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.
november bells ring high
within the hot head hottie chapels
of the west
as sun drenched windows
fool our bodies
and the maple leaves crumble
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.
This week has almost defeated me. I need to calm down, regroup, and get back out there, take what is mine.
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.