Dear Portland,

30 Oct

You are an afternoon spent at a teashop sipping Love/Rose kombucha from tap and sampling chai, while listening to Moby and Bjork, inhaling the scent of granola, co-op store, and sandlewood, while wondering how many wide glasses have real vision lenses, and counting the pairs of tevas that walk by, and noticing that there is enough flannel and organic cotton tees in the city to clothe an army for centuries to come.  

You are homogenous in your mustached, Kurt Vonnegaut-reading, skullcandy, vintage record-store fostering, cowboy-boot hoarding, greasy hair, homeless teens, and holes in your thrift store ‘new’ threads population.  You are charming and alarming.  

You are a vortex for kindred spirits of the kombucha-worshipping, teva-obsessed, peace-sign slanging, is-my-chicken-really-organic??? people of the world.  

I am in great need of a uniform to  disappear into this place, but as it is, I am sipping on an organic, free trade coffee just one crosswalk away from a Buffalo Exchange.  

Assimilation, here I come.

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