In Which I Consider A Strange Thoroughfare

A farmer's mart that had nary a stalk

Of local, fresh asparagus, I deem

A failure. Nor is this the only shock

To be had here along that driver's dream,

The T.V. Highway, home to ev'ry chain

Store, taco truck, "adult" emporium

And hair salon. Allow me to explain:

Through Beaverton and "Hillsburrito," umm..

And other towns I'm sure, this one highway

Boasts all that Portland proper would forget,

Pushed to the side, hid like that bad toupee

One sported in the 70s. My bet

Is that's how here a Lowe's and Home Depot

Are planted side-by-side in a neat row.

In Which I Brazenly Risk Being Pulled Down To Sunken Rl'yeh Several Times

Beside us and this lodge where we will pass

Our night tonight, I hear Cthulhu's roar.

A soup of clam cum, goo from mollusk ass

Shark spit, fish urine, seagull snot and more

Doth churn and crash in waves against a mix

Of ground-up glass, shell bits, rocks, plant rot, and

Some severed feet and rubber ducks and sticks.

I guess that stuff is commonly called sand,

The fluid called the sea, but let's be real:

A Great Old One won't live just anywhere

In anywhat. I'm sure, though, that he'd feel

At home wheree'er he wants, would never care

If it were blood or water where he swam

As long as he's believers, which I am.