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<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> <book><bookinfo><title>Dot-to-Dot, Oregon</title> <author>Sid Miller</author> <pressname>Ooligan Press</pressname> <schoolname>Portland State University</schoolname> <location>Portland, Oregon</location> <copyrightpage><copyrighttitle>Dot-to-Dot, Oregon</copyrighttitle> <copyright>© 2009 Sid Miller</copyright> <isbn>ISBN13: 978-1-932010-29-9</isbn> <sectionbreakpara>All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduce <sectionbreakpara>Cover Art and Design by Rebecca “Ruji” Chapnik Interior Design by Marie Miller Type is set in ITC Franklin Gothic Std</sectionbreakpara> <publisherinfo><sectionbreakpara>Ooligan Press Department of English Portland State University P.O. Box 751 Portland, OR 97207-0751 www.ooliganpress.pdx.edu ooligan@ooliganpress.pdx.edu</sectionbreakpara></publisherinfo> <sectionbreakpara>Printed in the United States of America by Lightning Sourc <sectionbreakpara>Poems in this book have previously appeared in other publi <emphasis>Portland Review</emphasis>: Albany, Seaside <emphasis>The Oregonian</emphasis>: Oregon Dunes <emphasis>Caffeine Destiny</emphasis>: Veneta, Monmouth <emphasis>High Desert Journal</emphasis>: Crater Lake <emphasis>Salt River Review</emphasis>: Pendleton <emphasis>New Works Review</emphasis>: Astoria <emphasis>Bad Light</emphasis>: Klamath Falls, Corvallis <emphasis>Softblow</emphasis>: Bandon, Hermiston, Prineville, Reedsport <emphasis>Two Review</emphasis>: Philomath <emphasis>Walking Bridges Using Poetry as a Compass</emphasis>: Portland <emphasis>Pif Magazine</emphasis>: Umatilla, Grants Pass <emphasis>WritersDojo.org</emphasis>: The Dalles, McMinnville, Silverton, Mo <dedication>For Claire and Athene, the best traveling companions a man could <contents>Contents</contents> <intro><introtitle>Introduction</introtitle> <firstpara>Three points aligned at the moment of this book’s inception. The <para>That was the moment. By the time I fell asleep that night, the idea fo <para>When I got back to Portland, I went to Powell’s Books and got the bigg <para>My first concern was the number of places to visit. In order to assemb <para>A majority of the poems take place in the city center of each place. W <para>This last point was mainly affected by the two largest factors of this <para>By the time I figured all this out, I was excited to begin. I started <para>I’m not the sort of writer who is instantaneously inspired. I also hav
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<para>The project became more and more exciting. As each trip ended, plans f <para>All in all, it took me about a year and half to do all the travel nece <para>For the majority of the trips, I was accompanied by my wife, Claire, a <para>The traveling was the joy, the writing the work. Because Oregon doesn’ <para>From the onset of the project I had to two goals: to get to know the s <introsignature>—Sid Miller</introsignature> <introdate>November 2008</introdate></intro> <section><sectiontitle>Route 1</sectiontitle> <poem><poemtitle>Pendleton</poemtitle> <line1first>I’ve missed the Round-Up by six months</line1first> <line1>and now can’t find a better way to pass</line1> <line1>the time than to snoop around this old fire,</line1> <line1last>kick at the soot and wonder about timing.</line1last> <line2first>She turned on the popcorn maker and forgot.</line2first> <line2>Later the half-block was gone—the shoe repair</line2> <line2>and coffee bean shops, the East Oregon</line2> <line2>Symphony’s office and the home away</line2> <line2last>from home for the Fraternal Order of Eagles.</line2last> <line1first>Fire symbolizes the end, or at best</line1first> <line1>the beginning, and here I am,</line1> <line1>smack dab and happy in the middle.</line1> <line1>And I can’t think of any better way</line1> <line1>to stay here than to watch</line1> <line1>a man on a bull for eight-point-six seconds,</line1> <line1>so focused on grip and posture,</line1> <line1last>relaxed in order to not let go.</line1last></poem> <poem><poemtitle>La Grande</poemtitle> <line1first>For six days I haven’t shaved</line1first> <line1>and behind me, inside the pharmacy,</line1> <line1>my wife’s in line with bubblegum </line1> <line1last>and a pregnancy test.</line1last> <line1first>Skilled masonry lines this main road,</line1first> <line1>old buildings with details </line1> <line1>now seen only for profit. </line1> <line1>Eighty years ago the population peaked</line1> <line1>and these works of art</line1> <line1>no longer house man’s necessities,</line1> <line1last>just coffee and dumbbells.</line1last> <line1first>Some years ago my hair ran down </line1first> <line1>past my shoulders. Before I met her,</line1> <line1>my wife was pierced in more places </line1> <line1last>than one can mention in this town.</line1last> <line1first>We’ll stay here longer than we should.</line1first> <line1>We understand how easy it is to change,</line1> <line1last>yet how hard it is to grow.</line1last></poem>
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<poem><poemtitle>Baker City</poemtitle> <line1first>All the churches and the mountains to the west </line1first> <line1>and the tallest building in Eastern Oregon </line1> <line1>on sale for a cheap price </line1> <line1>and the happiness </line1> <line1>of holding your hand as we walked at sunset</line1> <line1>under the old-fashioned black-and-white street signs </line1> <line1>and past the ten-foot-high wagon wheel </line1> <line1>is all part of it—that dream, that script, </line1> <line1>that in just a moment might change</line1> <line1>in a major way </line1> <line1>when you walk out of the bathroom</line1> <line1>here tonight </line1> <line1>in our room on the third story </line1> <line1>of the one-hundred-and-eighteen-year-old Geiser Grand Hotel, </line1> <line1>where just a bit ago we sat downstairs and drank bourbon </line1> <line1>and listened to horrible smooth jazz,</line1> <line1>and spoke about the black beans </line1> <line1>in the shrimp and lobster sauce </line1> <line1>that we had for dinner </line1> <line1>and about the woman from Hong Kong</line1> <line1last>who served it to us, </line1last> <line1first>anything but what was on our minds</line1first> <line1last>and weighing us down, </line1last> <line1first>that little stick, </line1first> <line1>that little modern freight train of knowing, </line1> <line1>that harbinger of the whole shebang, </line1> <line1>the one that’s now in your hand, </line1> <line1>under the place where you sit,</line1> <line1>being soaked with our fates,</line1> <line1>the decision of more bourbon or none at all, </line1> <line1>of who and what we’ll become,</line1> <line1last>of what we can’t predict.</line1last></poem> <poem><poemtitle>Nyssa</poemtitle> <line1first>A damsel in metaphysical </line1first> <line1>distress, she forever looks </line1> <line1>out from the second story </line1> <line1>of the old Hotel Western </line1> <line1>and stares back past </line1> <line1>the Green Lantern Saloon</line1> <line1>onto Main Street. </line1> <line1>If you suppose her place, </line1> <line1>red drapes behind, painted </line1> <line1>brick housing you in, you’d </line1> <line1>crave everything, give anything,</line1>
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<line1>just to turn right and gaze </line1> <line1>at the water towers, the strip </line1> <line1>of grass and the Fort </line1> <line1last>Boise Produce building.</line1last> <line1first>And while it’s easy to assume her gaze, </line1first> <line1>her thoughts can only be guessed at. </line1> <line1>But one would suspect Saint Gregory, </line1> <line1>his notion of the third and final stage, </line1> <line1>where after the initial darkness of ignorance, </line1> <line1>followed by a spiritual illumination,</line1> <line1>one returns to darkness, </line1> <line1>because of the mind’s </line1> <line1>contemplation of a God that cannot</line1> <line1>be comprehended, </line1> <line1>who has stuck her in a window,</line1> <line1>in a nearly forgotten place, </line1> <line1>surrounded by fools</line1> <line1>who point and wonder,</line1> <line1>completely void </line1> <line1last>of any cowboy spirit.</line1last></poem> <poem><poemtitle>Burns</poemtitle> <line1first>Easy to eavesdrop—your window </line1first> <line2>rolled down, </line2> <line1>no engines in earshot, </line1> <line1>the gas station attendant </line1> <line1>and his beer-drinking buddy </line1> <line2last>almost shouted. </line2last> <line1first>At the mention of the movie star’s name, </line1first> <line1>his face came quickly—anal-retentive </line1> <line1>travel writer, middle-aged drug addict,</line1> <line2last>et al. </line2last> <line1first>Now you’ve driven for an hour</line1first> <line1>and sincerely believe that there can’t </line1> <line2last>be anything else. </line2last> <line1first>Perpendicular to nowhere and north </line1first> <line1last>of nothing, this town is dead from the sun. </line1last> <line1first>They said that he lives on the edge </line1first> <line2last>of town,</line2last> <line1>where you hoped to see him </line1> <line1>with a Rottweiler on a dusty road </line1> <line1>or just out of the market, </line1> <line2>like any man</line2> <line2last>with a bag of steaks. </line2last> <line1first>But not only have you not seen him, </line1first> <line1>you haven’t seen much of anything else. </line1>
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<line1>And the next time his face flickers</line1> <line1>at two in the morning, you’ll attempt </line1> <line1>to look past the makeup and lens </line1> <line2last>to get it.</line2last></poem> <poem><poemtitle>John Day</poemtitle> <line1first>Bourbon should always pour freely. </line1first> <line1>So when the chubby little bartender </line1> <line1>trickles ours from the bottle into a jigger</line1> <line1last>and then over the ice, it’s a bad sign. </line1last> <line1first>Craving a steak for days, we walked up and down</line1first> <line1>the main drag, looked and smelled. Blinded by neon</line1> <line1>and unnerved by uniform, we settled here,</line1> <line1last>as the big screen TV flickered in the background.</line1last> <line2first>When the osprey touched down on the river’s surface,</line2first <line2>grabbed the trout clean and bolted for the trees</line2> <line2last>to pick at the still-live meat, we smiled.</line2last> <line1first>Our meat will be out before our second drink, </line1first> <line1>even though the first were only two sips long. </line1> <line1>I could describe it now: the lack of flavor, </line1> <line1>the stringy texture, the clump of previously </line1> <line1last>frozen vegetables that will cower in the corner.</line1last> <line1standalone>Not too long ago there were cowboys and miners around here. <line1first>They wouldn’t have settled for this shit.</line1first> <line1last>They would’ve stood up and walked out.</line1last></poem> <poem><poemtitle>Shoetree</poemtitle> <line1first>To leave home, drive the desolate 20 </line1first> <line2>and pull off here,</line2> <line1>to do what’s been done so often</line1> <line2last>isn’t so hard to understand.</line2last> <line1first>Never a small town kid, </line1first> <line1>Jack soon stares beyond </line1> <line2>the shoes and highway </line2> <line1last>toward Monument Peak.</line1last> <line1first>As a new pair takes flight</line1first> <line1last>he returns again to the shoes.</line1last> <line1first><emphasis>It would be easy to take a picture,</emphasis></line1f <line1last><emphasis>much harder to make a list.</emphasis></line1last> <line1first>As he stands with his back </line1first> <line1>to the Malheur River, </line1> <line2>he suspects</line2> <line1last>neither choice is right.</line1last> <line1first>But Jack’s never been good</line1first> <line1>with choices, chiefly those</line1> <line1>concerned with what comes</line1> <line2last>and more often goes.</line2last>