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

enough

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.

Today
I would not know her if I saw her.

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.

Th' Fools Who Deconstruct

one real moment in time
passes every moment that
passes is handed to the that
that was, relieving the now
that is of the strain of being
for another moment.

if, in the moments after this,
there is only what we imagine
there to be, we will have lost.

the accumulation of meaning
like a wave, context building
structures that resemble faith.

an ornate cathedral in the
minds of us who build for tomorrow
so we won't be as lonely as today:

the one true religion.

I imagine no more epic

Uncurable pagentry.

I have seen eyes like crystal.

I see only strings of nows

Occuring in mad succession.

I still feel soft pillow-lips.

There is no time, but Future.

There is no we, but Us.

Our life moves across treetops

Like the wind.

Not a Recent Poem

written words are obsolete

before the pen hits the page

before the ink dries on the page,

like spoken words are lies

before the sound dies in the air.

a new white sheet of paper

with no ideas, recites to me all the words

that say nothing about my body

or my city, just forever shielding

lists of words describing trains.

empty metaphors are my motionless lips

and all these terms of

language are merely a motionless pen

poised to write, the choice of passing

the faulty abstraction for the apt.

some call this communication.

Strength

today I evaded rain.
riding underneath the running
clouds,
I imagined myself
on the prarie,
away from you fools
forever.

riding underneath the running
clouds,
I imbibed the wind.
feeling drunk from
the endless pushing momentum,
I swore at the city,
and laughed at my survival.

every minute i spend riding,
pulling weight against gravity,
powering against the elements,
missing her smell,
i become stronger.
i digest this life and shit memory.

Thax Douglas Longevity

there was a swift bladed touch of childmind bifurcated calm
there was an El Che sweatshirt hairstyle dirty from spilled coffee n' tired iron
you watched him take keys from his pocket and twirl them absently
you watched them talk for long minutes tho you couldn't hear you could imagine
there was a soft eternity eon before the light impression left your eyelids
and then it was hard to remember exactly what after all.