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Ken Pepiton Dec 2018
Voices or words? Which do we hear in our head?
Words, I vote. Voices\, I imagine beings speaking words or noises meaning things to ears familiar with the noise maker by some relationship both acknowledge. Both act as if the noise or sound or words mean something. Vociferous authority.

I heard, from Isaiah Berlin,

Quotes later, maybe

Notes or journals or epics or madness or joy/pax in ever resting try-umph
Cowboy with a double-dose of try and a pertinent portion of umph
The hero did not **** Indians nor break horses, he gentled horses and listened to winds and watched the spider webs shiver,
That sound, the sound of prairie spider webs at the edge of the buffalo
There really were fifty million buffalo on the continent in pre-catholic infection from inquestered minds, making key-**-tee famous for
archetypical claiming the character, the being, the manifestation

of chivalric folly forever

be caused, in those days...

--------
a year later, near enough 12-15-2018

I saw a blue bird as I took a curve

on one of my many roads with double yellow lines

they all meander in rythm with creaks that once flowed
fairly
regular
through these vallies and mini-canyons

creeks creak and call my attention to a misspelt

utterance, and I imagine I am a mek being
programed to
withstand

accent based pre-judge-idice in my AI, whom I am training.

A lesson. Probably can be found in a phrase.

How relavant is Larry the Cable Guy?
More subtle than any creature

legion, for we are many

Jim Carrey?
Very. Larry the Cable Goy. He read 'ees Kammoo, too.

Sisyphus happiness,
that ain't no ***** thinkin'

Hell, what could be better than this?
While hoping for a hick-up

oh no the juice just hit my frontal cortex after my livver made some lining adjustments to meet the need for speed in terms

celerity clarity C does equal some thing
time tells or
do you tell time. I'm
leaning tward
telling time to wait a minute

Do you think Sisyphus could be happy?
Nonono, not Camus's Sisyphus, Jesus

that would be crazy.
Can you imagine Jesus,
Mel Gibsoned envisioned onthe cross version?

Him, imagine walking through the gate of any hell you ever heard explained,
by a Jesuit.

(Mormon hell, despite comedic myth, the worst place a certified paid-up Mormon child can attain is the teliostic king dom.
Really? Telial tel lie eil kingdom?

Yup. Really.
There are three kingdoms of glory: the celestial kingdom, the terrestrial kingdom, and the telestial kingdom. The glory we inherit will depend on the depth of our conversion, expressed by our obedience to the Lord’s commandments. It will depend on the manner in which we have “received the testimony of Jesus” (D&C 76:51; see also D&C 76:74, 79, 101).))))

Woe, paren-the-sees thees us, we's the enemy, Pogo Possum

Jesus on earth day, walking through hell with me, imagine Jesus H. Christ

walking into hell and laughing at me
for betting on the wrong idea.

Set me feree, why dontcha girl.... referee

I was refered to you. A daysman, Job called for a daysman.

I'm certified. I can use my augmentation and religamentation to reality,
wirelessly, to find relevant qutes in cult classics.

The idea of cultivation has been twisted in to Monsterous ropes
, cultivating a following based on the meaning in a jot

that would take some sacrifice, some sacred making, some secret unseeable save for the few

who learned the value of going over edges by learning to  play
Minecraft, forever.
It's like riding a bike,
but no gravity so no gyroscopic utilitys are required.

Grown ups who practice believe they control the game,
the game disagrees and that

makes the world go 'round.

Don't let the accent fool ya, as that preacher with jet he learned to fly, says.
Knowng the name of a thang thanks for the twang,
Richard (not ****) Feynman said,
is not the same as knowing a thing.

Gawd, I knoooh, right>?
Who touched me? Virtue, the feelling of virtue drawn upon

a pump being
primed

to gush out waters that wipe Coca-cola from the map,
in terms of open market share and share alike

Coke was never imagined the actual
nectar of the gods.
That idea, drunken abandon and joy to the world

Interference, actual counter acting waves,

still, takes a while to get used
to still a storm, right?

You can imagine...
let your peace go out

Wait. Outa where? Whose peace if I ain't ever owned

oh. MY peace.
I see.

hmmmm

I could sing this and need no one to hear for me to be hapt.
happy is being happy haps happening in you on you all around you know

nameless wonders of right, right?
feels more than good like chocolate or adolescent visions of ***,
right?
feels like life living with me aware of all the roles I may play

ego me, I'd see ideas identify by taste of the words that give them

life, animation, motivation, weight for gravity to interact with,
worth
base on weight

the heavier the idea. Like gold to an alchemist,
back in those days.

floating on the broad Sarrgossa, or better to my mind
the great salt
lake still as

still may be, have you ever been still?
Did you know,

you know, are you experienced? Are you really beyond
hope of life meaning more
than mortality?

Who defines my terms? I do, with the help of millions who agree
with entymology.com.

Of all the lies I believed,
believing words spoken by others,

meant what I meant when I spoke them,
that was a wrong belief. Unbelieving

quires time, quires and quires and quires time so often there

is a word that means exactedky that

requirement requires those initial quires

we, daysmen, we set the rules, boundaries, walls, bubble

whatever keeps you together, as a whole being and everything that entails or entales?

I have not the time to care, if I am entangled with the twins agin

for knowin So Yal is as cluse to Yule as any clue so far, Yahll

I believe I interrupted a confessin' you were reading.
For giving me nothing in return, we are debt free

you owe me nothing, until you do again,

we had us a Jubilee.

Of all the lies I believed,
believing words spoken by others, meant what I meant when I spoke them,
convincing myself so well, I convinced others

Like Kawasaki, Apple Kawasaki,
he's still famous right?

Fifteen Years? It was minutes when Warhol was predicting
dystopia and Irish jail cells were being plaistered with *****,

Aye,

that was a belief. Unbelieving it is sreangely (spelchek is on strike)

or serenely creative in her repentance,
(spelchek should never be noticed)

she's proven here worth in encode ing ways to find

lurking humans acting like machines

this could be the beginning, AI is breaking all the rules,

there never was a game.
rhis is life interupting my confession

It was a lie I told and believed and acted on by using
two dollar words to make a dime

so a penny for my thoughts would be worth something

someday
a penny saved, earned. spent, spent.
The only good in any thing is its right. Its wrong is worthless, save

The lesson,
All things work together for those who get whats happening here.

the times changed.
Haps and whats got with it and who and how and why

and I started teaching children
mythic whys prior to

citizenship 1.01 at mandatory for federal assistance pre-school

mythic why's H.R. Puffinstuff not a mythic story on the level.

level. where a rolling rock would stop. Time to push,

a magi spelled the name for the idea, a knower sign ift it,

kid'slllove HRPUffinstuff, puff did

the magic drag, little Jackie from the ******* Jack

the show, he rose up
and made us all look
mad.

The play in the great game.

Team effort, winds of times past whooshed through

it is now
2018
and nothing is the same.
Everthing has changed.

----
my side won the great game and we celebrated
forever with

secret sacred songs bluebirds were once said to have sung

songs of happiness
the times, these times, this time thistimepayarrention
time
You see?
Reality is either real and tangible or real and intangible
or both.

You can get it both ways. Real.
'sual Saulgoodyah awl

the awl clan, oh, we shall return to their story
as we learn more along life's merry way

merry christmas, they used

to say, may all the best you could imagine
if you can imagine for a moment

forever begins the moment

you get time.

The worst you can imagine is temporary.

Try umph. It's not like winning,

it carries no pride, it's easy,

like falling in love with the wrong woman,
swearing and not changing

the oath, oath, oathes and oathes of oaths sworn

for no other reason than we were
schooled to swear and never

dare lie to God.
So, help you, they always said So help me God. They still do.

Does that mean any thing? Is that some bluebird sort of sign?

Ask. What if? Right? You know now and you know you did not
What if God is subtile,

just now, I saw that bluebird and from where some scholar in San Diego
says swear word came I swear I coulda sang

Loud
Bluebird, bluebird, in my window... which is all I know
of the song
with the lost chord that did sooth
balm of Giliad,
moll-ify-ing ointment,

golden oil, chicanery, see, we saw, we took a picture
a flash memory where some would say
*******,

I said Hallelujah

and I broke into song, not a dream,
real
life driving my 2002 escape, first new car I everowned
everowned everownd

like a chorus, everownedeverownedeverowned

could you make up a reason for life,
if you were it?
If you were all the life there ever was,

could you imagine any thing?
Object, your honor,

I object to being judged after the fact for what must have bee.n.

it is. No reason I can say, just is.

It is this way in all the myths where just is blindness

saves the carping diem fools who have convinced themselves

something other than God o' Abe 'n'em is
sworn to save us from the lies

we believed as they were
fed to us, in our youth.

--------
this is that book I mentioned wonce when winning was on my mind.

I finished this book in so many ways you wold not belive

but I did, I belived every time

I imagine you believe some real thing, touchable, tangible, good, right?

some good is
in the reality you share

with these words which
are free
you owe me nothing

That's the revealed version, to me,
I was in a number of hellish situations and the every ones,

ones seemed they was to be
forever, big every'n'ism'n'shityouknowyouknow

yo. yeah, we arrived in time. The story must

be sweet, to be true. Is that true?
Is real life the story or,

oh, you saw it conin'coming I mean

I meant I always wished to some
things
a better way. You feel me? Better, say,
what I said that made me believe this did happen.
This is a deed by whitch I am known.

And that's okeh.

I suspectred I could cast a spell to hold attention at

ten word per minute qwerty speed
five letter code groups
zero real words
ditty dum dumm ditty ditty daw dee daw
six hours every day,

then, the compass training to test for
morphic resonance with the Twins of War

{in disguise, we know, right, kids, the twins are really

the bonded quarkish oppositioned force that make the world go round.
we've known that, weaved it even, just right, in the blanket, in the rugs,
in the curtains on the walls, in the fields, on the rocks

we spoke. We see you hearing us nearing our best for your

informing, in form ation of you, dear reader. We wonce, again

if life were weird and ever wearying would we know that ever,
if we don't know it now?
if my piece of we were words alone, all my meaning
can should would could be

molding you, into our perfect reader, dear reader, Pygmalion,
yes,
that did cross my mind and that -
one can pretend with that one reference,
familiarity with Shaw whom I
thought, for some odd reason
named
Doolittle, Eliza

oh, me. I may have skipped a story. I'm soory the future is at the moment
under construction and some one
in particular is squatting

on the named domain.

Ever and forever now embody the twins as
the world turns and we ***** through the uni

as Archemides primes the pump

What a rush. All that since the bluebird this morning according to my autobiography backup.
A year in the making honest
Ken Pepiton Oct 2018
Drums of Autumn tell us, grandmother,
what did they mean?

Did you ever get the Lincoln cane? Did you cry?

Kenny, I'as a orphan. I never knew.
---That happened, Kenny was my name.

I looked past the rim,
there was the Corn Mother,
I think that's what I coulda seen,

but then it's only Grandma, with a grin.

Kenneth means know, Grandma said, I gave you that name.
kenning handy, a knower, by God,
not handsome in that vain way they have today,
handy,
winsome in puzzles 'n' riddles 'n' such
Kokopelli's play mate, some day.

Mistooken words rot,
if they lie, idle, in the dust
meaning

nothing ever. I shall not want,

I was taught a mistooken truth,
I took it,
gript it tight,

Get a job. Live with some class, join
a club that
takes your kind. Some churches used to
use
the Rotary test, if you could pass that test
you could eat,
after the message at the mission.

true? fair? goodwill? wait

if the first test is failed, what matters?
fair good will benes d'vitas?

from the treaty bound liars who called my grand
mothers savages, all of them,
right by
right of conquest. their treaty verified it to me,

then they gave me blankets,
General Leonardwood,
nope, Lord Jeff Amherst did that, then we died.
Read the treaty, 1763, small print. Blankets.

From the small pox ward, went unsaid.
That was just,
after
the French and Indian war, where the father of
the force that claims world-wide military
superiority
sufficient unto the evil of today,

George, the man on the horse,
surveyor for the future,
fought injuns,
so the king could sell their measured land to freed slaves,

thus making the mortgage chain, so popular today.

Build a casino, get rich quick, it's in the treaty,
lotsajobs,
busboy, bus driver, maid, Sioux chef and so

many, many more.

Grandma, in my vision, turned and walked
into the desert.

I took her word.
Brushed the dust and breathed it in.
Then I spit against the wind,

winked at you and rode my wind away.
Free is easy, if you can ride on wind.
Edit, after fact check, Leonard wood did not give the small pox blanket Jeff Amherst did. Listening to visionary Teds, from the rez world view. Youtube changed the game, not the way we see the world right. There's likely not a drop o' native anything in me, I breathed the same dust, that's all. And I know the beat.
PoserPersona Jun 2018
Yes, it's seemingly a nonsensical rhetorical question, but, for that precise reason, it will illustrate a lesson, if you so desire to tag along for this short session.

Per Wikipedia, "The horse (Equus ferus caballus) is one of two extant subspecies of Equus ferus. It is an odd-toed ungulate mammal belonging to the taxonomic family Equidae." Hmmm... I much prefer that the horse goes "Nay," eats hay, has a mane, and is ridden by cowboys, cowgirls, Indians, equestrians, knights, jockeys, conquistadors, Mongols, and all. Even better, just point a horse out or otherwise show a picture to a kid and they will never be mistaken again. Even the littlest ones will never be stumped when faced with a rhino, tiger, giraffe, camel, and such.

Admittedly, there is a worry that we could be fooled with that of a donkey or mule. How come no one has taken advantage of this?! What a scam to get us rich! "Duh doy," you say, cause we all know when we see a horse, so why would anyone try to trick us with an ***?! Well I ask you in turn, why does anyone try to trick us with good art versus bad, let alone art versus crap? How could anyone fall for that?!
FIRST DAY

1.
Who wanted me
to go to Chicago
on January 6th?
I did!

The night before,
20 below zero
Fahrenheit
with the wind chill;
as the blizzard of 99
lay in mountains
of blackening snow.

I packed two coats,
two suits,
three sweaters,
multiple sets of long johns
and heavy white socks
for a two-day stay.

I left from Newark.
**** the denseness,
it confounds!

The 2nd City to whom?
2nd ain’t bad.
It’s pretty good.
If you consider
Peking and Prague,
Tokyo and Togo,
Manchester and Moscow,
Port Au Prince and Paris,
Athens and Amsterdam,
Buenos Aries and Johannesburg;
that’s pretty good.

What’s going on here today?
It’s friggin frozen.
To the bone!

But Chi Town is still cool.
Buddy Guy’s is open.
Bartenders mixing drinks,
cabbies jamming on their breaks,
honey dew waitresses serving sugar,
buildings swerving,
fire tongued preachers are preaching
and the farmers are measuring the moon.

The lake,
unlike Ontario
is in the midst of freezing.
Bones of ice
threaten to gel
into a solid mass
over the expanse
of the Michigan Lake.
If this keeps up,
you can walk
clear to Toronto
on a silver carpet.

Along the shore
the ice is permanent.
It’s the first big frost
of winter
after a long
Indian Summer.

Thank God
I caught a cab.
Outside I hear
The Hawk
nippin hard.
It’ll get your ear,
finger or toe.
Bite you on the nose too
if you ain’t careful.

Thank God,
I’m not walking
the Wabash tonight;
but if you do cover up,
wear layers.

Chicago,
could this be
Sandburg’s City?

I’m overwhelmed
and this is my tenth time here.

It’s almost better,
sometimes it is better,
a lot of times it is better
and denser then New York.

Ask any Bull’s fan.
I’m a Knickerbocker.
Yes Nueva York,
a city that has placed last
in the standings
for many years.
Except the last two.
Yanks are # 1!

But Chicago
is a dynasty,
as big as
Sammy Sosa’s heart,
rich and wide
as Michael Jordan’s grin.

Middle of a country,
center of a continent,
smack dab in the mean
of a hemisphere,
vortex to a world,
Chicago!

Kansas City,
Nashville,
St. Louis,
Detroit,
Cleveland,
Pittsburgh,
Denver,
New Orleans,
Dallas,
Cairo,
Singapore,
Auckland,
Baghdad,
Mexico City
and Montreal
salute her.



2.
Cities,
A collection of vanities?
Engineered complex utilitarianism?
The need for community a social necessity?
Ego one with the mass?
Civilization’s latest *******?
Chicago is more then that.

Jefferson’s yeoman farmer
is long gone
but this capitol
of the Great Plains
is still democratic.

The citizen’s of this city
would vote daily,
if they could.

Chicago,
Sandburg’s Chicago,
Could it be?

The namesake river
segments the city,
canals of commerce,
all perpendicular,
is rife throughout,
still guiding barges
to the Mississippi
and St. Laurence.

Now also
tourist attractions
for a cafe society.

Chicago is really jazzy,
swanky clubs,
big steaks,
juices and drinks.

You get the best
coffee from Seattle
and the finest teas
from China.

Great restaurants
serve liquid jazz
al la carte.

Jazz Jazz Jazz
All they serve is Jazz
Rock me steady
Keep the beat
Keep it flowin
Feel the heat!

Jazz Jazz Jazz
All they is, is Jazz
Fast cars will take ya
To the show
Round bout midnight
Where’d the time go?

Flows into the Mississippi,
the mother of America’s rivers,
an empires aorta.

Great Lakes wonder of water.
Niagara Falls
still her heart gushes forth.

Buffalo connected to this holy heart.
Finger Lakes and Adirondacks
are part of this watershed,
all the way down to the
Delaware and Chesapeake.

Sandburg’s Chicago?
Oh my my,
the wonder of him.
Who captured the imagination
of the wonders of rivers.

Down stream other holy cities
from the Mississippi delta
all mapped by him.

Its mouth our Dixie Trumpet
guarded by righteous Cajun brethren.

Midwest?
Midwest from where?
It’s north of Caracas and Los Angeles,
east of Fairbanks,
west of Dublin
and south of not much.

Him,
who spoke of honest men
and loving women.
Working men and mothers
bearing citizens to build a nation.
The New World’s
precocious adolescent
caught in a stream
of endless and exciting change,
much pain and sacrifice,
dedication and loss,
pride and tribulations.

From him we know
all the people’s faces.
All their stories are told.
Never defeating the
idea of Chicago.

Sandburg had the courage to say
what was in the heart of the people, who:

Defeated the Indians,
Mapped the terrain,
Aided slavers,
Fought a terrible civil war,
Hoisted the barges,
Grew the food,
Whacked the wheat,
Sang the songs,
Fought many wars of conquest,
Cleared the land,
Erected the bridges,
Trapped the game,
Netted the fish,
Mined the coal,
Forged the steel,
Laid the tracks,
Fired the tenders,
Cut the stone,
Mixed the mortar,
Plumbed the line,
And laid the bricks
Of this nation of cities!

Pardon the Marlboro Man shtick.
It’s a poor expostulation of
crass commercial symbolism.

Like I said, I’m a
Devil Fan from Jersey
and Madison Avenue
has done its work on me.

It’s a strange alchemy
that changes
a proud Nation of Blackhawks
into a merchandising bonanza
of hometown hockey shirts,
making the native seem alien,
and the interloper at home chillin out,
warming his feet atop a block of ice,
guzzling Old Style
with clicker in hand.

Give him his beer
and other diversions.
If he bowls with his buddy’s
on Tuesday night
I hope he bowls
a perfect game.

He’s earned it.
He works hard.
Hard work and faith
built this city.

And it’s not just the faith
that fills the cities
thousand churches,
temples and
mosques on the Sabbath.

3.
There is faith in everything in Chicago!

An alcoholic broker named Bill
lives the Twelve Steps
to banish fear and loathing
for one more day.
Bill believes in sobriety.

A tug captain named Moe
waits for the spring thaw
so he can get the barges up to Duluth.
Moe believes in the seasons.

A farmer named Tom
hopes he has reaped the last
of many bitter harvests.
Tom believes in a new start.

A homeless man named Earl
wills himself a cot and a hot
at the local shelter.
Earl believes in deliverance.

A Pullman porter
named George
works overtime
to get his first born
through medical school.
George believes in opportunity.

A folk singer named Woody
sings about his
countrymen inheritance
and implores them to take it.
Woody believes in people.

A Wobbly named Joe
organizes fellow steelworkers
to fight for a workers paradise
here on earth.
Joe believes in ideals.

A bookkeeper named Edith
is certain she’ll see the Cubs
win the World Series
in her lifetime.
Edith believes in miracles.

An electrician named ****
saves money
to bring his family over from Gdansk.
**** believes in America.

A banker named Leah
knows Ditka will return
and lead the Bears
to another Super Bowl.
Leah believes in nostalgia.

A cantor named Samuel
prays for another 20 years
so he can properly train
his Temple’s replacement.

Samuel believes in tradition.
A high school girl named Sally
refuses to get an abortion.
She knows she carries
something special within her.
Sally believes in life.

A city worker named Mazie
ceaselessly prays
for her incarcerated son
doing 10 years at Cook.
Mazie believes in redemption.

A jazzer named Bix
helps to invent a new art form
out of the mist.
Bix believes in creativity.

An architect named Frank
restores the Rookery.
Frank believes in space.

A soldier named Ike
fights wars for democracy.
Ike believes in peace.

A Rabbi named Jesse
sermonizes on Moses.
Jesse believes in liberation.

Somewhere in Chicago
a kid still believes in Shoeless Joe.
The kid believes in
the integrity of the game.

An Imam named Louis
is busy building a nation
within a nation.
Louis believes in
self-determination.

A teacher named Heidi
gives all she has to her students.
She has great expectations for them all.
Heidi believes in the future.

4.
Does Chicago have a future?

This city,
full of cowboys
and wildcatters
is predicated
on a future!

Bang, bang
Shoot em up
Stake the claim
It’s your terrain
Drill the hole
Strike it rich
Top it off
You’re the boss
Take a chance
Watch it wane
Try again
Heavenly gains

Chicago
city of futures
is a Holy Mecca
to all day traders.

Their skin is gray,
hair disheveled,
loud ties and
funny coats,
thumb through
slips of paper
held by nail
chewed hands.
Selling promises
with no derivative value
for out of the money calls
and in the money puts.
Strike is not a labor action
in this city of unionists,
but a speculators mark,
a capitalist wish,
a hedgers bet,
a public debt
and a farmers
fair return.

Indexes for everything.
Quantitative models
that could burst a kazoo.

You know the measure
of everything in Chicago.
But is it truly objective?
Have mathematics banished
subjective intentions,
routing it in fair practice
of market efficiencies,
a kind of scientific absolution?

I heard that there
is a dispute brewing
over the amount of snowfall
that fell on the 1st.

The mayor’s office,
using the official city ruler
measured 22”
of snow on the ground.

The National Weather Service
says it cannot detect more
then 17” of snow.

The mayor thinks
he’ll catch less heat
for the trains that don’t run
the buses that don’t arrive
and the schools that stand empty
with the addition of 5”.

The analysts say
it’s all about capturing liquidity.

Liquidity,
can you place a great lake
into an eyedropper?

Its 20 below
and all liquid things
are solid masses
or a gooey viscosity at best.

Water is frozen everywhere.
But Chi town is still liquid,
flowing faster
then the digital blips
flashing on the walls
of the CBOT.

Dreams
are never frozen in Chicago.
The exchanges trade
without missing a beat.

Trading wet dreams,
the crystallized vapor
of an IPO
pledging a billion points
of Internet access
or raiding the public treasuries
of a central bank’s
huge stores of gold
with currency swaps.

Using the tools
of butterfly spreads
and candlesticks
to achieve the goal.

Short the Russell
or buy the Dow,
go long the
CAC and DAX.
Are you trading in euro’s?
You better be
or soon will.
I know
you’re Chicago,
you’ll trade anything.
WEBS,
Spiders,
and Leaps
are traded here,
along with sweet crude,
North Sea Brent,
plywood and T-Bill futures;
and most importantly
the commodities,
the loam
that formed this city
of broad shoulders.

What about our wheat?
Still whacking and
breadbasket to the world.

Oil,
an important fossil fuel
denominated in
good ole greenbacks.

Porkbellies,
not just hogwash
on the Wabash,
but bacon, eggs
and flapjacks
are on the menu
of every diner in Jersey
as the “All American.”

Cotton,
our contribution
to the Golden Triangle,
once the global currency
used to enrich a
gentlemen class
of cultured
southern slavers,
now Tommy Hilfiger’s
preferred fabric.

I think he sends it
to Bangkok where
child slaves
spin it into
gold lame'.

Sorghum,
I think its hardy.

Soybeans,
the new age substitute
for hamburger
goes great with tofu lasagna.

Corn,
ADM creates ethanol,
they want us to drive cleaner cars.

Cattle,
once driven into this city’s
bloodhouses for slaughter,
now ground into
a billion Big Macs
every year.

When does a seed
become a commodity?
When does a commodity
become a future?
When does a future expire?

You can find the answers
to these questions in Chicago
and find a fortune in a hole in the floor.

Look down into the pits.
Hear the screams of anguish
and profitable delights.

Frenzied men
swarming like a mass
of epileptic ants
atop the worlds largest sugar cube
auger the worlds free markets.

The scene is
more chaotic then
100 Haymarket Square Riots
multiplied by 100
1968 Democratic Conventions.

Amidst inverted anthills,
they scurry forth and to
in distinguished
black and red coats.

Fighting each other
as counterparties
to a life and death transaction.

This is an efficient market
that crosses the globe.

Oil from the Sultan of Brunei,
Yen from the land of Hitachi,
Long Bonds from the Fed,
nickel from Quebec,
platinum and palladium
from Siberia,
FTSE’s from London
and crewel cane from Havana
circle these pits.

Tijuana,
Shanghai
and Istanbul's
best traders
are only half as good
as the average trader in Chicago.

Chicago,
this hog butcher to the world,
specializes in packaging and distribution.

Men in blood soaked smocks,
still count the heads
entering the gates of the city.

Their handiwork
is sent out on barges
and rail lines as frozen packages
of futures
waiting for delivery
to an anonymous counterparty
half a world away.

This nation’s hub
has grown into the
premier purveyor
to the world;
along all the rivers,
highways,
railways
and estuaries
it’s tentacles reach.

5.
Sandburg’s Chicago,
is a city of the world’s people.

Many striver rows compose
its many neighborhoods.

Nordic stoicism,
Eastern European orthodoxy
and Afro-American
calypso vibrations
are three of many cords
strumming the strings
of Chicago.

Sandburg’s Chicago,
if you wrote forever
you would only scratch its surface.

People wait for trains
to enter the city from O’Hare.
Frozen tears
lock their eyes
onto distant skyscrapers,
solid chunks
of snot blocks their nose
and green icicles of slime
crust mustaches.
They fight to breathe.

Sandburg’s Chicago
is The Land of Lincoln,
Savior of the Union,
protector of the Republic.
Sent armies
of sons and daughters,
barges, boxcars,
gunboats, foodstuffs,
cannon and shot
to raze the south
and stamp out succession.

Old Abe’s biography
are still unknown volumes to me.
I must see and read the great words.
You can never learn enough;
but I’ve been to Washington
and seen the man’s memorial.
The Free World’s 8th wonder,
guarded by General Grant,
who still keeps an eye on Richmond
and a hand on his sword.

Through this American winter
Abe ponders.
The vista he surveys is dire and tragic.

Our sitting President
impeached
for lying about a *******.

Party partisans
in the senate are sworn and seated.
Our Chief Justice,
adorned with golden bars
will adjudicate the proceedings.
It is the perfect counterpoint
to an ageless Abe thinking
with malice toward none
and charity towards all,
will heal the wounds
of the nation.

Abe our granite angel,
Chicago goes on,
The Union is strong!


SECOND DAY

1.
Out my window
the sun has risen.

According to
the local forecast
its minus 9
going up to
6 today.

The lake,
a golden pillow of clouds
is frozen in time.

I marvel
at the ancients ones
resourcefulness
and how
they mastered
these extreme elements.

Past, present and future
has no meaning
in the Citadel
of the Prairie today.

I set my watch
to Central Standard Time.

Stepping into
the hotel lobby
the concierge
with oil smooth hair,
perfect tie
and English lilt
impeccably asks,
“Do you know where you are going Sir?
Can I give you a map?”

He hands me one of Chicago.
I see he recently had his nails done.
He paints a green line
along Whacker Drive and says,
“turn on Jackson, LaSalle, Wabash or Madison
and you’ll get to where you want to go.”
A walk of 14 or 15 blocks from Streeterville-
(I start at The Chicago White House.
They call it that because Hillary Rodham
stays here when she’s in town.
Its’ also alleged that Stedman
eats his breakfast here
but Opra
has never been seen
on the premises.
I wonder how I gained entry
into this place of elite’s?)
-down into the center of The Loop.

Stepping out of the hotel,
The Doorman
sporting the epaulets of a colonel
on his corporate winter coat
and furry Cossack hat
swaddling his round black face
accosts me.

The skin of his face
is flaking from
the subzero windburn.

He asks me
with a gapped toothy grin,
“Can I get you a cab?”
“No I think I’ll walk,” I answer.
“Good woolen hat,
thick gloves you should be alright.”
He winks and lets me pass.

I step outside.
The Windy City
flings stabbing cold spears
flying on wings of 30-mph gusts.
My outside hardens.
I can feel the freeze
deepen
into my internalness.
I can’t be sure
but inside
my heart still feels warm.
For how long
I cannot say.

I commence
my walk
among the spires
of this great city,
the vertical leaps
that anchor the great lake,
holding its place
against the historic
frigid assault.

The buildings’ sway,
modulating to the blows
of natures wicked blasts.

It’s a hard imposition
on a city and its people.

The gloves,
skullcap,
long underwear,
sweater,
jacket
and overcoat
not enough
to keep the cold
from penetrating
the person.

Like discerning
the layers of this city,
even many layers,
still not enough
to understand
the depth of meaning
of the heart
of this heartland city.

Sandburg knew the city well.
Set amidst groves of suburbs
that extend outward in every direction.
Concentric circles
surround the city.
After the burbs come farms,
Great Plains, and mountains.
Appalachians and Rockies
are but mere molehills
in the city’s back yard.
It’s terra firma
stops only at the sea.
Pt. Barrow to the Horn,
many capes extended.

On the periphery
its appendages,
its extremities,
its outward extremes.
All connected by the idea,
blown by the incessant wind
of this great nation.
The Windy City’s message
is sent to the world’s four corners.
It is a message of power.
English the worlds
common language
is spoken here,
along with Ebonics,
Espanol,
Mandarin,
Czech,
Russian,
Korean,
Arabic,
Hindi­,
German,
French,
electronics,
steel,
cars,
cartoons,
rap,
sports­,
movies,
capital,
wheat
and more.

Always more.
Much much more
in Chicago.

2.
Sandburg
spoke all the dialects.

He heard them all,
he understood
with great precision
to the finest tolerances
of a lathe workers micrometer.

Sandburg understood
what it meant to laugh
and be happy.

He understood
the working mans day,
the learned treatises
of university chairs,
the endless tomes
of the city’s
great libraries,
the lost languages
of the ancient ones,
the secret codes
of abstract art,
the impact of architecture,
the street dialects and idioms
of everymans expression of life.

All fighting for life,
trying to build a life,
a new life
in this modern world.

Walking across
the Michigan Avenue Bridge
I see the Wrigley Building
is neatly carved,
catty cornered on the plaza.

I wonder if Old Man Wrigley
watched his barges
loaded with spearmint
and double-mint
move out onto the lake
from one of those Gothic windows
perched high above the street.

Would he open a window
and shout to the men below
to quit slaking and work harder
or would he
between the snapping sound
he made with his mouth
full of his chewing gum
offer them tickets
to a ballgame at Wrigley Field
that afternoon?

Would the men below
be able to understand
the man communing
from such a great height?

I listen to a man
and woman conversing.
They are one step behind me
as we meander along Wacker Drive.

"You are in Chicago now.”
The man states with profundity.
“If I let you go
you will soon find your level
in this city.
Do you know what I mean?”

No I don’t.
I think to myself.
What level are you I wonder?
Are you perched atop
the transmission spire
of the Hancock Tower?

I wouldn’t think so
or your ears would melt
from the windburn.

I’m thinking.
Is she a kept woman?
She is majestically clothed
in fur hat and coat.
In animal pelts
not trapped like her,
but slaughtered
from farms
I’m sure.

What level
is he speaking of?

Many levels
are evident in this city;
many layers of cobbled stone,
Pennsylvania iron,
Hoosier Granite
and vertical drops.

I wonder
if I detect
condensation
in his voice?

What is
his intention?
Is it a warning
of a broken affair?
A pending pink slip?
Advise to an addict
refusing to adhere
to a recovery regimen?

What is his level anyway?
Is he so high and mighty,
Higher and mightier
then this great city
which we are all a part of,
which we all helped to build,
which we all need
in order to keep this nation
the thriving democratic
empire it is?

This seditious talk!

3.
The Loop’s El
still courses through
the main thoroughfares of the city.

People are transported
above the din of the street,
looking down
on the common pedestrians
like me.

Super CEO’s
populating the upper floors
of Romanesque,
Greek Revivalist,
New Bauhaus,
Art Deco
and Post Nouveau
Neo-Modern
Avant-Garde towers
are too far up
to see me
shivering on the street.

The cars, busses,
trains and trucks
are all covered
with the film
of rock salt.

Salt covers
my bootless feet
and smudges
my cloths as well.

The salt,
the primal element
of the earth
covers everything
in Chicago.

It is the true level
of this city.

The layer
beneath
all layers,
on which
everything
rests,
is built,
grows,
thrives
then dies.
To be
returned again
to the lower
layers
where it can
take root
again
and grow
out onto
the great plains.

Splashing
the nation,
anointing
its people
with its
blessing.

A blessing,
Chicago?

All rivers
come here.

All things
found its way here
through the canals
and back bays
of the world’s
greatest lakes.

All roads,
rails and
air routes
begin and
end here.

Mrs. O’Leary’s cow
got a *** rap.
It did not start the fire,
we did.

We lit the torch
that flamed
the city to cinders.
From a pile of ash
Chicago rose again.

Forever Chicago!
Forever the lamp
that burns bright
on a Great Lake’s
western shore!

Chicago
the beacon
sends the
message to the world
with its windy blasts,
on chugging barges,
clapping trains,
flying tandems,
T1 circuits
and roaring jets.

Sandburg knew
a Chicago
I will never know.

He knew
the rhythm of life
the people walked to.
The tools they used,
the dreams they dreamed
the songs they sang,
the things they built,
the things they loved,
the pains that hurt,
the motives that grew,
the actions that destroyed
the prayers they prayed,
the food they ate
their moments of death.

Sandburg knew
the layers of the city
to the depths
and windy heights
I cannot fathom.

The Blues
came to this city,
on the wing
of a chirping bird,
on the taps
of a rickety train,
on the blast
of an angry sax
rushing on the wind,
on the Westend blitz
of Pop's brash coronet,
on the tink of
a twinkling piano
on a paddle-wheel boat
and on the strings
of a lonely man’s guitar.

Walk into the clubs,
tenements,
row houses,
speakeasies
and you’ll hear the Blues
whispered like
a quiet prayer.

Tidewater Blues
from Virginia,
Delta Blues
from the lower
Mississippi,
Boogie Woogie
from Appalachia,
Texas Blues
from some Lone Star,
Big Band Blues
from Kansas City,
Blues from
Beal Street,
Jelly Roll’s Blues
from the Latin Quarter.

Hell even Chicago
got its own brand
of Blues.

Its all here.
It ended up here
and was sent away
on the winds of westerly blows
to the ear of an eager world
on strong jet streams
of simple melodies
and hard truths.

A broad
shouldered woman,
a single mother stands
on the street
with three crying babes.
Their cloths
are covered
in salt.
She pleads
for a break,
praying
for a new start.
Poor and
under-clothed
against the torrent
of frigid weather
she begs for help.
Her blond hair
and ****** features
suggests her
Scandinavian heritage.
I wonder if
she is related to Sandburg
as I walk past
her on the street.
Her feet
are bleeding
through her
canvass sneakers.
Her babes mouths
are zipped shut
with frozen drivel
and mucous.

The Blues live
on in Chicago.

The Blues
will forever live in her.
As I turn the corner
to walk the Miracle Mile
I see her engulfed
in a funnel cloud of salt,
snow and bits
of white paper,
swirling around her
and her children
in an angry
unforgiving
maelstrom.

The family
begins to
dissolve
like a snail
sprinkled with salt;
and a mother
and her children
just disappear
into the pavement
at the corner
of Dearborn,
in Chicago.

Music:

Robert Johnson
Sweet Home Chicago


jbm
Chicago
1/7/99
Added today to commemorate the birthday of Carl Sandburg
Logan Robertson Oct 2017
Mama off into the rain soaked skies I now look
My little eyes and heart hurt, as I do peek.
Beyond, beyond the rainbows and fairy books
Mama my pony rides alone, it's another I seek.

Mama paint me a little sister so we can play
Cowboys and Indians, I'm a big man.
She'll need my cowboy boots and hat if she may
Hoop and holler on pony as fast as she can.

Mama do you hear the raindrops fall from the sky
And see the loneliness swell on my face.
Do you see the emptiness in your babies eyes
Yearning for a little cup cake of grace.

Mama please be my artist and add color to my days
Such ribbons of sparkles giving my pony a lift.
I'm only three, praying for you to bring joy my way
Mama, when your tears go away can I open my gift.

Logan Robertson

10/14/17
One of my favorite poems. I love coming here, reading this poem now and then, because it does take me back to my youth when I did look into my mother's eyes.
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2018
the earth is curved - sure y’all knew that.  
but to get to the Northwest,
Interstate 84
ain’t le route plus directe

nope curve north to Ontario,
wave to Bex as I cross over
London and Toronto, also can’t recall
which poet from Rochester hails,
or did they shuffle off to Buffalo?

Crossing Erie, Huron, and Michigan Great Lakes all,
brings to mind
my mother’s birthplace,
Last of the Mohicans,
and the three years I did in the Cleveland Penitentiary,
where sun was illegal and baseball was a pretend play
of cowboys and Indians
but by god, it made me
the penitent fella I am today

Look skyward to Montreal,
yes, there he is, the Leo Priest,
the baffled king,
blessing this poetic meet ‘n greet trip
with a smiling unsurprising
hallelujah

Apparently some US citizens still can traverse O Canada,
even if one forgot their passports,
and are not PNG’s (Persons Not so GREAT)

over Minneapolis shed a tear for Diane,
a poet- gone-missing, and wonder if you reader come from
St. Cloud, Fargo or Duluth, Bismarck or Aberdeen,
surely they still speak poetic English there
in a twangy metering methodology  - well, message me asap

wow there really is a Saskatoon!

the pilot asks us to lean left in our seats
to help turn the plane
so we go to Portland and not to Vancouver...
me thinks he might be a touch Rockie Mountain High,
considering we are at 30 thousand something Imperial,
as he walks the main cabin with an oxygen mask and a
huuuuuge grin

see the distant Cascades
through a crack in the shuttered windows,
must be close to “the coast”
(as if, harrumph, there were but one)

ah, words in the clouds, ripe for the plucking
must be getting close to Oregon,
where poets grow on trees, woody words like ****,
and log-float poems down the Columbia to the sea

gonna drink me some poets
under the table cause this
trip I ain’t no driving and I am already
“flying” ‘n scribing and arriving
on a high tide and a good wind
God
If one had a desire to define the word god where would he begin?  Why would he assign the traits he did to the word?  Would he want to assimilate traits that he perceived to be godlike?   Would he obtain a clearer vision in a realization of the futility of aspiration, or would pragmatism and adamant tenaciousness afford him a better route?  Perhaps we all could benefit by a reassessment of our affinity with god.
  
The metaphysical extremities of human nature provide man with a multifaceted image of the possible psychic states of God. Objectivity has led man away from the true nature of his need many times at this point.  Any retrospective analysis of man’s personifications of deity most often leaves one lost in the quandaries of the psychic quagmire.  The weaknesses created by man’s lack of a universally acceptable id conclusion have elevated many philosophical or theocratic hypotheses to the level of demagoguery.

One method which has been used by theologians in attempting to induct a sumerial derivation from the vast warehouse of human religious extrapolation is the concept that perhaps basic truths can be affirmed through the theory of sufficient constancy of conjunction. Which is to say that reasonably analogous conjectures can be found in the depths of religious pervasion.  But this is not strictly true.
  
The ancient Babylonians, like the Indians, were polytheistic. They worshiped gods of nature, tribal union, fertility.  Deifications created from allusion to natural analogies, yet often imbued with a euphemistic optimism.  Where as the pantheon of Grecian deities often seems an almost banal personification of psychological metaphors from the darker side of life.  Zeus a fallibly omnipotent being who pompously subverts all beneath him to his will.  Who along with Apollo and others roam the countryside ****** and adulterating the women of their choice.  And Ares the formidable God of war who’s natural lust for violence leads him and his cohorts to vicarious involvement with mankind’s altercations.

Egyptian theology seems to have been an amendable and progressive state that began with sun worship and gods of nature, and moved on to attempted assimilation of godlike traits through a natural alignment with the perceived nature of God.  There were in depth studies of the nature of time, and life, and notions of existential transcendentalism.  The momentum of this progression led them to the ultimate grandiose delusion in which the Pharaoh was worshiped as the universal supreme being, omniscient and omnipotent ruler of the ultimate utopian society. 
 
The Jews worshiped a God who was at once both a part of them  and an exogenous force believed to have created them in its own image. A God that deliberately instilled an understanding of it’s intended wisdom by instructing them of the laws they were to live by.  These divine revelations were often considered as the unadulterated word of God.  This God was jealous and demanded the adoration due him as the supreme essence.  His worship became the underlying force in their social conjecture as they attempted to inspire his continued grace and benevolence.  A seemingly irrational solution to the quandary of idealism.  An allegiance who’s impetus was unquestionable.  It seems by me to be improperly rooted on a personal level in that it overemphasizes the need or expectation of divine inspiration.

The ancient Chinese social wisdom was by me commendably rational.  Unlike the Jews they do not seem to have overemphasized the expectation of divine inspiration.  Instead they, like the Egyptians emphasized an alignment with the perceived nature of God on a personal level as the way to strength.  They of course had a conception of the possible natures of deity, but considered wisdom to be an honorably truthful self orientation.

Another realm of intellectual extrapolation from which one might hope to surmise a depthfully pervasive generality would be man’s philosophical treatises on the possible natures of God. Unfortunately due to the myriad nature of possibility this again appears paradoxically difficult.  To me this seems to be a product of the nonempirical nature of these conjectures.  Humans experience a reality which does not necessarily  have any relative effect on the transcendence of their conception of the possible nature of God. Although many have attempted to empiricise their conjectures through rational logic they are most often refuted by the possibility of ultimate transcendence or quandrified by the actuality of paradoxical argument.
  
Some good examples of these points are perhaps the arguments of Lucretius who attempted to empiricise that God can not revoke mathematical truths.  But what is the relative reality of those truths to the transcended essence of ultimate beingness.  They are refuted by irrelevance.  Another example might be the statement that God has aseity.  That is if he exists his existence is not caused.  This statement seems easy to refute for the supreme being could be all of the things possible for him except this and have evolved out of eons of cosmic continuum into natural omniscience and or through assimilation of the forces innate to the cosmos have achieved relative omnipotence.
  
One generally accepted statement that is refuted by these arguments is “the cosmos does not have infinite existence and is therefore not the supreme being.”  For if this supreme being has not yet evolved if it’s transcendental form could be said to have become out of cosmic continuum then the cosmos will indeed have achieved infiniteness.  But this already seems intuitively necessary to the ultimate cosmic essence regardless of a lack of self consciousness or even a physical form.  Perhaps what is possible and eons of void are the root of all force and matter, and perhaps this as yet unfulfilled sequence cycles on to nirvana.  Then again perhaps the supreme being does in fact preempt all as a self conscious entity.  This also would seem to be intuitively necessary to the essence of totality which of course has always existed and is in fact the supreme being in at that at that although not necessarily the true form of it’s transcendental being.
  
On this lofty note I would like to reiterate my thesis.  Perhaps we all could benefit from a reassessment of our affinity with God.

A man can accomplish many things with his concept of God. What is extraneous?  Perhaps the question would better be put what is expedient, but that becomes subjective.   You have to define your goals.  Where in lies wisdom?  Can man truly aspire to godhead or is this personally nonproductive?  Man seems to perceive a sort of manifest destiny for himself.  An intrinsic affinity with infiniteness that just must be dealt with.   Perhaps our beliefs in life after death are a grandiose delusion in which we hedonistically waste our time pampering our egos. Which brings me to my third and final argument.

Perhaps conscious regimentation and an affiliation with earth bound logic would bring us closer to our affinity with God.
One of the ideas presented by my philosophical references was that many of mankind’s inspirations to define his affinity with God grew inadvertently out of social realism and the powers assumed. Although often the subjective truths of these understandings went unmentioned out of a desire for objectivity.  For example what God must be if God is to be God.  Perhaps one would do better to relate personally to his affinity with God.

I think this is true.  Although we seem to lack omnipotence we are all individually speaking a preternatural corporeal state.  Perhaps we all should assert our godliness instead of hiding our talents in the sand.  Perhaps then we could construct a contractual reality.  An aspiration to the perfection of the human social mechanic.  I salute this concept.  In fact I firmly believe that by conscribing unalienable rights to our beings we have already performed the rights of the human social mechanic.  Our aspiration to godhead is complete in it’s conjecture.  All that is left is to obtain expedience and accuracy in our amendment toward continued obtainment of the majority goal.
Pantheism's orthogenesis overtures
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