I am ghost

rider and

living my own

fate in the

presence of so

much hate

Remember me

for what I've done

running before

the bullet shot

from the gun

I am gone

Streets of Portland

Lonely sophist

Dining at the Roxy

Staying at the Kent Hotel

on Stark and SW 11th

Where bums fall

Into bottles of port

And poets tiredly

Remember their pasts

Shunning their contemporaries.

Remain anonymous at

The Kent Hotel, all in

The shadow of the city

Where poets mourn tiredly

The hour of my death,

Portland is passing like

The sinews of so many

Cities, streets and avenues

Sinking back into earth

Among shattered wine

Bottles and confused

Notes from lovers, old

Shopping lists the

Products of which we

Are.

I in my claw-footed

Tub, I peering over the

Fire escape, or over

The Roxy's counter

Cast into the lines

Of city streets and

Faces, enough to

Kill 1,000 pigeons.