New York vs. Chicago

OK - the law is on the side of New York-based Federated Department Stores, the new owners of Marshall Field's store. They have every right to issue cease-and-desist orders to a local deli for selling a sandwich called "The Marshall Field." Fine.

If it's copyrighted/trademarked, it's your property. You don't have to share.

That's why I think the deli owner should stop selling that sandwich as "The Marshall Field". Instead, the name should be abbreviated. With initials.

Call it "The M. F. "

Let New York interpret that any way they want.

Chicago Poetry Fest 2006

This Sunday, August 27th, I will have the pleasure of reading at this year's Chicago Poetry Fest. There will be great mix of known and unknown (like me!) poets reading their work outdoors at Giddings Plaza in Lincoln Square on Chicago's Northwest side.
We each have seven minutes to read our best stuff and impress the crowd with our fabulous-ness. I'm just hoping for a microphone that doesn't squeal with feedback.

Here is the poem I submitted to the editor C. J. Laity of www.chicagopoetry.com which earned me a slot at the fest.

TWO-WAY STOP

i love to kiss her

my lesbian friend
when saying hello
or goodbye

i never go for the lips
or even the cheek
i dive

for the base of the neck
where that collarbone
scoops out
a lovely depression

where the heart lung and nerve
trade pulses
like the smoothest freeway
exchange you ever saw
and my mouth
searches

for that cellular dividing line
that changes traffic forever

turning her one way and me another

and i wonder where it is
where that answer is buried

in science
in childhood
or under my kiss
beneath her lovely depression

but that doesn't matter

doesn't matter at all
and neither do I.

Thank God/Buddha/Joni Mitchell For Fire-Retardant Carpeting

20 minutes ago I walked into my apartment and panicked.

No air-conditioning. In this weather. No sound of an air-conditioner. In this heat. Hot enough inside to tell me that the freon had probably run out again. There goes 75 bucks, I thought. Nothin that bad except the money. And then I stepped into the room where the AC was and turned on the light. What I saw scared the spit out of me.

A six-inch section of the extension cord was coal-black. And so was approximately 12-18 inches of my bedroom carpeting. Scorched (but not smoking). But here's the best part- MY CAT DID NOT DIE IN A FIRE. So I've got that to be grateful for.

And the flame-retardant carpeting was key. 50 years ago, my cat would have been dead and this apartment - with its guitars and poems and songs and letters - might have made the sad "Weather Round-Up" fatalities report on Channel 9.

(gettin up early to buy new extension cord and carpet de-odorizer).

Thank God/Buddha/Joni Mitchell - The Holy Trinity

A Quick Test of Verbal Skills

Try this : Describe the difference between a tank-top and a sleeveless T-shirt without using your hands. Be precise. Simply describe each type of shirt. Words only. No gestures.

Good luck and try not to sound like an idiot.

Chris n' Cats

Everyone should check out Chris' Blog.

I Will Say It One More Time....

Every single person in the Unites States should read this.

A Poem

THEY KILL ME

what is it with green eyes.

is it because they usually
look blue at first glance
and when you realize that
holy fuck
those are not blue
they're actually green
and not a milky hazel
or a fiery hazel
or a set of colored lenses
from the trendy eye boutique
where the shallow and wealthy
collide in one big urban disaster
or a trick of the light
(or a dimming of yours)
but honest-to-God green
like the shade of backyard maples
in 1972 or the color of
your first bicycle

yes that green

what is it with green eyes.

Let Me Share Two Quotes Completely Out Of Context

1) "I'm tired of talking about my breasts, so I'm picking up my accordian and going home".

2) "You might think that the three of us times 10,000 makes a great neighborhood, but No - we need hookers and crackheads and stuff to keep from boring each other to death".

God bless my friends.

Gig Tonight

Yeah this is stupid to post at this late hour, but there is a gig tonight at Hotti Biscotti, 3545 W. Fullerton, Chicago IL featuring myself and another poster to this blog, Julie. We will entertain you. You will have fun. You have no choice. It begins in two hours. Be there.

( HB is a place where all the cool cats hang, like the one in the picture. )

Mark Cordell !

I have been meaning to post a thank you since Memorial Day. On that holiday weekend, the weather here in Chicago was brutally hot and humid with the kind of air that seals your skin like blacktop. Temperatures made a one day jump from the mid-60's to the upper 90's. And picnics, cookouts, and outdoor gatherings all around were affected. Suddenly, smoky grills and BBQ pits were to be avoided like wind sprints in August from your football coach. Sweaty, dirty , and dangerous work that only the truly dedicated should undertake.

And on that day, I was due to attend a backyard cookout with friends and family. Trouble was, I had no sleeveless t-shirts in my wardrobe. As I have said, this was a day unsuited for mere short-sleeve t-shirts. It required NO SLEEVES AT ALL. If I were in better shape physically, I would have gone shirtless. But, alas, I no longer have the flat stomach I had at age 22. So it was time for a sleeveless solution - And where to get it ? The local re-sale shop, of course. My favorite re-sale shop has been the source of many a 3 or 4 dollar wardrobe treasure, and this time it came through again.

I found two perfectly good Fruit-Of-The-Loom sleeveless t-shirts, one yellow and one light-blue. My size exactly and no defects whatsoever. However there was one detail I had to inspect : there was some writing above the tag. It was in black felt-tipped marker. And the writing said "Mark Cordell ! " That's right. Mr. Cordell not only had to mark his shirt with his name, he had to add an exclamation point. Dammit ! These were HIS SHIRTS. And you had better KNOW IT ! . I wonder what had happened to him in whatever locker room in the past that made him take a stand.
Stolen clothing obviously, and maybe a confrontation with someone. (Somebody shirtless and threatening ? ) Who knows.

I paid a total of $4.34 for the two shirts and they will serve me well for the rest of the summer. Quality cotton. Good stitching and still-bright colors. And the black felt-tipped marker which reminds me that once upon a time, Mark Cordell(!) valued these shirts so much that he personally autographed them.

I am lucky and I know who to thank.

Happy Memorial Day

The closest I ever came to being in the Army was the Cub scouts. History chose to make me a stateside hero, earning my ribbons in peacetime. In the midwest.

In fourth grade.

It's the least I can do to pass on my uniform to my oldest nephew.Happy Holidays America.

The Sweet Tones Of Mother's Day

Today is Mother's Day and I thought I would share a story with those of you who, like me, have slightly odd tastes and, perhaps, a bit of the voyeur inside them. This goes back about ten years, when I was placing a call to my mother on that most important tele-communications day of all, Mother's Day. It was early evening - perhaps 5:00 or 6:00 Central Time U.S. - and I had picked up my cordless phone to place my call. My normal habit was (and still is) to pick up the handset, click the TALK button, bring it to my ear quickly to check for a dial tone, and then start dialing. Logical enough. I think 99% of the popualtion does it this way. (The remaining 1% have lost their phone priveleges.)

However, on this particular occasion I apparently picked up the handset, clicked the TALK button, and dialed "1", and then brought it to my ear. And what I heard was one of the most oddly beautiful pieces of music I've ever encountered. Over the phone, anyway.

I heard a calliope of beeps and tones coming from other callers, who were at that same moment dialing their own mothers. They were out there in tele-space somewhere - all over the country - seperated from their mothers by geography, but not by modern communication. The calls were singing out. Some tones were strong and clear, as if the caller were on the same line. Most of them were in the audible mid-range, where I could discern the pitch and duration of the "note" being sounded. It was a constant swirl, like the revolving doors of a downtown skyscraper at noon on a Tuesday - the excited and hurried rush of individuals pushing their own path through a shared telephonic doorway. And there I was, right near it - but not a part of it. An invisible doorman.

The most intriguing tones of all were the faint ones. I listened intently for them. They were so fragile and rare that I imagined these calls to be the most important. Phone calls placed from the desert, a lonely motel, or a snowbound cabin. Last-minute phone calls. Change-of-heart phone calls. Phone calls on the night before surgery.

I went to the kitchen for a glass of wine, returned and sat down on the floor next to the phone stand. I stretched out my legs and the cat invited himself to stretch out over them. We relaxed there for about twenty minutes, listening to the distant music of telephonic exchanges. I thought I might actually overhear a conversation, but that never happened. I don't know a lot about telephones, but it was obvious that this was an extremely busy day on the routers(?) and that the overflow from the dialer pipeline(?) was spilling into my home reservoir(!). Whatever the technical reasons, it was a curious glitch that provided a few moments of imagination and wonder.

I drained the wine glass, clicked first the OFF button, then the TALK button, and proceeded to call Mom. It was now my turn to join in the song.

I Used To Think This Guy Was A Jerk - Now I Think He's My Hero

Just wanted to spread the word about a brave decision made by a local poetry publisher, here in Chicago. His name is C.J. Laity, and this week, he voluntarily underwent a procedure to have 60% of his liver removed and transplanted into someone with a fatal liver disease. (How has your week measured up? Yeah - me too.)

A few months ago, I decided he was a jerk. I had submitted some poems to him and I never heard back. Rejection I can handle - but being ignored ? How rude of him, I thought. Is he sending a message ? Is my work not even worthy of a response ? Well, of course, it turns out he has been busy with a lot more important stuff than poetry submissions. You can read all the details here but you must click "Operation Liver Of Life" on the home page, first.

He is far from a jerk. He is actually my new hero. And I think he will be yours , too.

Lost And Found

So, the title kind of describes my life the past few weeks.

Let's look at "Lost". Lost and nowhere to be found around this blog, lately, for one. I seem to have lost the time for a few different things. Pondering. Daydreaming. Creating. On some days, sleep seems to get lost. Yet, I have managed to keep my promise to myself about swimming at least 4 days a week (often 5). I guess it all comes from lost spare time. And how did that happen ?

Let's look at "Found". Found a new job location with new responsibilities and a new attitude. New co-workers and new bosses who actually appreciate me for the work I do. How about that !
What a find !

Its been a crazy couple weeks and will remain so for a couple more. No problem. The daydreams and ideas will return. My 50 to 55-hour work weeks will subside to a more manageable 36 to 40 and the muse shall make her return - bearing gifts, I hope.

Until then, may I share a poem that I wrote a while back, when I was pissed-off about the lobbyist scandal in Congress. There was one angle to the story that I took personally and it "got my Irish up", as my Grandma Kelly used to say. A new magazine called Cesium liked it well enough to publish, recently.
You can read it here.

So long from the Lost and Found Department.

Money or Historical Status - You Can't Have Both....

I just heard the basics of this story, but it appears that historic Soldier Field - home of the beloved Chicago Bears football team - has been stripped of it's historic landmark status. Why ? Because,a couple years ago,the owners decided to "upgrade" the stadium to such an extent that it now no longer resmbles the original early 20th century design that Chicagoans (and architecture buffs everywhere) have admired for generations. That's right. They "needed" luxury skyboxes and expanded seating and more amenities and more parking and more. more, more.....

Money, of course. Thats what it comes down to. Now, this is probably just a semantic difference to the bean-counters in charge of the team and its now-less-than-historic-home. They don't care. But this fan does. And I'm betting that others do too. Even non-sports fans are probably taking notice of another instance where commerce has steamrolled art.

If this has any ill-effects upon the ownership, or the city, I say GOOD. You made your choice. You went for the money. You got paid. You will continue to get paid.

Now, don't you dare come crying to the media about "unfair" treatment. Take your money and shut up.

Or better yet - Take your money and shore up the offensive line, please. That's the least you owe us fans who used to be proud of both our team AND our stadium.

Fuck You, Rumsfeld

I am so sick of this arrogant prick. Treats reporters like pests, acts like press conferences are a threat to "democracy", etc... This image was spray-painted on the sidewalk in front of our neighborhood polling place in November 2004. No one has bothered removing it. God Bless the Blue States !

From The State Street Bridge - Looking East....

Doctor's Orders

So, today I had a complete physical exam, and had to face a few facts. Pizza = EVIL. Exercise = MUST DO DAILY.

Plus a set of knee exercises to build quad muscle and lessen joint stress in my leg. And learn to also live with bursitis in the left hip. Good enough.

I am not getting any younger.

Towards cleaner living and clearer meaning.....

I REFUSE

I refuse to ever think about money more than is absolutely necessary. I'll pay the bills and have a little leftover for fun. That's all.

I refuse to start conversations at parties with work-related topics. Work pays the bills. That's all.

I refuse to watch "Judge So-and-So" shows and dysfunctional-people-get-laughed-at-by-the-audience type shows. I don't need a false sense of superiority over others.

I still refuse "smooth jazz"

I refuse to learn golf. That's it.

(And until I can think of some others...)

The Angel In The Wheelchair

First off - Yes - the title is reminiscent of a Charles Bukowski poem. Otherwise...

At the Post Office yesterday, I had to spend about 10 to 15 minutes at the window filling out paperwork. I had a package to send overseas to Australia and a there were a couple of legal hoops to jump through. I started to get annoyed at the clerk who had given me the wrong form to begin with but that was nothing compared to the self-loathing that kicked in when I started making errors myself and had to begin from scratch. TWICE. Bureaucracy is one thing but personal incompetence will eat you alive. Or at least me. I can imagine one day the coroner standing over my body, scratching his head and asking : "For cause of death, can I just put "Fatal Incompetence" ?

So there I was - trying to complete the paperwork without self-imploding when I heard the strangest music I have ever heard in my entire life. It came from a very frail and very elderly woman in a wheelchair. She was about 10 feet to my right - a thin African-American woman who appeared to be, perhaps 100 years old. No kidding. She was slumped in her wheelchair and leaning slightly to the left, like an ancient willow begging for sunlight. Her skin was veiny and creased - a map of southern history and forgotten Mississippi back roads. Country churches. Sundays. I was listening.

As her caretaker conducted her transaction at the window, the old woman's voice was rising and falling, in pursuit of a melody that only she knew. Her breath came in fragile draws and faint exhalations, gently pushing her song from verse to chorus. The lyrics didn't hold together very well because it was obvious she was deep in the shadows of Alzheimer's. Not bed-ridden yet or under doctor's orders, but unable to stay lucid or communicative, either. So she sang. Much of it was un-intelligible, although when she reached the chorus, she was dead-on. The line went : "Mama - Mama where are you now?/It's time for us to go home". It was amazing how, despite the confusion and strangeness brought on by Alzheimer's, she managed to wing it home and nest in that chorus every time.

At one point the background chatter dropped off as one by one we strained to hear the words she was singing. The clerk serving her care-attendant said sweetly, "Yes - You'll be going home soon. We're almost finished!" We listened and smiled. And then they turned toward the door.

I still hear that song "Mama - where are you now"
today

and remember my roots
on a weekday afternoon
at the post office.