Oregon Mist
Lungs in the stoplights: a sigh of relief in green, a shiver in yellow, a held breath in red. Music is suspended in the skyline, if I just pinch and inhale I might float away out and over all the signs. Like the signs, the people here don’t say much. They observe. Through telescopes. Aim lenses, point red lights, and flash sirens. I remember that mist is also blinding and white and dance between the lanes of a two-way street, a place far away from lights and signs and even if there’s one nearby, It’s too loud out here to read anyway.
1art by Pragna Gaddamedi (@prgs.jpeg)
Poetry Tip of the Day!
Another day, another poem about Portland. Aside from more occasional activities like going to work or swimming at the beach, the city made me hyper-fixate on things as routine as walking around. I became more and more aware of the eyes following me—even through the bass drum blasting in my ears. The most comfortable thing I could do was keep moving and keep hoping the street signals would help me do so. Every time I stopped, I counted the seconds until the flashing stick man allowed me to pass to the next intersection. Avoid eye contact. Pretend to scroll through my lock screen. Kick a rock. I tried to do anything except acknowledge that their looks had any effect on me. I fantasized about a Sahib who would throw his bag to anyone who would catch it, and dance in the middle of the street, right through the glares and unfazed. If I couldn’t be him, I can at least tell his story.
beast