Notes on 65th Ave.

Once again i find myself sitting on the front steps, watching my street. It's been a while. The main difference now being signs of sping: an ever-changing light, ungolden, alternating betweenbright white (newness) and, under cloud shadows, greeninsh grey.
There remains a dullness: city noises ever pressent in the background, and the sound of busses. If not for this, and the lack of salt in the air, I would likely be flooded with memories of childhood. As it is I'm able to hold the latter at bay. A constant break in the dullness, in defiance of any weather, are th crows; flying up and down the street, talking loudly and in constant utg-of-war for authority with the squires. For the realatively short time that I have lived here I have a large stockpile of ideas, images and memories...
Once a blue Chevy drove past, reminding me of a friends'. His had a broken tunk that would bounce open whenever he hit a bump in the road. And in Anchorag that was quite a bit. I still laugh when I think about it. I wish he was still alive.
...I suppose I should stay in the present. There are several cars on my street that stand out. Niether of them move much. Come to think of it, the Volkwagon never goes anywhere. Once I saw my neighbor working on it... It's one of those autos in part organic; a sort of syborg, if you will. Various plant life grow over its oxidized red/orange serface. Even that serface being eaten by rust: the natural transfer of electrons in Portland's ever-present electrolight. This Volkswagon is like a jungle: a world in itself. In passing one may catch sight of the sticker- adorning the dashboard- that reads, 'My other car is a Rolls Royce'. I find that hard to belive.
Across the street sits (and occasionally moves) a MGB...