Family Talk

Today came the e-mail that announces the details of our family's annual reunion. Each year, a family member picks a Sunday in June for a picnic. We arrive from all over the Midwest, Colorado, California, and elsewhere to our hometown in Central Illinois. The afternoon is spent catching up on each others' lives over fried chicken, potato salad, and (if we're feeling especially brave in a public park !) a couple bottles of beer.

The month of June is chosen in honor of Grandma Kelly - the family matriarch of our Irish clan who used to organize these get-togethers. The tradition began in the 1970's and some of my fondest childhood memories reside there. Those Sundays always began by accompanying Grandma Kelly to 7:30 A.M. Mass and heading straight to the park afterwards. There we would reserve half a dozen picnic tables under the elms and maples. Wide stretches of grass held ball diamonds and swingsets and the promise of day-long games of tag, frisbee, or water balloon fights. Those Sunday memories still bloom today when I pass a park full of kids - with grandparents gathered at picnic tables watching over their own families.

Today, e-mail is such a simple and cost-effective way to notify family members across the country about up-coming events. In days past, the best option was the telephone, but timing was a problem. With no answering machines, you had to catch the person at home. With so many people spread out across so many time-zones, this was a challenge. An e-mail works much better. If e-mails and answering machines disappeared tomorrow, then I'm afraid the old way would be even harder still. Today's schedules are more frantic than ever. Who in the hell would have the time and patience to make those calls ?

Besides someone like Grandma Kelly ?

Served

i was at the stove/potatoes onions and garlic dancing for me/and the radio was playing/my cat moved as he pleased/from the kitchen to the back stairs/he didn't fancy the menu that night/and it was a chance to jump bail/on the four walls/on the same old same old/so i stirred the veggies/and he prowled the back porch/three stairflights and one deadbolt/to contain him/the radio rang out the news/i snarled back and the radio continued/a touch more olive oil/and the mayor expressed disappointment/the markets were steady/yankees beat the sox/and the same old same old/when behind me he howled/i heard his cry and spun around/

i spun to the white-hot stab of guilt that ever made me allow him out/please god/please/and in an instant/i could exhale/

as he looked up through a half-inch thick cobweb/strung from one ear/over his nose/and into his whiskers/like a drunken matador/thank god

i swept them away/and he turned right back around/and returned to the ring

dumb fuck

with my potatoes and
radio dinner companion
i was.

anotherpoem

ANCIENT

there was a time

when swamps ruled

and mermaids traded in copper
the sun's advance

for tables under pinwheels

that perfect slice
of morning
when even the Incas gambled.

They Make 'Em Good In Gujirat

Today at the laundromat, I cut my thumb while loading the washer. Too fast, too clumsy, too much, too soon.

And not a damn band-aid in sight. I managed to finish without any bloodstains on my clothes and headed to the corner grocery store. There, the friendly neighborhood Indian store-owner not only sold me a reasonably-priced box of Chinese bandages, he even wrapped the band-aid on my thumb, itself. How cool is that ? Don't know what his name is, but I call him Gujirat - for the region of India that is his birthplace. And I wanted to say "Thank You" in Hindu/Urdu/WhatDo/Whatever.

FACTOID : Compassion is the number one export from the Indian state of Gujirat.

Tonight...

there was a too-beautiful view of the Wrigley building from the State Street bridge

there were too many Brads roaming River North hotspots

there were too many blank faces waiting for the bus

there were too many expensive cars cruising around Cabrini

there was too much hugging before slinking into limousines

there were too many shadows along the north branch

there was too much time between faces

there was music too good for the neighborhood

there were more vampires than nurses

there was a sky with no moon

there was not enough reason to kill myself.

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

GIN

spanish music
on the radio

a ceiling fan spins

one glass
one bottle
and a stainless-steel .38

the last ace in the deck

HIDEOUT

my apartment has strangled the sunlight

faint sirens and whistles
dance through the brick, copper, and glass
of the cityscape outside my window

the cat rests under the desk
with one eye open,
and watches

for dogs

for pigeon blood

for a train
to the country

and I keep pinning
ribbons of text
to my swollen heart

while August crashes
and dies on the roof

Advertising Hits New Low

SugarSkullParade
Here in Chicago, there is a new development in advertising that scared the shit out of me the first time I saw it. It is in a place you would never have suspected. (I'm sure the geniuses who dream up this type of stuff have a cool handle for it like, "gotcha" whatever, or "guerilla" whatever). It is in the subway system of our fair city, but not on the usual platform billboards, or in-train placards.

No, this motherfucker is projected on the darkened tunnel wall itself as the train is moving. Between the Clark/Lake stop and the Washington stop on the Blue Line.
Like a silent movie.
Ghost-like.
Flickering images.
Creepy.

The first time I noticed it, I thought there was a fire under the tracks. The damn thing begins with flashes of light (to get your attention of course). Then a series of images flashes along the wall outside of your train window and tells the dramatic story of how Hummers can drive across mountains and desert plateaus. How impressive. Thank God that 45-second ride from Clark/Lake to Washington has something to liven it up. I was so bored.

Upon a Midnight ! - Clear ?

SugarSkullParade
Well - here we are. An I'll be darned if I know.....

Another Dream

i am walking through a weird house/i am supposed to be inspecting it for a dinner party that night/strange hybrid of design/long dining tables,chandeliers,and silverware/away from the tables/along the walls/junky 1970's TV sets/patio furniture/out-of-order vending machines/after two rooms worth of this i slip out without anyone noticing/realize i have to cash a check/it is late at night/must visit currency exchange a mile away/walk through unknown but harmless neighborhood/senior citizens and children everywhere but no adults/reach within 1/2 mile of currency exchange and begin running/effortless and smooth/athletic as i never was/people admire from passing cars/i reach store,go in,cash check/on the way out an employee mumbles something/i turn to ask what it was/another employee tells me "he said boy, that hottie can run"!/i leave saying nothing/arrive at swimming pool and meet my two nephews/we swim and play checkers at the edge of the pool/

The Pointless Adventures Of Mr. Head-In-A-Bong

I have decided to start a new series of occasional posts that will highlight the brain-damaged mis-adventures of people who make "bad choices" (often known as "fun choices"). The prime mover in these situations is usually an intoxicant of some variety, and the results are usually harmless. Sometimes embarassing. Often instructional.

I will begin with a tale as told by my friend Todd, many years ago. He had just turned legal drinking age and was eager to impress a member of the opposite sex at a downtown nightclub. After some witty conversation and a few turns on the dance floor, it was time to do the manly thing and buy a round for himself and his lady companion. It sounds so simple and oh-so-quaint, doesn't it? Like a folk song. Or a black-and-white movie. Or a shrieking epileptic on a meth binge. Yeah, maybe that last part.

So, I will break it down into 7 easy steps - the way to impress the hot ladies downtown....

1) Spill a girl's drink
2) Promise her another one
3) Forget the name of the drink when you reach the bar
4) Make your best guess
5) Discover you don't have enough money to pay for it
6) Borrow money from a semi-stranger
7) Return with drink and be informed that it is NOT what she ordered

Oh yes. If it was good enough in 1982, it's good enough today. Go get 'em tiger......

A Head Full Of Sick

Tonight I came to the end - to at least the end of the worst part of what should end soon. Is that clear enough for you? Me neither.

For the last 5 to 6 days I have been skimming pools of phlegm in a magic cough syrup-powered rocket boat. My first mate has been Lady Honeytea, but her charms are not enough. Additional help from the ibuprofen armada and kleenex patrol have been required. Our journey has been a rough one, but is now nearing its end.

May those who pass this way after us be strong. Strong as a Russian female weight-lifter. Strong as a week-long unwashed armpit. Or - even, God forbid - strong as the effort required to refrain from puking at the stench of a week-long unwashed armpit from a Russian female weightlifter.

(Special thanks to my friend clang for the malodorous metaphors.)
www.clangster.com

6 Weeks of Bullshit

Haven't posted in about 6 weeks. Been working my ass off and barely keeping up with the bills....yeah, what's new?

What's new you ask? Paul Westerberg is a drunken asshole. One of my favorite songwriters ever has relapsed and decided to drag down his band/audience,etc...along with him. Fuck him. I want my $36.00 ticket refunded. And I want Paul admitted to re-hab with Ticketmaster footing the bill. Fuck them too.

Love and sunshine everybody......