Hey...

I just composed and posted a poem in about 15 minutes.

Don't I qualify for a grant or something ?


ST. CHINASKI

find the narrow ladder
and climb up

just
climb
on
up

reach that platform
and breathe

breathe in
the ghosts

of calliopes
lions and
red balloons

one quick glance down
is all you're allowed
when
nothing
is there

so step off

the left foot is there
isn't it?
and
going
nowhere

now swing that right foot
thats it

now left

now right

left right left

the wire appears
and
the wire always provides

but you have
to find
that
ladder
first.

A Definition (for now)

SugarSkullParade

I started this thing with a vague idea in mind.

To connect.

As time has gone by - approaching a year now - I have shifted and squirmed about politics, culture, and the general state of the world. But I haven't connected with anyone, really. It turns out I don't have as much passion for screaming "FIRE" in the blessed theatre we call earth as I thought. So screw it.

I have a passion for art - music, poetry, and the elegant syntax with which artists string together life's verses and choruses. That's it. And that is enough.

The world is going to hell in a Wal-Mart shopping cart soon enough.

In the meantime, let's keep scribbling and typing, jotting down and scratching out, editing and perfecting the last days of our age. Art is all that matters.

And another drink wouldn't hurt, either. Join me, won't you ?

The Mssing Diary - Toward Aboard and Off The Bus

walking toward the bus stop/the Altgeld one with trees shading over brick and concrete pavement/bordered by black wrought iron/and on my way there i saw a man positively strolling/just enjoying the sunlight and October warmth/he held a glass of cola in his left hand/not a bottle/not a plastic bottle/not a platic cup/not a styrofoam cup/but a glass with ice cubes and everything/and why the hell not?


i see the bus/sitting at the stop sign/going nowhere/i step around to the door/and see a drunk/comfortable on the top step/bottle in bag/smile on his face/the driver just looks at me/so i say - there's another bus coming, right? - /before she can answer/the drunk yells - what the fuck do you want? - /without thinking i scream back - i aint talking to you! - /the driver says nothing and the drunk yells again - get out of here - /and i scream back - shut the fuck up! - /and you know what?/he shuts up/he shuts the fuck up


on the ride north to suburbia/a pair of mittens/left behind by a girl/in full I-pod armor/unaware of drunks and curses and stranded buses/are rescued by/an Eastern European man/he pantomimes to the driver/in bruised English/and the driver motions out his window/and the girl gets tapped on the shoulder/she smiles and comes back for the mittens/the Eastern European man smiles/to his fellow passenger/the driver winks in the rear-view mirror/and i concur

if not for poetry ?

The Mssing Diary

Couldn't fall asleep until 7 or 7:30 this morning/woke up at 11:00/thought it over and went back to sleep until 1:50 P.M./popped my meds/did i forget them yesterday?/i need to refill/showered/took the train downtown without my backpack/feeling naked/looking normal/picked up check/heard about power failures at work(2)/was relieved to know i'm on vacation until 11/1 and it doesn't concern me/cashed check/had lunch at Earwax (BBQ seitan burrito with chips and salsa and sour cream)/needed a Bukowski fix/went to Myopic books/picked up "What Matters Most Is How Well You Walk Through The Fire" because that title suited me today/now going to the Gallery open mic/hoping for two slots/one-music, one-poetry/if only one available i will choose poetry because the songbird in me has migrated for now/

AT THE BALLPARK

from the top row
of section 517

row 9
to be exact

you can see
past the bleachers
over the rooftops
east about half a mile
to the lake

a strip of deep blue
astonishing
and silent
as a bathtub full of paint

there are sailboats
and jet-skis
speedboats and water-skiers
gulls
swimmers
and divers

but not
a single sound
that reaches section 517

row 9
to be exact

NIGHT PASSAGE

riding the highway
at night
on a bus

half-a-dozen
of us travellers
scattered
in the forty-two seats

dozing
or chatting
maybe reading
or just staring
at the inside
of our own skulls

i like the distance
between the towns
stretches of field
and pasture
without light

only
the distant treeline
against
the faint sky

and once in a while
a tiny dot
or two
of warm yellow

from
the farmhouse windows

who have night passengers
of their own
to comfort