Wednesday, September 17, 2008

"Rare please..."

A suitcase of things we left behind
sent one way then another
in dustbowls and through dusty plains
an through the red square I was trying to hide
or, at least it was on my mind
when i paid you a visit and I wasn't present-
a present with guidelines; like being invited to dinner,
while your host makes your order,
you invite another guest to join.
and you wonder at juicy steak tartare,
center as cold as shoulders,
how much it has left to bleed.

Send the Dead to Neighborhoods they Hated

Or rather, Butchering a Sonnet Until it Resembles Shit

Waking up to sounds outside the apart-
ment: car horns, polish folk, one morning lark,
men rehabbing the outside of the old
hotel I live in, kids shivering cold,

black shoes mad at black top, bike spokes and cell-
phones. I hear the harbor waves moan, I smell
the park when the lake winds flutter southwest
critters move inside and become house pets.

Lincoln Park was once a cemetery.
Sat right on the outskirts of the city.
But we uprooted the bleached bones and took
them to a furnace. We turned them to soot.

"Live. Die slow," Chicago said quietly
"Your remains will not last a century."