Above Portland

And what you must have seen below you
as your frame twisted in the winds above
the Portland skyline, punctuated by the stately
Xanadu and the surrounding suburbs
printed around the full color photo finish
in streets of sensational headlines, scrawled
with the punk rock fairy tale handwriting that you used
to pen your fake memoirs on the tops
of public school standard chair-desk-combos,
which featured thumbs up, five-stars, and glowing praise
from dead presidents and stray cats.
The traffic lights turned blue before you snuffed
them one by one with your piano key
fingers. The headlight-streaked grid below
pounded against your romantic narratives,
reshuffling your snow globe head.
Flutters of lost voicemails and hanging
promises surface and submerge,
leaving a trail of bubbles behind
as they sink to the bottom of the beast pit
dug by Samuel Johnson, where we can break
free and cut loose. You were in the last throes
of an ether binge, and there’s no one more
helpless and irresponsible and depraved
and magnificent than you.