Monday, October 30, 2017

I love telling people I’m just passing through.

He spoke of being a vagabond in past tense, through the distortions of my memory. His eyes were calm, though I romanticized them to be wild. The best night we had was when he took control. I would stay up watching him breathe, and all I could do to save myself was to walk the suburb on the phone. I wrote poetry and dreamed in words that weren’t solely mine. I wanted everything in front of me, my vain heart reaching out to call something mine.

I knew then as I know now that I am not done. This vagabond lifestyle still fills me with hope. I have far too much to see and to many existences to relate with. I pack up my backpack with the knowledge only experience can give.

Months of calling myself a vagabond has filled me with joy when I hear others say the word. Each song I hear with the word fills me with joy. Rod Stewart singing Forever Young has played on the radio twice in the last week. Maybe I’m a romantic, but it feels like he’s singing to me. Bob Dylan tells me to Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright. Dave Loggins sings along with my soul as he talks to his love, a woman who wants a much different life than he, but he still asks her “Please, come to Boston”.

Jess tattooed my knuckles this summer with the handle I have given myself. It’s on my stamp, it’s the name I use for domain, and now it’s on my hands forever. I regret nothing. My four top left knuckles spell a name that I have taken over my given name. My chosen name is Elon, a name that happened upon me, but I feel suits the current person I have become.

So here I travel yet again, for however long I made need to keep moving. Tonight, Portland, tomorrow, Eugene. After that? Only time will tell.

Travel on.

Tuesday, July 11, 2017

Your lack of knowing what to do in social social situations defines who you are.
I cannot recall who has told me this, directly or indirectly.

I sit and an apartment that isn't mine, closed off to a city that I wasn't born in. What makes someone belong? Is it blood right, or the knowledge that one has put their name in the city they sleep in? What makes us call someplace home? If I said the people I love, I would be referring to so many different places. If I were to say the money and resources I put into a city, would I feel I belong to anywhere? From the depths of this depressive cycle, I cannot say I feel content with the energy I put into one single place. I would tell you I should keep trying and traveling. "I can do better", I would tell myself in the mirror.

I do not want a home, yet I feel compelled by every commercial to build one. How can I buy this product if I have in a place to store it? I could not buy the product, because I have decided I do not want job. 
My head swirling with my accomplishments and failures, I considered trying to make it through this modern era without money. Remove the convenience of immediate gain from my grasp. What would have to be done to find myself consistently alive and well? What would bring me joy, what habits could I break with very little to my name and being? Could I create sustainability in the constant change of my being?

So I'll write new beginnings, and start the month of August, the month of my birth and return to a place i fled two years ago, with no want for money. I will work in trades and barter, and go off hope alone on days I have little to offer. The voice in my mind sounds so feeble on this leather couch I never bought. All I want is to eat, be safe, and travel as much as I possibly can. That's been done before, by myself and countless others, It can still feel scary. I look at the captions on the muted News Channel and see death and fear from every corner. I wonder what made Gloria Steinem scared. I think about Cheryl Strayed shaking in the passenger seat. I imagine Amanda Palmer walking into stranger's arms. I know I can do this, and I don't want money, I just want help.

"I hope you find what you are looking for" left of the lips of my brother, and though I knew I had no idea what I was looking for,  I smiled and said "thank you" all the same.

Monday, June 5, 2017

we lose so much

What of love, a child might ask
In a city rebuilt by the wind
Laying new foundations becomes a repetitive task
The hearts of the citizens on the mend

What of pity, a man may say
A glare in the corner of his eye
Every hour he spends each passing day
Worried what may come out as a lie

What of life, a person contemplates
From the floor of the corner cafe
Scrolling through their phone for perspective dates
I will see you later, they do not say

What of death, the roses frost over
Funerals take on a a humble tone
This is not how we dreamed we would prosper
Every person rushing to not die alone. 

Thursday, May 4, 2017

recent unedited poems

It's easy to find ones worth
in a culture with no soul
built on pop music catering to
the uniqueness which you seek.


Of men who aim to take our essence
to place in jars and study
the movement of severed body parts
taken in our sleep
of women who fight to keep standing
between the stanzas that fall at their feet.


I look for you in a sea of
people I'll never meet
I smell Tamales on the lips of
the man sitting next to me
though his touch ill never feel from
the three feet we sit away
there may be something to learn from
his continuous look-away.

Sunday, January 22, 2017


Rainy days without the haze of how others wished me to be
A pot on the stove and a coat at the door
So many gifts I could forever cherish
Finally feeling healthy miles away
An idea of my independence
So I reach for my phone to send you a message
But this time I will honor as mine

Monday, January 16, 2017

Where are you now? (written on 12/18)

The pockets of the backpack are invaded by my groping hand. I check each fold franticly, knowing what I seek will be in one of the many black creases. I am aware by now that if I were to only place what I seek in a consistent location, I wouldn’t go through this dance so often. I had already said goodbye to each co-worker, mentally noting the reality of my physical state yet again. 
I have woken up in not only the same city, but the same bed for over two months now. I am not sleeping in a hammock to awake with the sun, to steady myself on a bike for the bearable hours of the day. That is in the past, and I am here, in what was the future. A white bike awaits me just outside the glass door, beyond the logo of the company that currently employs me. I knew I shouldn’t have ate those donuts, the abundant amount of sugar in my blood starts a small ache in my left temple. The present situation I am in overwhelms my mental state, and I take a deep breath, closing my eyes to focus my mind on the task at hand.
Where the fuck are my keys.

Saturday, December 31, 2016

New years

I awoke, fully clothed, on top of a bed that wasn’t mine in the Queen Anne neighborhood of Seattle. My shoes were tied, and the lights were glaring into my sleepy eyes. A bouquet of roses lay next to me on the bed, pieces of paper containing a positive message wrapped around each neck. The box of wine I bought for myself sat on the counter, laughing at me in our shared silence.
It was 3 in the morning on the first day of 2016 and I had slept through the new year. I had fully intended to walk down the few blocks towards the Seattle Center to watch “New Years at the needle”. I sighed and poured rest of my glass into the sink, swishing water until it ran clear. I refilled my glass with the tap, and began to remove the layers I had meticulously planned for the event of celebrating my new year solo. I found the ability to laugh at myself as I pulled someone else’s covers over myself, sleeping until the sun woke me up.
The last day of the year I awoke to Prince telling me exactly how he was going to party. A few messages came through my phone, one of whiched buzzed an "I'm sorry you have to work" at my concience. I was so excited to be able to wish so many different people a happy new year, and I dawned my clothes for the day. Every song that played over the speakers at work kept me dancing and laughing with the workers and frequent line-to-the-door patrons. As I biked home in the rain, I didn't care how wet I was getting to be.
I'm happy that I'm close to 4 months sober in a city that loved me from the day I rolled through it. I get to celebrate with new friends that are so happy to be getting to know me, and I them.
I'm so happy
I want to be here
I want to keep moving forward.

I love you. I hope you have a safe and happy new year, you glorious human.