t.s. eliot, i like him.

ts eliot, wrote something near, or around, the lines of “I have measured my life out in coffee spoons,” and like most neat things neat people say, i wanted to latch onto it, and make believe i might have said it, or at least skim off the surface, the eyes he draws, and make them look my way, even if only for a second, i wanted eyes to look my way, just like i want yours now, but the truth is i refuse to make someone else’s beautiful my beautiful, because, whether or not they match intentions, even if only through my mind’s lense, i lessen, what i called beautiful in the first place, and i’m not ok with doing that, so for tonight, she will be beautiful, even if she's not mine; even if you never are, and i’ll sip coffee like i’m not thinking about what i look like through the window, because it’s only coffee, and will never direct my future, despite having convinced twitter followers it does. 

grace is desirable, and the kingdom is coming, may we, may i, live, like what drives us tastes and appears more purely than what i order from a cafe lounge chair.

isaiah 56:1 - thus says the Lord, “preserve justice and do righteousness, for my salvation is about to come.”

Diego Bolanos & The Palms Motor Hotel

From our initial response to website photos of the welcoming sign and option for 'hottub room', to the minute we checked out and walked from sight, the charm of this humble motel only grew. After five nights in the Palms, our hearts were heavy to say goodbye, but our minds eager to return. 

As we took our final look into the room and shut it behind us, Diego hesitated, turned to me and said, "When I come back to Oregon, I will stay at the Palms." 

And he will. 

720 minutes to bloom, Coffee Flowering: Finca El Manzano

typewriter, type-righter

colors set

like sun fall

against a snow painted

mt. hood and,

holding beautiful inside

my eyeballs,

horizon spelt shoulder blades

into hand palms

with arms beneath arms

curved along back,

your back.

and i remembered

romance,

was not some book i read,

after all.

-----

most days she's the tracks

my train travels down,

and most days

she's the white cloud,

the now invisible airplane

left behind,

that i tell my friends to look at

just beyond pointed finger,

as several streaks line sky

five-thirty evening

as we're playing tackle football

in the neighbors grass,

before mom calls for dinner,

God.

let me believe her face was fictional

because the words she spoke,

digital,

slow handed

into typewiter,

type-righter

inked into my wingspan

she had the lips to make me fly

and the silence to paralyze

my fingers

tip - tapping

windows overcasting,

shadows,

she first cast light into

because her love was bottomless,

and she said i could,

enter

but only with both feet,

and i'll never forget the sidewalk crack

i stepped over,

and the leaf that cracked

when i knew i did.

SCAA 2012 - Portland, OR: "Coffee flowers & layover food"

We sat on the rooftop of his flat, spread out around an iron table; Diego and Jose in chairs, and I in hammock, expressing our expectations for the coming week and trip; like kerouac said, we 'burned like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars,' mindful of now and tomorrow's brightness, yet mindless to our inability to legitimately fulfill whimsical projections; as always. I am convinced, opportunities are better met without projection...other than our being there, with thankful hearts, rather than hunting them like food...or so it seems in my case.

"One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple..." more kerouac.

Marlboro reds and laughter; we broke 12:30 and moved toward bedrooms. 4 o'clock sounded, and we cold-showered our way into car and down the El Salvador I-5 westbound to airport; with Katie Perry on the car speakers, we starred excitement into darkness and worn lane reflectors; saying a prayer for the overturned semi in the ditch between east and west.

Through customs, we were Portland bound, via Houston, Denver, and San Francisco, as the coffee flowers withered in my backpack, and layover airport food, coffee, and beer, emptied our cash, day one.

But we were happy, and that was all we could think about.

if you give a professor fifteen minutes, he only assumed to give a beautiful stranger as long as it takes

you ordered your coffee,

a second guessing,

pure told black,

through a chemex,

and i watched you,

watching minutes,

letting your lips steep

in steam,

before sipping, and

releasing it back out

your murmuring

intentions,

like rain clouds

over summer hu -

midity swallowed

the last dregs, and

folded your book,

the final

shadows

of self-conscious,

cast off like wrinkles

on your,

straightened pant leg

as you stood.

finding a stoop outside the shop

you indicated undecided on

leaving,

but rather stared patience

into the dying cicada,

upturned near your shoe lace,

when a voice down the alley,

called "please,

don't be angry."

"nunca,"

you responded,

but quietly,

from your stomach,

staying only

to polite the wrong.

i suppose you did have limits after all,

and long past chatter,

you said you'd walk

as far as the bus stop,

as she attempted to otherwise

convince her(apologetic

)self,

she didn't have reason, to

cover her mouth

with both hands.

i imagined you,

saying not to call

from the lonely

cup, of

now filled,

fresh resolve;

that perhaps she might

still,

still something,

that she might.

you backed passed

near my staring,

stretched out hand,

saying

with words

'i'd love to buy you coffee'

but extending,

with reality and newness,

condolence.

"thanks but,"

(inhale),

"i already had one."

'wait.'

my curiosity

turned your shirt sleeve.

"who was she?

sorry,

what just happened?"

(second inhale)

"if you give a professor fifteen minutes,

i only assumed to give a beautiful stranger as long as it takes.

some days they turn up,

most days it doesn't seem to change anything either way."

you smiled and made your exit.