Pudgy Indian

I took a walk across my bridge,
the Burnside Bridge,
to go to Rich's on 9th and Alder
in SW for a few good, cheap, cigars.
I like their house brands
with no bands.

As I got to downtown,
pigeons flew in a flock of
two dozen or so
through the green maples
shining white and yellow and colorful
as they dashed in and out of the trees
in the tree strip
in the middle of Burnside.

And I remember the beauty
I haven't seen in this town in a while.
It's always been there,
but all I've seen lately
is a desire to bounce around the world
and feeling oddly trapped in a world
I only want to visit.

Rhonda and I have talked of traveling.
I discussed with her
my fantasy of using Portland as a home base
and travel the world
to reservations all over
where Rhonda feels the desire
to do volunteer nursing
and I am reminded every moment
she is my hero
one of many.
I am married to her
and I get to hug and kiss her
and many other wonderful
activities
we choose to intertwine our lives
with.

There is an echo in my soul
as I wander the beautiful streets,
look up at the beautiful sky
with random acts of clouds
and I know the skies are beautiful
above Iraq and Lebanon
they must be
at least when planes aren't flying overhead
and dropping bombs on them.

Portland,
though full of life,
seems so unlively.

I think of other cities,
countries,
where people argue politics
in the streets.
Where cultures are alive and active...
Full of life.
All I hear
on the streets here
are petty conversations
or witness people sitting
and not discussing anything.

This is the weather for liveliness.
This is the weather for people
to exercise their creative processes
Maybe I'm just not seeing it?
Maybe I'm missing something?

I see all the beautiful faces
of the people in the streets,
homeless,
privileged,
everyone in between
and all around.

I enter Rich's
and there before me,
a cigar store clown
but to my left
as I enter the door,
a cigar store Indian.
"I'm not racist."

It is a law, now,
allegedly to protect the people
that tobacco is no longer self-serve.
I cannot walk in
and choose a cigar,
pick it up with my own fingers
enjoy the smell
without someone there
to watch over me
for my own safety...
yeah...
anyway.

I think of the prayers
offered via tobacco
on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation
where people are starving
at the end of every month.
Where the teen suicide rates are higher
much higher
than the national average.
Where elders
are often known to
freeze to death
during the harsh winters
of the midwest.

With the required help,
I choose two of Rich's
non-banded house brands
a couple of robustos
and a churchill.

The churchill size cigar
was named after
Winston Churchill
because he enjoyed
that particular size of cigar.

I hate that name,
Churchill.
Many think of him as a glorious hero,
I think of Churchill
as another false hero,
like Christopher Columbus.
I think of his genocidal activities
and comments
like wanting to kill
every last Irish person in the world.
Churchill, Hitler, FDR, Saddam Hussein,
Bush, Clinton, Gore, Reagan,
all genocidal maniacs
held up as false heros.

Just beside the door
leading into the walk-in humidor
is the porn section.
Triple XXX is on one magazine.
Where women with plastic lips
plastic breasts,
plastic faces,
try to tempt my sexuality
because sex sells.

I stop before the cigar store Indian
just on the other side of a table
with free papers
in front of the door
that leads into
the rest of the world.
We stare blankly at each other.
DAMMIT!
He has more cigars than I do.

I enter into the world,
unwrap a robusto,
throw the plastic in the trash can
placed on the street
for my convenience
and for the homeless to do
their shopping.
I bite off the tip,
an offense to many cigar smokers,
roll the piece between my fingers
and offer it to a tree
on the other side
of Park.

The people are all beautiful.
Even if they do think
mostly of themselves.
I look at their bodies
their faces
their classes
their races.
They are beautiful!

I think of the beautiful faces
of the people in Iraq
Lebanon, etc.,
and I think
of the beautiful skies
that often rain death
upon their heads.
Here,
before my very eyes
are humans
just as human
as the people having bombs
dropped on their heads
in other nations.

Before the prison yard
sandwiched between the
Salvation Army building
and what on the weekends
is known as
Saturday Market,
on Burnside
as I head back across the bridge
a man feeds the pigeons bread.
I don't know if he's homeless or not,
but there he is
being generous to birds.
Sharing his bread
with our winged relations.

And the skies are so beautiful.
The river,
my river,
our river,
she is so beautiful.
And the skies,
still spotted with white clouds,
blue and sunshine
is beautiful.
And there are no war planes
or attack helicopters in sight.