Westward Bind

My name is Michael, Jack, Michael John, but on the East Side it soon won't matter until it does across, as I'm about to peace out, be swayze, gone. I've been running three to four days a week, training at World Gym three, laughing my way up higher inclinations during midnight jaunts. The song "Summer's Almost Gone" by the Doors, live, enchanted me in May, persevered happily into June only to haunt me in July, pushing me over the edge of the decision precipice, free-falling I am no longer. On Tuesday I'll be landing upon Portland, the West Side once again the locale I've chosen for my residence. I've not yet been there, however "Paranoid Park" was illicitly good, VooDoo Donuts sounds ill, the skateboarders there are better than me so soon will be my skills as I thrash along, and Southern California felt too comfortable for me to be content in such a choice. I'm halfway through the smithing of four domers, the first of which shall be sparked as the wheels of my storm-trooper board touch down upon the black fields that never die cutting through downtown Portland. Literary internships, the Burnside Review, Open Spaces, Tin House, are to be taken on forthwith son, leading to literary connections building to the dominos of publication falling into notoriety as the ostensible path beckons. Rock and Roll.
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