Monday, July 9, 2012

6 Year Marker

on rare days
in any weather
moments least guarded
eyes barely register
mind drifting
I see you on the street.

already  passed by
no looking back
pondering invisibility
did you notice?


Saturday, June 30, 2012

[1st found poem]


like wilderness without
concrete caging.
In a sense, you feel it
like a flu
under your skin
Even in winter 
it burns her path
thru the ice
and she is

Thru the golden
breakbeat sunset
between buildings
of december
I will find her
and rejoice

sunset & th train

I saw static waves of color explode from the setting sun,
bands of light flowing across the sky,
modular freqencies splash against shifting clouds
to move the light n' dark from where the trains go underground
to the weightless skyline,
pointing girded fingers towards the vast inverted ocean.

I am less than these colors,
I am awash in no glow
{tho my blue is deeper than the sky},
I extrovert a shade of brown
projected from my eyes n' hair.
I do not compare to this glorious wash of light.

Memory Well Met

She tucks her hair behind her ears,
and a ten-year body of softness
pulls at my every memory and muscle. Let this go.
She is timeless as the
line of buildings, as the lake
pounding rocks into pebbles,
a handful of sand thru my fingers,
the lingering sense of sangria
and cigarettes from long ago.
The sun pounds concrete & glass &
the people I pass on the street
seem black n' white,  or maybe
I stopped being sensitive to
hues of mood, substituting
reaction for compassion. Trying to
save it all up for her.

Everywhere I see women,
but none that I would treat better,
for a while, at least.
For the streets change fast like
Chicago seasons,
like weather or not you're
the air shifts and is gone.
Long, shadowed halls of the
intangible enveloping waves of steam of days
& the way I wanted things to be.
Traces of transcended flaws
of personality and her afterimage
outlined on the lids of my eyes.
I think about sleep,
and decide to write.

Thursday, June 28, 2012

A Day Made New

I feel the flush of desire
run red to my face
pupils relax & dilate, palms sweat.
Claustrophobic in my awkwardness
racing thoughts for conversation & 
can't or won't join in with 
cheap shots & drunk excuses.
I'm in for risk-taking n' chances,
I know you've got a man but
I don't think he dances. 
See, here I am stuck waiting
for girls my age to grow up;
I just want somebody 
I can talk to
for certain words fail me,
here I am standing & reading,
miles away from the point
around which my city
still revolves,
for with nightfall I dissolve
& spread into the dark that
holds the lake under
it's palm. The mist in the morning
re-births me, and I walk to 
work reassembled.

Untitled #4

I can see green thru

windows, from where I sit. 

My Chicago is a fickle femme,

ready to go out, then

changing her mind. Left, then,

with what I can find of the

sidewalks, I am

trapped between rivers.

I follow them home & rest.

Birds follow me, dogs accompany me,

lightening precedes me & my

footsteps are thunder.

One lonely three-millionth of the City.

Heat Death

is stealthy.


across the room,
I can feel it.

menacing energy
of truth,
in your face

it is the 
light she

defining by outline.

designed to  
my mind & 
how I spend 
my time. 

her heat is 
the kind that destroys
burns holes in you

every time

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

Ancient Herstory

Thru blood sunsets laid
on their backs, legs spread wide,
to the snapping sparks of the el train;
it speaks to me with her voice.

In the parade and phony pagentry of
Michigan Avenue, along the lakefront
in the public places;
it speaks with her voice.

The white-capped lake, wind whipped
trees & the endless debate of birds
& highschoolkids in the heat;
speak to me with her voice.

On this, the first bright day
this year, I am free
to agree that she adulted me.
We, as two, cocooned; & then a
longlovely metamorphosis,
into a mercifully gentle,
almost imperceptible decline.
It was long, it
lasted forever.
We, as two, emerged into winter anew;
changed & uncomfortable,
unrecognizable & alien, grew into
new skins,
new abilities.
I would not know her if I saw her.

Wednesday, April 18, 2012

The Chicago of Me

Flame-built n' cured
still smoking from celestial
atomic alignment;
poured thru layers of atmosphere
to here;
dragged clouds down with me
for my clothes, stained now
black with soot to match
my hair n' eyes. Earthly body
made manifest this way
skin kilned ceramic white
by the rubbing burn of air.
Pages n' pages left in my book
there is only friction n' gravity
to tug at clouds
while I pull n' work n' flame n' drift
all with equal purpose
n' justified ends.
That quiet voice that speaks to me
of the backs of buildings
tells me the stories
of the ones who leave running.
I stare at their backs, unconvinced.
I am not of the type to flee.
I am of the roots of the trees here
the bricks of houses are a trillion
metamorphed molecules of me.
I have no home,
but I contain multitudes.