn’t see the source but the sound came from a far distance and echoed in the cement park around me. In between thuds, the sound of metal hinges screeched. It was very rhythmic: “thud, screeeee, thud, screeeeee…” It was a sourceless, ominous, metal sound echoing an unknown distance away, attempting to hypnotize me into investigating it.

I sat there listening for a moment, absorbed in the sound; it seemed to grow louder, as if, whatever was making that sound, Megatron or the Iron Giant, was stomping through the city, and coming closer. No one else around me seemed to notice. Maybe this happened all the time downtown. I began to think I was just hallucinating the sound and having some kind of creepy mindtrip, where Silent Hill was bled into reality and only I could sense it and it would turn out I was just passed out in the park.

After awhile it started making slow pauses. “thud, scree…….thud, scree” sometimes so long that I thought it was over. It was a giant creature unpredictably stomping through the city, stopping to sniff the air or investigate some humans to eat. As I am writing this the sound is rhythmic again but is slowly getting softer and softer as the creature walks away from where I sit, going back to its lair somewhere in the Willamette.

Obviously it was just some ship freighting or something going on on the river, but my imagination is much more exciting.

In the urban park again, I was sitting on top of the side of a dry water fountain, atop the staircase-like shape of it. As I sat doing school work, a man across the park yelled “Jillian!” I naturally looked up at the sudden sound, but as the guy was wearing sunglasses and way too far away, I couldn’t tell where he was looking and assumed he was looking behind me at someone else, so I went back to my work.

The man yelled “I see you!” Then started to come closer. I watched him in my peripheral vision, because I sensed that he was talking to me but still wasn’t sure, and didn’t want to look like a jackass if I gave my attention to someone that wasn’t even talking to me. But he kept coming closer and hesitating a bunch until he was right near me, at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at me. He said “Jillian?” in a soft, nervous, voice. As if he was seeing the ghost of Jillian and didn’t know what to believe. I finally looked at him and he just went “Ooooooooh….” Realizing his mistake.

I said “oh, sorry, I didn’t realize you were talking to me.” Only kind of bullshit. I smiled a sheepish way to try and help him not feel embarrassed. He awkwardly explained that I look a lot like his friend Jillian. I apologized for not being this Jillian and snickered at the situation, and he apologized in return then laughed and went on his way.

He was kind of cute, in a punk rock kind of way…

Two women in white dresses both sit on a ring of dirt on the PSU outdoor amphitheater stage thing. The women are typing on typewriters. Big blue antique typewriters. Skinny, faded yellow trails of paper circle around them in the dirt. Like hipster forest nymphs. It’s the kind of long narrow paper people use in those calculator accounting things. The white dresses they wear are noodle strapped and short. I think they are supposed to look majestic, or innocent…or something. One girl has shortcut blonde hair, shaved on one side of her head, so it kind of kills the meaning of the dresses and dirt…the other girl is a long-haired brunette with a big black tattoo that I can’t make out on her shoulder.

It is obviously some profound piece of art that someone put together for a class, and there must be some profound meaning behind it. But what? I think this is too profound for me. And perhaps everyone else who is stopping to look. There is a man with an expensive looking camera taking pictures of them from all angles and some close up to them and the paper, some far away to catch every detail. For some reason I’m reminded of porn being filmed. Ew, brain! I wonder what they are typing. Poetry? Profound thoughts? The answers to life itself? Their sociology essay due next week?

Regardless, most people who walk by gawk at the scene skeptically. The women ignore the world around them and focus on their typing, occasionally sliding the cursor across. Some people outright ignore what’s happening, either too cool to notice (or too cool to express they noticed), or sick of seeing weird Portland art around town. Faces ask “Is something going on? What is this for? What does it mean? Why is this happening?” Analyzing their faces is more amusing than the art piece.

When the women are finished with their performance, they stand up and put on their jackets (cuz it was friggin’ cold despite the sunshine) random people go up to the stage and go through the papers, seeing what was written on the pages. I am tempted to go up too just out of curiosity, but I refrain because everyone up there is talking to each other and I don’t want to get awkwardly involved in a conversation about the meaning of the art or whatever. I am not eloquent with my mouth. Then everyone is shooed away so the guy with the camera and the women can clean up the dirt with shovels. It has been revealed that a green tarp and a blue tarp were underneath the dirt. Aw, they killed the fantasy.

Also, one of the girls looked like an acquaintance…still not sure if it was actually her or not…

Downtown, headed to Pioneer Square from PSU on foot, I suddenly heard some kind of very loud reggae-rap music playing from near me. I instinctively looked at the source of the loud noise, and saw an old man in a wheel chair with the boom box under his seat. He looked me right in the face immediately, his eyes accusing me of staring at a cripple, daring me to do something about his public disturbance. I was verily confused for a moment, because this old cripple obviously wanted people to pay attention to him given his obnoxious music playing. Or he at least knew that it was going to (and did) draw attention, since he responded immediately to my attention as if he were expecting it. And didn’t do a thing to perhaps quiet himself down.

Most weird things in Portland people don’t question, but I couldn’t help ponder what the Hell that old man’s game was. Even if he was starved for attention, he was going about it in a really awkward way. Maybe he was testing the society around him, experimenting. Who would dare ask him to please turn down his annoying loud music? Maybe he was itching for a fight or a debate or at least a reason to get mad at someone. I had no way of knowing if he was “downtrodden” or not. Maybe he was an angry or senile bum? Maybe just bored? Maybe someone put that boom box in his chair as a prank and he couldn’t reach it to turn it off. The world may never know…

Next bunch of bits

Sushi Drunk


Sushi bar
drunk on sushi
drunk on cocktails

pack the chairs
and line the walls
for a seat
Have a cocktail
while you wait!

The waitresses
all look
guests in the eyes
the soul
the brain
stop staring at me
like that
I just want
a cocktail:

and lemon
…or was it
Rum? Vodka?
many have I
Two? Three?
in every hand
glasses in
the table
‘d these come from?

do the buses
take away
the plates?
As the night
goes on
the crowded
seems to get
the people
farther away
Their sounds
don’t matter
My focus
My world
is this conversation.

When waiters
they intrude
and more sushi
on the tiny table
My favorite!
Oh, wait
can I get

Lifey Tidbits #3

Previous bunch of tidbits here.

I changed the name of these posts because “Life Observations” is BORING and also, not all my observations were observations…more like…shenanigans…

Got kicked off the train at Gateway due to accident at 82nd “involving train and person”, according to Trimet.org. I contemplated on that, but had 30mins until class and needed to be downtown STAT! No time to contemplate the profoundness of life and death! Checked out the buses at Gateway, peering meekly at their destinations, but couldn’t tell which ones went through downtown. Then I saw a bus with “via City Center” on its face. Bus 19, have never taken it before. Dubious on what the “via” meant, but I assumed the obvious. Asked bus driver, just in case, “This goes through downtown, right?” He said “Yup yup,” while motioning me and others to hurry up and get on bus, not even checking our fare. I thought he might have just been saying “yup” to whatever I said to get me to move along, so I was still suspicious of the bus destination. I took a seat and kept vigilant for any bad turns by bus, hoping it didn’t squiggle its way downtown. Finally I saw the familiar tall buildings of downtown in the distance. Whew! Faith in humanity in good standing!…kinda. Was 5 minutes late for class. Couldn’t go pee beforehand so did potty dance in seat for 20 minutes while Prof. talked.

Pouring rain. Met with drawing classmates and Prof. in Art Building for “field trip” to art galleries. Is a field trip in college a field trip? Why is it called a “field” trip anyway? Are we going “out on the field” doing research? After standing awkwardly with classmates whom seemed overly attached to each other and not, for some reason, at all with me, the Prof. showed up.
Prof., “Why didn’t you guys bring your umbrellas?!”
Dude, “We’re Portlanders!”
Portland humor.
Older lady, fellow classmate, laughs and brandishes her umbrella like a sword, almost hitting me in the face.
Other Girl looks down at her umbrella sheepishly, ashamed at herself for being a bad Portlander.
I look down at the half-slippers I put on, too lazy to tie shoes this morning. They slip on like a slipper, but have the soles of a regular shoe…for taking out the garbage and checking your mail. I must be a true Portlander now, wearing slippers in the rain, and for that matter, even out of the house. I don’t even own an umbrella.
When we leave the building together, Other Girl with umbrella does the thrust-up-in-the-air method of opening an umbrella, and almost hits me in face.
Geez people.
Tempted to wear sign on my forehead saying “I EXIST.”

Upon passing by the common area of 9th floor Broadway, I see that a girl has made the area into her own personal painting studio. She has a tarp laid out on floor and newspaper on the table. Underneath the newspaper are her bottles of paint, splayed out paintbrushes, and Tupperware of water. The chairs are against the wall except for the cushioned ones that are bolted down. She has a tall easel set up on the tarp and stands before it, brushing blue paint on an already green and brown canvas that is as tall as a child. She is also singing to herself, in that soft high pitched voice way, like the girls in high school choir outside of class, that weird uniform way that is…not pleasing to the ears. As I walk by she hesitates in her singing and glances at me, but immediately starts up again and goes on painting. Perhaps she’d been hoping I was a cute boy who would be impressed by her free spirited artistness doing it all out-in-public-like.

Went into bathroom to prepare for a shower. Noticed a kitten sleeping on top of the towels in the cupboard. Too cute to disturb, found other towel. A moment after getting in the shower, a tiny kitten head pokes out from behind curtains, eyes wide and wondering. Her eyes are almost as big as her head. She jumps on the far edge of tub, watching where water hits the bottom of tub. So cute. I think, “what harm is there?” She soon slunk herself between the curtains toward the head of the shower, and watched the water more closely from the transparent inner curtain. I peeked at her from around the curtain, she looked up at me with her huge kitten eyes and said “meow”, sounding concerned. She is curious but also frightened. Eventually I made a grab for the soap, which she was huddled next to. This made her flip out and, literally, flip out of the shower. I said “aw, don’t go!” and heard a tiny “mew” in response. After awhile, I looked out of shower to check on her, worried she might be hiding or cowering near door. Instead, she was sitting and lethargically smacking a hairband on the bathroom rug. But she almost instantly noticed me watching and said “meow!” again, loudly, and bounced over, as if asking me a question. “In a minute!” I said, and finished my shower.

Kitten now has new experience in little kitten belt.

Rain rain rain.
Wind wind wind.
Wind blows rain
like powdered snow.
It’s only cold
because of the wind
on my wet hands and face.
Have to clutch my hood
so it won’t fly off.
At least,
I get to wear my ducky boots,
and matching yellow raincoat.
distracts from piercing wind
and rain splashed glasses.
Dance at train stop
Mind over matter
That’s all that matters.
Cold is only cold if you think “its cold.”

Lady’s umbrella flies up backwards.
She attempts a fix, but
it only folds limply down its stem.
Umbrella’s are a useless invention
when wind is involved.

Accidentally wrote a poem.


There’s a blue splatter of paint on the train wall directly in front of me. It’s shiny. Wet? How did this happen? Only in Portland does someone manage to splosh their blue paint on the inner wall of a city train. At least, I think it’s paint…it could be some other crazy chemical substance, or alien blood. Or alien loogie. Eeeeeh, it’s like, a foot way from my face, don’t think that shit.

Next bunch of tidbits