Punch the one eyed clown. LbNA #14456 (ARCHIVED)
Map
Nearby Boxes
Add Note
Add Location| Owner: | Adoptable |
|---|---|
| Plant date: | Apr 15, 2005 |
| Location: | Old Town, China Town, Pearl District |
| City: | Portland |
| County: | Multnomah |
| State: | Oregon |
| Boxes: | 1 |
| Planted by: | Soggy Biscuits II  |
|---|---|
| Found by: | Bookworm (WA) |
| Last found: | Nov 3, 2007 |
| Status: | FFaFFFa |
| Last edited: | Apr 15, 2005 |
This letterbox is still active, but very difficult to find. It was confirmed as still active as of August 2013.
Thanks,
Soggy Biscuits
*** Punch The One Eyed Clown ***
Old town...
It reeks of stale urine and the day old rotting dreams sold by the crackhounds and pushers that haunt it's doomed colorless streets.
It's no place for a clown.
I live here, ekeing out my wage protecting these poor carnies from the thugs and the cops, and doing what I can to keep the ledger balanced.
I watch them, the burnouts and hustlers, as likely as not to have rubber noses and squirting flowers in the pockets of their tattered and slop soaked clothing. They hang in doorways sucking nitrous from seltzer bottles and making obscene balloon animals for spare change, Or maybe getting rolled by some junkie for their enormous novelty shoes. It's a hard life and they need all the help they can get. If I can afford to, I give it to em.
There's a fountain down here, under a bridge where the wealthy and unpainted come to shop for hippie knickknacks and worthless oddities on weekends and ignore the poverty and disease that surrounds them. 3 blocks or so to the northwest the 2 giants sit in eternal contemplation of the squalor they guard. This is where it all starts.
Through their gate I walk, past the bookstore named like youngest Brady girl, her life presumably having gone awry based on the kind of purient periodicals she hawks.
And though things taste good here, I stalk on, past the humorous entendre and, eventually, the mystical garden of gin-soaked sirens and the corner beyond.
I find myself wandering westward, drifting two block up before I hang a right, and amble down past the laugh factory.
Cross the street to the kennel, and on past a high end beanery. I roam round the bend, past a clock tower, to an ill-used street, sheltered from the rain. I'd keep on until I can see the big red P that marks the end of my town and the beginning of "the district", but My people aren't welcomed there, and I'd know I'd gone too far.
Instead I try to find some kind of sign to reassures me I still have the proper clearance to be here. And when I do, Nearby, to the right I've got a hole where I can press myself up in a shady place, hidden from the rain, out of plain view, surrounded by the pigeon crap and the grime and the cold dirty steel of my home.
Old town,
It bends a man to fit, drains him and sets his husk free to wander in it's endless watercolor rut.
No one ever gets out,
not all the way.
And, It's no place for a clown.
But it's my home.
I'm Punch, If you need me,
you know where to find me.
Thanks,
Soggy Biscuits
*** Punch The One Eyed Clown ***
Old town...
It reeks of stale urine and the day old rotting dreams sold by the crackhounds and pushers that haunt it's doomed colorless streets.
It's no place for a clown.
I live here, ekeing out my wage protecting these poor carnies from the thugs and the cops, and doing what I can to keep the ledger balanced.
I watch them, the burnouts and hustlers, as likely as not to have rubber noses and squirting flowers in the pockets of their tattered and slop soaked clothing. They hang in doorways sucking nitrous from seltzer bottles and making obscene balloon animals for spare change, Or maybe getting rolled by some junkie for their enormous novelty shoes. It's a hard life and they need all the help they can get. If I can afford to, I give it to em.
There's a fountain down here, under a bridge where the wealthy and unpainted come to shop for hippie knickknacks and worthless oddities on weekends and ignore the poverty and disease that surrounds them. 3 blocks or so to the northwest the 2 giants sit in eternal contemplation of the squalor they guard. This is where it all starts.
Through their gate I walk, past the bookstore named like youngest Brady girl, her life presumably having gone awry based on the kind of purient periodicals she hawks.
And though things taste good here, I stalk on, past the humorous entendre and, eventually, the mystical garden of gin-soaked sirens and the corner beyond.
I find myself wandering westward, drifting two block up before I hang a right, and amble down past the laugh factory.
Cross the street to the kennel, and on past a high end beanery. I roam round the bend, past a clock tower, to an ill-used street, sheltered from the rain. I'd keep on until I can see the big red P that marks the end of my town and the beginning of "the district", but My people aren't welcomed there, and I'd know I'd gone too far.
Instead I try to find some kind of sign to reassures me I still have the proper clearance to be here. And when I do, Nearby, to the right I've got a hole where I can press myself up in a shady place, hidden from the rain, out of plain view, surrounded by the pigeon crap and the grime and the cold dirty steel of my home.
Old town,
It bends a man to fit, drains him and sets his husk free to wander in it's endless watercolor rut.
No one ever gets out,
not all the way.
And, It's no place for a clown.
But it's my home.
I'm Punch, If you need me,
you know where to find me.