Saturday, February 28, 2015

TWELVE NOON

Momentarily
disengaging
open business pages—


a baggy figure, coke bottle-
spectacled,
perching—vulturelike on his barstool

swivels—artfully 
to dribble 
slow and several

blots of yellow 
mustard—onto splayed
sandwich faces.

ARTLESS

Breathing in—the malodorous 
smell
of garbage;

breathing out—I then exude 
such shit

as would fertilize 
dozens 

of long-
fallow—or better yet

still
inconceivable—free community gardens.

Friday, February 27, 2015

WARGAMES

With
mellowing eyes,
two guys

in an idling gas truck
softly cram
plain hamburgers

from their
blue and white 
paper—the exact 

same colors comprising
the company's
logo—blissfully

blocking
the goddamn
crosswalk.

ROMAINE

Onward steels 
the matchless snail—wet ground-

coffee black
through the dark 
under-

belly of some disavowed dumpster—

steady,
silent,
stealthy—toward

and pitilessly—straight through
the heart of

his incognizant enemy.

Thursday, February 26, 2015

CREATURE

Hulking and ordinarily 
swaggering jocund—
a thick-

witted moose of an
oily black labrador
suddenly—

upon nosing 
the fresh- 
ly bloated brown back-alley

corpse I'd 
failed to notice—recoils

in a flash—momentarily
unsettled,
as to whether 

to double 
back and—subsequently lunge after
the poor vermin

out of blithe  
hunger
or compassion—

though certainly not 
for her lack—
of both.

WEATHER CHANNEL

Shabby 
little 
in-breath 
sitting—

stubborn small out-breath—light 
snow 

ongoing—out-
side

satellites!
fall in

silent—rings around the globe.

Wednesday, February 25, 2015

DAGWOOD

Ah—the very last second!
my absolute

most favorite 
second of all—because although
quick—

and 
cheap!

as 
the first second—
it's also 

just as tall—
if not 

probably—taller! 
than each

of the rest—
stacked together!

THE TRICK IS—

Simply 
to go on—and however flippantly

keep lifting 
all of your 
switches each morning—one by 

one—with only 
the shallowest
inclination toward gratitude—heedlessly entreating 
warm and 

buoyant light
fixtures—

to once again 
rush down—and capriciously 
laugh at

such dark 
and cold hardwood;

but also 
to do so gravely,
tenderly—
and with deep appreciation

for each switch's off position—not to mention
compassion

for the way—in which 
those floors
begin blushing.




Tuesday, February 24, 2015

IN THE LIBRARY

Unfathomably—the
loose assembled

figure of a man—
in line

right behind you
continues to snap—and to 

pop 
his drab gum wad—upraising

then—slamming
down every last 

DVD on the rack 
to pass time—relentlessly

budding new universes!

Monday, February 23, 2015

BARELY

Presently—
most-
present—mostly

to the feeling 
of just feeling perfect-
ly still,

small
and cold—here 

endures
a feeble pebble—in the raw wind of perpetual-

ly next-
morning's maelstrom;
unflinching
because—so trivially uncultivated,

with no knowledge—whatsoever
of any such 
part-
whole 
relations it's carving;

but instead—
oddly embodying 
the ineffectual poetry—that even

all hail
storms!—are simply 

one 
little 
stone

followed—not
conscientiously,

but consistently—
by another.

Sunday, February 22, 2015

MARCH

Forget light—
lord

almighty—just give me
a warm

and a fatter-
feeling

heart after February—and send me 
those

ripe avocado-

fingers back—
already.

Saturday, February 21, 2015

GHOST

Soft pedal 
on the piano—smearing

the unhurried arpeggios—
strange cloud formations 

half-
occluded—in the background

by alien tin 
can nine 
o'clock 
speakers; 

and so 
this must be—good Saturday 

morning again 
to your shadowy devotion 

which has finally
outlived—its own expectation.

Friday, February 20, 2015

BLUSHING—

Because—sometimes you can't hate
the way
your place

is so small
that there's no such thing—as
down the hall

and your shower towel
still smells like
the other—

night's salmon.

THE COMPOSER AT THE PIANO

Attack! 
and 

assail—then,

relax!
and avail

and 

repeat; 
'til—at last 

you end
up with—a whole damn
dalmatian 

plantation,
or something—

FACTOR

They say it ain't 
the cold—
but the 

wind!
that'll do you 
in—kind of 

like 
the way—it ain't 
the plain

facts—but probably 
more your
opinions.

RADIATION SONG

Each morning—into these poor 
but enormous moments
before 

and 
still fresh-
ly after—all language 

has been tenderly
humiliated by slumber—let me pour easy
as soft light

into every corner—
of the shabby 
room up above the one in which Kate
and Lucy lie sleeping;

content—to be there 
and know that

by looking upon each stick
of furniture— 
I alone 

am allowing 
things—to be what they are.
And that

is power 
enough—for right now

and heat
enough—for later.

Thursday, February 19, 2015

NOT EXPLICIT

Spotted—propped up
near the Milwaukee 
stop—the otherwise pretty
vague looking pregnant 

woman—peeling lemon
flavored double 
decker moon
pies—from their

secretive street lamp 
colored packaging—helping 
to pass the cold evening
like—nobody's business.

A TINGE OF EUPHORIA

Bravo, bravo! How 
bold! and intrepid! So 
brave! and even 

a little 
impetuous!—squawk clearly several

presumably anthro-
pomorphic and hulking—American 
bald eagle-sparrows

encouragingly—and directly

to our hero
and his arrow—

as they pierce through 
the fierce wind
and pass 
briskly together 

underneath the animals'
posh private hot
roost—up above 

the most
cartoony
back alley mosaics

of crazy swirling 
houndstooth-
gnarly brickwalls 

in all 
of wobbly westside Chicago—themselves the 
only things

in town—
so thick

as toseemingly 

not give a whip—
whether

or not—it's
thirty-below.

Wednesday, February 18, 2015

FROSTBITE IS THE PALEST VAMPIRE

Dark times!—when you find yourself 
feeling pressured 
to admit

feeling somewhat
turned on 
by—the abysmal 

way the bitter cold 
is so good

at choking— 


every last ornery 

cloud from the sky 

and pounding
all these willful—piles of snow
down just a little.

ONESIE

In case it's hard to tell
on a bike—

with this pack
I'm a snail still—spineless,

furtive, frogspond 
black—but nevertheless

leaning—
heedlessly 

forward into the fat wind—for the sake 
of all

my little soft—
secrets that need protecting.

Tuesday, February 17, 2015

PORTALS

Few and very 
far between—are
the tiny white

bubbles—softly lathering
aquamarine 

stems in water—cut 
smart
and bound

so gently
close together,

and amplified— 
by light 
from behind—their curved glass

bottle—
at rest near 
the edge of the table—

that don't 
evoke 
specifically—both 

titanic—and
in equal measure—pathetic 
stillness

in the dilated
green eye—of their beholder.

HALFWAY ROUND

I'm 
beginning—at
last! to 
enjoy the subtle

way
my burgeoning
hunger feels—bolsters 
brightly 

to 
himself—the highly 
increasingly 
complex westerner.

Monday, February 16, 2015

REFINING THE SNOWPILES

Such an incredible mass
of shit 

heaped around here—lookit!
how goddamn 

near everything's in it—all
stuck

together messy—profanity
mucked-

up—with stains 
of what's 

pretty much
sacred already—such a perfect

shame! to start—wastefully
shoveling it all away.

TUITION

Slow and—deliberately 
invited to ignition 

inside—cupped pairs
of such 

clean and 
incredibly 
careful white hands—

endless roomfulls
of rows 
of tall skinny alabaster 

candles quickly wane—

after learning 
how—successfully 

to burn from both ends—

but not—necessarily
how 

to do it—
brightly!

Sunday, February 15, 2015

STEEPING INSTRUCTIONS—

While waitingthese 
are 
two ways I feel every morning—

neither 
pleasant nor—unpleasant 
in particular;

dry and a little 
desiccated,
but in no hurry to meet with
the plain 
banality of steam.

Then—always

at a pace—the two 
become mixed together, and
I taste the whole place—
the entire universe;

and my throat 
ripens—agreeable to the tang

and grateful—for the sting 
of hot brown water.

Saturday, February 14, 2015

BACON MEDITATION

Rambunctious, punctilious,
flying 
off the handle—

come Saturday morning—they'll all stand a little

transfixed—stainless, big 
doe-eyed, bare-
footed, bright, and single-

mindedly beholding—the flickering 

blue light;
warm,
present, and

alive—to the visceral sizzle 

and concentrated 
smell—invited by
such horrible, 

humble, and crucial pure animal 

fat—as it drools outward
from each 
and every little

peel—of the brave thing 

you're sacrificing—faith-
fully, mind-
fully, deft, sure, and vestment-

clad, 
as usual—there in your lovely 
wife's dead-

from-a-heart-
attack, wise, old, 
great grand-

daddy's favorite—cast iron pan.

Friday, February 13, 2015

RE-ENCOURAGEMENT OF TEN O'CLOCK

Under a kinder—or perhaps a more 
generous heaven

there should flow
a river
that's—appreciably wider;

in which
bright curvilinear and liquid letters—

whole hosts,
limpid, blue ink-
flecked and familial—could travel 

together—coiling, 
uncoiling
in their great silent rhythm—

unfettered
but intelligible—
towards a vast 

and a safe,
and a clear,

and a clean,
and a general—Ocean 

of blank paper—
spaciously,

if ambitiously
named—Comprehensibility.


Thursday, February 12, 2015

LOG CABIN OF THE FUTURE

Honest-
ly Abraham—I am
no hero;

this—is just how it all
works 
in the morning:

I twist a dial 
that lights the fire 
that mechanically requites
the warmth of my family;

followed—thickly
by a commonplace

trickle—
of exotic banana-
smell and a quick little

conviviality—actuated by love
to be sure,

but compartmentalized 
faithfully,
and lubed-

up justly
and liberally—with automatic easycream,

easysugar coffee—and, 
as long as we can 

spare it—
with a dash 

from that old 
box of yours 

called—malice 
toward none.

Wednesday, February 11, 2015

[REDACTED]

Poets are swell
and all—
but often

distracted,
and they're boring;

their poor heads
swarm

with admittedly sweet
and sonorous,
but very 

repetitive music;

and it usually 
makes them—very late
for work in the morning.

LIKE A FAIRY TALE

Especially in the midst 
of endless winter—

impressive!
how 

miraculously—red plums

all of them cunningly 
disguised—
as free

newspapers—
continue

relentlessly—
to glut these fucked sidewalks.

Tuesday, February 10, 2015

DON'T TRY THIS AT HOME

Cry of the 
true beggar—nearly drowned

out by the 
thundering Blue Line: Change 

the world—help
me out!

IN THE WHITE CITY—

Constantly cycling and deadlifting
pound after pound

of swollen shit—precariously
into tight

little 
brown bags—and keeping 

up with his half-
smile—in sheer defiance

of his old frozen-
solid right 

hip the entire time; goddamn
it! if this guy 

sure isn't—
your kind

of hero, fair-
ly stunned Chicago.

PRAYER FOR SOME OF HIS MORE HUNGOVER OPENING SHIFTS

Bob, by dear 
god—
may your mettle 

always remain thick—
with hot 
stable milk

tender
croissants, sturdy 
biscuits; and

always—if you wish it,
a few 

of those 
good Marlboro cigarettes first—quick 

as you like—but slow
as you're able.

TEMPLE WITH MORNING BELL

Felt-
for without looking—a

softly invited 
click—of the greenlit

switch on 
simple Mr. 
Coffee—proximately emancipating

aroma,
extraction,
flowing water;

then—
by and by,
any old inane conversation
around 

a shabby rectangular
table—
so long

as it's—new,
but plain-
ly familiar.

Monday, February 9, 2015

STOCK IN MCDONALD'S

These—flurries!
are 

making 
me—hungry.

MASTER AND DOG

As perfectly 
nondescript or 

peculiar
as ever—two smudges 

of undulating grey 
and brown—

one starry-minded, the other 
more
snow-regardant—

content
to keep—disappearing
reappearing, re-
disappearing, re-reappear-

ing—rather independently;

consistently diverging, each to expect 
and resolve
a whole new vast
host of momentary 

urges and motivations,
before—

silent,
soft, and
slowly
as the few flurries 

falling— 
rearriving 
neatly together—in their 
fully-

shared
willingness—to once again disembark.

Sunday, February 8, 2015

ANTIBODIES

There—in the very
last light

of the waining weekend—
old loaves 

of restaurant bread—
each of them

chunked and quite
green and 
blue mold-rifenow populating each

broad quiet
square of cold sidewalk—look perfect-
ly alright with—not 

to mention
well suited 

to—their 
vague cortege 
of attendant 

penicillin-
colored pigeons.

Saturday, February 7, 2015

MAN IN THE MIRROR

It's not every day—
we come

face-
to-face—with celebrity;

but that's because 
we so rarely
go 

out 
of our 
own way—to greet one.

CIRQUE

In a bin out back—stand long-
admired roses;

in each
crumpled 

swirl sitsfresh 
trash for that can.

Friday, February 6, 2015

OPPORTUNITY COST

Just think—somewhere 
or other

in your place, 
there's a mirror—

greensilver gilded—
otherwise austere,
grim, dustless—

that you
yourself—
when you first moved here

never
endeavored 
to hang there;

it just—clings 
where it clung before,
same 

as it ever was, and already
paid for.
But never once

have you hesitated
to allow it
to use you

routinely—prior to exhaling
out your 
door every morning—

to look itself squarely 
in the eye

and to think—
what the hell?

Thursday, February 5, 2015

RENTAL

It's official—the baddest 

bad wolf
in the universe—is positively

flogging
your poor old 

excuse for a door—
and you're 

panicked—until

you begin
to remember—the worse 

the wolf—the better
the dog.

SINGER/SONGWRITER

Hungry and 
mindless snow-

gray cloud cover—having been rather 
exactingly expunged

earlier this morning 
by a dazzling 
subzero sun,

his mind begins
to apprehend 
mildly—

a princely fat 
finch must be singing.

Ensconced—
somewhere habitual
out here amid the endless
winter quagmire—

praise hymns;
perhaps to the round glory 
of such a brightness 

that blazes
independent of its temperature,

or perhaps 
to the only thing—a few sweet twigs 
and their hard 

frozen berries—
all he needs, or has ever needed,
or will ever—

to feed
the bulk of his 
merry, non-particular genius.

Wednesday, February 4, 2015

DEAD RECKONING

Would you believe?—revulsion
is simply

the bluntest
of stones—I employ

to whet
and hone-
in on 

those brands I 
enjoy—

ORPHANS

Kate—you and I
could just as readily 
be a pair

of electrified 
firebirds—conspicuous
heroic

and ruby plume-
crested
as you like—but ordinarily never-

the-
less 
inclined 

to rushes
of quite simply
disappearing—quickly 

as cinders—
searing
through leaden winter air;

making our own heat
and light
as we spiral—keeping little

and never despairing
that there's 

not really—
any such 
thing as those animals.

Tuesday, February 3, 2015

IMPASSE

Column 
by 
column—down each 

of these—
new narrow
and fairly deep 

snow- 
interred corridors—the soft 
and the 

fair touch of 
grey light—eventually reigns,

mildly
but gravely—emancipating

the names—
Toyota 
Solara,

Pontiac 
Sunfire, 

et. cetera—as it parades
past,
without so much as

a dim shadow 
of irony.

Monday, February 2, 2015

VIEW FROM AN ELEVATED PLATFORM

No truth—simply 
amusement
waiting in the 

middle—for a ride;
as calm late 
afternoon's 

crest of such—matchless
wild cerulean 

brushes 
down
to gently tickle—

and tantalize
the blizzardwhite 

underbelly—of this 
supine
acquiescent city.