Names

I.

Reckless, rallying full-hearted,

we cut our names into the city:

Jackson, Richard, Jordan

           with jackolantern blade

bright as a cardinal,

muck-white laces catching

leaves of rust from

Old Town’s Steel Bridge—

stoic, double-decked,

Braille-plated for battle.

T-bone, Ryan and the 1414 Kids

           In Cathedral Park,

where we ate a handful

of the wrong mushrooms—

under the holy arches

of Saint John—

we made our covenant,

anxious, drooling, pious

below Narnian lamps:

           to better ourselves

           before tomorrow.

II.

Paul and Matthew

at the foot of the dead

Harvey W. Scott—

ever-standing, pigeon-shitted,

pointing sun-bound digit

across the breast of Good Mount Tabor.

            —O, there is Hawthorne!

between the trees,

beyond the reservoir,

its bright theater straight as bone,

carving passage through southeast

to the tourniquet of muddy Willamette.

Cambria, Keenzy, Kevin

down to Zach’s Shack for

the Dylan, Sgt. Peppers, Los Lobos

and a beer.

III.

Wes, Radtke, J-bird, Megan

thrashing, bright and brass as a bull

through Pittock Mansion—

            how here we get?—

we lean until we tip

down 21^st staring up

at the pink gloaming

on William Temple’s House.

Under Blue Moon and

big blue Volvo and

onto the skinny steps

of the old mausoleum

where we drink tonight,

            where we will wake tomorrow

and stagger forth for Genie’s,

for Madison’s for Thatcher’s,

for Cricket, Gravy, Tonic,

the blessed Cup and Saucer,

to Mother’s Bar or My Father’s Place,

J and M, OPH, O’Connor’s,

to the Tin Shed,

to the Florida Room,

to Delta,

to Toast our Bloody Marys elbow-high

and start again.

                        But now to sleep

                        on grated beds,

                        on ragged steps,

                        with hard dreams

                        straight from the boneyard.