Chicago's winds were violent
that February day.
The air was unusually warm,
and the city once again bounced
up from its winter grave.
But all at once her winds blew fiercely,
Reminding us of
her wrath
and power.
Her thumb,
gargantuan and steam-punk,
art-deco,
futuristic,
craftsman and industrial,
pressing down on us as we happily
walked down her sidewalks,
and crossed her streets.
She smiled from way up there
and all around,
blowing her winds with extra tenacity,
forcing us
from our comfortable jaunt.

i'm excessive and irrational,
I don't think clearly, i might have no morals,
and i don't make wise choices.
i'm a bad person, really,
and I feel inferior to you.

but it's nothing that you do.

you're smart and decisive,
you have an artistic eye,
and so do i,
but you use it better.

i'm silly and sad,
your a firecracker of many colors.
i fizzle and you shine.
i write poems of self-deprication,
and you don't.

When she sat down,
I was afraid she was going to ask to pray for me.
“I saw you across the room,
and God just told me to come over here to pray for you,”
She would say,
with a smile,
Wearing Toms,
her big toe peeking through a worn-in hole,
all shiny and full of Jesus Christ.
You know how they are.
Let me tell you, when someone asks to pray for you,
it's literally the worst feeling in the world.
You feel like a useless piece of trash,
and of course you HAVE to oblige.

But instead she just introduced herself,
said that she had seen me around
the coffee shop she worked at,
and wanted to say hi.
Her name was Julia and she had strawberry blonde hair,
she was a senior bio major,
and when I told her I was a freshman,
I detected a subtle lift of surprise in her eyes.
She was from San Diego, which she said was her favorite city.
Talking about it, her face lit up and she was excited.
We have a mutual friend, as she pointed out as well.
But,
she said,
I'll let you get back to your work.
I asked for her name again, the first time she said it,
I was too worried about her offers of prayer,
Julia,
she said again,
but if you forget, you can always ask.

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A man,
reduced,
to a plaque
with gold lettering and
a smiling picture in the corner.
so nice and official.
so beautiful and honorable.
a man.
reduced.
to a room,
four walls,
in his name,
with carpet and
chairs,
and tables arranged
for meetings.
a flat screen tv,
framed pictures on
one of the four walls.
so nice,
so bright, so common,
so good.
a man,
fought in a war,
got blown up,
gets a room in his name
and his face on a plaque.
so beautiful,
so good, and right and true.
and so forever too.

at times,
when after showers, as I sit at
       my desk,
I feel so naked and vulnerable.
And the door to the hall is open,
and I am terrified.

privilege vs. struggle

open vs. close

culture vs. degradation

comfort vs. hyper-awareness

dark vs. light

simple vs. complex

knowledge vs. awkwardness

money vs. wonder

society vs. truth