Memorable camping trip?
Nehalem Bay State Park: an overnight hiker/biker site for five dollars along the Oregon Coast where I bussed it from Portland, walked along the 101 to notice all the banana peels and how close the cars really do come to the almost non-existent shoulder, hiked Neakahnie Mountain on no sleep the morning after Gabriel, a bay area bound hiker paced the communal campfire, telling stories of being on a spirit animal journey to recover his stolen laptop and seek revenge upon Andrea? Who Andrea was no one knew; no one asked. I slept with one eye open in my solo tent, hoping the biker gang next to me would come to my rescue if all went south in the night. But it was my first solo camping trip and I’d do it again in a heartbeat, me, my backpack and a head full of wonder and slight worry.
What a photo can illicit…
“…take a picture of them…”
When I see clothespins I think of your mother,
even though we never met.
The Title of My Book if I’d Just Write One Already: My Life in Titles
You Know You’re in the Ghetto When & Other Stories East of 82nd
Always Carry a Burgundy Buddha and Other Nonsensical Advice
How Getting a DUI, Poetry and Portland Saved My Life(Insert own less dramatic title here)
Do You Like Pina Rain and Getting Caught in the Coladas?
I Go to Dark Places in My Dreams
One Bloody Thumb, Guerrilla Glue, and Screws: Lessons in Love
Toto, We’re Not in Kansas Anymore: A Day in the Life of My Bike
Toto: Toilets Across the Globe
Wander and Lust
How to Eat Too Many Cherries: Farmer’s Markets Gone Wrong
You Watching Her Watching Me Watching You & Other Awkward Moments
The Lone High Heel: Urban Flotsam
How To Get Out of a Polyamorous Proposition and Other Awkward Moments II
To Be Continued…
I wrote a poem once that ended in “it’s only 8 a.m.” and have found myself since occasionally murmuring the phrase.
Either begin or end with “it’s only 8 a.m.”. See where it takes you. Have fun with it.
What I came up with: sub 10 a.m. for 8 and a bit of tweaking. There are no rules:
The day after we “split up”
we spent the morning at breakfast
fondling one another,
under the table,
your brother to our left,
a friend across the pancakes.
We stopped at your garden on Canyon Road,
and you watered it and gave me
the first ripe strawberry of the season,
it was tender, almost too sweet.
I threw the leftover leaves on the ground, you reached for another hug
And I let you hug me, longer than normal or what felt like normal was going to be,
and I eyed the plants, skeptically, they looked too alive, too perky in their morning beds at 10 am,
then off we went down the road,
where I can’t recall if you dropped me at home
or whether we kept driving into the afternoon.