The American Virgin

* Ask a Virgin * About Me * Poetry *  Virgin(s) *
Rekindling America & her spirit, her lust for sprawling adventure.

Chicago, Illinois

Chicago, Illinois

Chicago, Illinois

Chicago, Illinois

Wicker Park, Chicago, Illinois

Wicker Park, Chicago, Illinois


I haven’t left the sprawl in ten months. I haven’t seen an unpaved field or a row of trees more than two deep or a view that isn’t obscured by monolithic steal towers, trains, ash. While on the surface the city lights shine, I know they’re nothing more than a neatly orchestrated display to honor order, assimilation, to honor the collective.

September, 29th 2014 @ 12:18 / Permalink


november bells ring high

as hell

within the hot head hottie chapels

of the west

as sun drenched windows

fool our bodies

and the maple leaves crumble

to dust.

i remember a time—i remember here

with ice road skating

and hands held, dating,

but time has expired

and so has my milk,

so i reach for the bottle of bourbon

my grandparents dont know about.

taking a sip of that whiskey, i lay back

and bask in my tasteful misery

for pain ain’t nothin

and culture ain’t nothin but

a drunken wry away

deep within my inebriated days.

so i look for my grandmother

who left me in my youth

and i curse out a smile.

—i dont cower from the truth—

so i put on a coat and a scarf of old

and venture out

(stumbling of course)

into the bone chilling wilderness

of this pitiful illinois.

September, 26th 2014 @ 14:53 / 1 / Permalink

This week has almost defeated me. I need to calm down, regroup, and get back out there, take what is mine.

September, 26th 2014 @ 00:11 / Permalink

country junk

we all rose and clapped

in some forgotten spirit, 


or atleast they tell us the very 

absence of forlorn unspoken pain,

the windowed reflection to

our backs, dissolving empires


built of steel & mortar plays in our mind

of urban fluff or misconceptived desires—


i lost sight of truth then; but if i now

have to say goodnight, farewell 


to my aviated past—in spite of everything

& the thunderclouds of georgetown 


bellowing out across the midwestern

fairgrounds—i’d rather, quite frankly,

drive on the highway for hours to dance

an electric jig of pulsating orgasm


—and with the belt and needle in my arm, 

slip away like the chirping cicada in fall.

September, 25th 2014 @ 23:43 / Permalink