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Brighter than the blinding flares of the sun, shimmering outward with power of thousands of stars
yet comforting
yet soft.
Filled with oceans crashing and wild, turning over ships, rushing under a powerful storm.
yet still
yet calm.
Filled with wonder and curiosity, yearning for the unknown, desperate for enlightenment
yet wise
yet content.
Eyes so wide, so deep, filled with delicate roses, the power of mighty warriors, elegant as Venus's flowing dress, filled with souls of thousands, with passion, with yearning, with desire.
Filled with beauty
Filled with you.
Shiterary Jan 2016
The carpet's furry cilia project forming a large cellular complex. Sofa organelles. Ceiling above human nucleus. Ethers, up above -- extracellular wonder. Divine cold-phenomenological detached potentiating whisper, intangible -- I am interwoven into the consequential outward scalar spiral, as a minute hub of drug-mind preceptory delusion.
Deity manifesting focal-mind effervescence, as linguistic genomic utterance.
Truth shaped from an ethereal substrate. A sub-biotic universe of thought and collective influence scaffolded -- reaching beyond solitary-death.
Every word a divine-scriptural utterance.
anemo ne Jun 18
The first sign of a dream approaching is that when you’ve already awoken,
awoken to a strange place with no trace of how you could’ve gotten there.
And the unfamiliar faces near, with eyes similar to shaded shards,
you can’t help but notice the feelings emitted was somehow something you’ve come to known before,
but where?
A sign of discord covers the room,
all that was allowed is furthest from you,
a parched paper made from twill knows nothing but lead between  
you find a face emerging from it,
quickly drawn with detail,
there it stops from motion to undulating surpass,
away from a darkened room up in front of a morning taking.
This conjuring source flairs outward
rising through the outworn canvas
leading it to embers
dancing away along a fizzled plane
for what was despair described in its meaningful dereliction.
To what is empty from emotion is nonexistent,
I couldn’t find the reason to live on,
this dream has died as will I.. as will the will of this way this place carries over me.
Yes decay follows me,
unto everywhere will there be the silent breezes to carry me past the concrete terrain into nothingness.
I find myself to live this over,
until the advent of air drowns these lungs to know again,
to know exactly what it means to breathe again.
I see no reason for such things as unrealistic as they may seem likely for me to occur in this living.
Again I’m stuck in a room full of my owns thoughts,
such a dangerously sorrowful place to be.
‘For everything as it may have not been
weary am I for looking forward at
The things that never happened’

In its most rawest.

Snow, for me exemplifies a mute understanding from in juxtaposition with various types of sadnesses that branch off into disparately inclined yearnings, to nostalgic preferences, whether known or not. Why it happens is of course obvious but the way it affects you, makes one wonder, if at all— I think I’m trailing off my train of though here, I’m not sure where this is going..

This was inspired by a remarkable composer, as I recalled a dream before, along with the yearning of trying to expose my underlying expansion of myself with my current understanding of things. what it all could mean as much of his cello’s presence affected me during that process. I’m the gray area that needs deciphering.

the cello that wails the loudest, is one that suffers the most. Even so, every tone encapsulates the listener with resonance. And in that, it reaches its utmost vulnerability, showing the many hues imbedded in an infinite sadness, in an astronomical way, a type of exquisite somber, that resides in the instrument’s hollowness until implementation of procedure.
Alex McQuate May 13
Great tragedy suffered,
Impossible circumstances conquered,
The warrior walks upon the field flanked path.

The wanderer's armor tells a tale,
Battle scarred and partially rent asunder,
A face of stoicism that hides the haggardness underneath,
Peeking out beneath the mask of a hardened soldier.

The clouds clap ahead, preceded by flashes of light brightly illuminating the world,
Accompanied shortly after by the rainfall.

A trickle becomes a downpour,
The battered individual trudging along as the road becomes a bog of mud and slop,
The message firmly planted within their mind.

Coming upon the dark outline of the castle ahead the warrior picks up pace,
Reflecting upon what would happen to those that the Warrior helped.

The pace is now fueled by a different kind of urgency.

The rain is cold upon the faces of those that it falls on,
The torn edges of metal digging in at places,
Some already wounded and tender,
As the final hilltop between them is crested.

The gates are closed,
And this loyal soldier is for the moment shut out,
A fist is raised,
The declaration of allegience given,
An angry detailing of the warriors achievements and adventures shouted,
And a challenge of one's path,
Building in anger and fury as the dam finally breaks and gushes forth,
Threatening to shatter the gate and doors to splinters and twisted metal.

A long ago promised gift to be rewarded,
For all the things endured,
Things that could be considered so cruel,
The storm picks up in force until it's akin to that of a hurricane,
As if brought forth by the warrior's grief and pain finally being released,
For the first and only time.

These things ringing out dispite the storms roaring wind,
Gathering force,
Perhaps in affirmation of the warriors words.

After a pause the gate begins to lift,
It's metal screeching,
The doors groaning as they begin to swing outward, and the embattered soldier is bathed in light,
Taking the weight from the warrior's shoulders,
As the threshold is finally crossed.
mariano aponte Jan 2016
Misconceptions and fasely smiles
On the surface - analyzed  
Could it be my OCDish
Would they agree or disagree
Respectfully  - with no referee
Matter - it doesn't
I'm carefree
Let it be
It’s the best defense
Not a draftee
A perfectionist, I am
It stems from many forces
My moral sense at any expense
Not remorses
Sweet jabs and hostile perceptions
From the start
From day one
Like Mr. Shukar - they see
I'm the new prospect
My disposition in scrutiny
Outward displays of anxiety
A distorted daze curious minds see
As I take in with fluency
No unity
It's nothing
I'll take it in the chin
I'll take it in my dome
Let it be
Its my best cover
Not styrofoam
I'll take it whichever way it's thrown
Pass the twisted news along
I continue staying strong
detail-oriented is my syndrome
22 Jun 6
that feeling
of that
of one
and only
not to be shared
but kept
not to be left
but held
it's here
and there
within you
and me
different, by far
the distance relates
to sameness
we speak to convey
but pieces fall
while in flight
crumble to the earth
and fall to the core
never to be sought
always hiding
but always alike
it's here
you feel it
I taste it
through bars jagged
through minds ragged
we need it to be felt
but not by ourselves
locked in our gut
and stuck
on the tip of our tongue
grinning inside a corner
with gathered dust
crack it open
like an egg
waiting to be broken
shell soft
but hard enough
depict it as fiction
script written
through lies
but living
factual complications
unique and misunderstood
this imaginary block
we hold together
hand in hand
only "I" behind our eyes
strapped and chained
where to care
why and how
knowing nothing
but seen
outward constance
for escape to some other
a wanted
new cover
maybe an exit sign
that reads "welcome"
from another

LW ©
inspired by the great comedian Bill Hicks
tinhearts Jul 26
The heir of pleasance
Within the secret place of my soul
Prayers rise as a misty reverence
Only Your splendor beholds

Intimacy in silence
Our Love encompasses
Privacy emits compliance
Our communion witnesses

In Christ we are complete
No outward buildings do we need
Emerged in the depths of deep
Language the Spirit evokes light to me

All I am and all I can be
Is according to the Spirit
That dwells within secretly
Drenching anointing by merit

Inhaling Your breathtaking fragrance
Expressing my desire to be
Consumed by His benevolence
Submerged in Divine eminency

Illustriousness embodies my soul
True religion arises tenderly
Hearing and obeying in whole
Purity in all holiness invisibly

No outward view is beheld
A vessel to embody the Spirit of the Lord
His tabernacle my soul honors compelled
Being united in One accord

All is hidden deep in Shiloh
His radiance summons mysteries
Yielding caution unveiling my soul
His likeness is found in my treasuries

Born to be
Hidden in a mystery
Awaiting patiently
For immortality
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2015
this is a very important poem to me,
about me, and how Obama slurred my people. and never apologized


there are mornings when I wake up
in my nativity,
in my born/bred,
these struggling to be happy,
United States,
strangely hebrew-speaking,
Jamaican coffee
tallying up
what I am,
who I am,
commanded to be,
on this Earth

the labels that the
outward-looking apply,
the tags,
that you have caused
yourself to be defined,
been staked
to your claim,
in infamy and in fame,
that you have
by action and indeed,

have allow
to be presented
as entries on your
global entry passport,
with visas from the
lows and highs,
places where
your have sinned and saved,
all the acts accumulated,
and those,
in pain,
you have been a witness to

word titles that
tinge and suffuse,
summation of my presentation,
sampler of words
father, poet,
a for-real
community organizer,
and of course,
bien sûr,

the quality of all these life's papers,
which I grade myself,
the harshest marker
of all

once a young man,
safely away in college,
under the fresh-air freedom of the
university's in loco parentis,
in the early years
spent quantifying oneself

nearly fifty years ago,
now he,
revealed and recalled
his college typed-letter,
lately uncovered amidst his,
recently passed mother's papers

"Don't know what kind of
I will be, but be assured,
that I will be a
all my life"

so here I am doing my post-sabbath,
top of the week,
right it down,
qualifying myself,
coffee enraged engaged,
a new Sunday tally

taking all my terms,
what was prior, first,
is no longer

decades decay,
events sway,
simple words change me, stain me

nearing on five decades later,
when this
son of speakers,
son of humanists and 
son of
son of proud
rewrites his list

today I write/substitute,
a new order,
a tag gladly taken,
a marker given,
some what in pride,
some in shame too,
first and foremost,
à la manière d'Lincoln
I am
of, by and for

"a bunch of folks in a deli"

proud member of them
that so identify,
for they are among those
that shall not perish from the Earth

bunch of folks in a deli,
I claim as
mine own,
as they would
have claimed me

no subtly professed,
a diminishment intended,
and now
an honorific taken,
Medal of Honor provoked and embraced,
proudly inscribed,
visible on my forehead,
in the black ink of mourning,
a Presidential Cain Citation,
a tattoo of letters,
not numbers,
now moves up to
head of the list,
I am
now and forever,
a member of that corps
(appreciate that double entendre)
I am
Je suis

*"a bunch of folks in a deli"
Just google that phrase

Obama’s slur


Who wanted me

to go to Chicago

on January 6th?

I did!

The night before,

20 below zero


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.

Damn 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.


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,


Kansas City,


St. Louis,





New Orleans,






Mexic­o City

and Montreal

salute her.



A collection of vanities?

Engineered complex utilitarianism?

The need for community a social necessity?

Ego one with the mass?

Civilization’s latest perversion?

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.


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 café 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 Valley

all mapped by him.

Its mouth our Dixie Trumpet

guarded by righteous Cajun brethren.


Midwest from where?

It’s north of Caracas and Los Angeles,

east of Fairbanks,

west of Dublin

and south of not much.


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.

He 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.


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

countrymens 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 Lech

saves money

to bring his family over from Gdansk.

Lech 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


A teacher named Heidi

gives all she has to her students.

She has great expectations for them all.

Heidi believes in the future.


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


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.


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.


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.



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.


an important fossil fuel

denominated in

good ole greenbacks.


not just hogwash

on the Wabash,

but bacon, eggs

and flapjacks

are on the menu

of every diner in Jersey

as the “All American.”


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

slave labor

spin it into

gold lamay.


I think its hardy.


the new age substitute

for hamburger

goes great with tofu lasagna.


ADM creates ethanol,

they want us to drive cleaner cars.


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.



and Istanbul's

best traders

are only half as good

as the average trader in 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,



and estuaries

it’s tentacles reach.


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


for lying about a blowjob.

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!



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


and how

they mastered

the 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


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,


long underwear,



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,



















and more.

Always more.

Much much more

in Chicago.



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 everyman 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

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


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!


The Loop’s El

still course 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


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


all layers,

on which



is built,



then dies.

To be

returned again

to the lower


where it can

take root


and grow

out onto

the great plains.


the nation,


its people

with its


A blessing,


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 bum 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!


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,


row houses,


and you’ll hear the Blues.

Tidewater Blues

from Virginia,

Delta Blues

from the lower


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,


for a new start.

Poor and


against the torrent

of frigid weather

she begs for help.

Her blond hair

and facial 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



The family

begins to


like a snail

sprinkled with salt;

and a mother

and her children

just disappear

into the pavement

at the corner

of Dearborn,

in Chicago.

You tube music video:

Muddy Waters

I'm Ready

Robert Johnson

Sweet Home Chicago

Added today to commemorate the birthday of Carl Sandburg
What's up?
He says to me
Oh, how I love queries like these
They seem to spread from mouth to mouth
Like a disease
Plain and simple
Yet so fascinating to attempt to fully answer

"First the cieling
Then the sky:
The atmosphere of our planet,
Then space,
'The final frontier'
Extending outward, possibly to infinity,
Then perhaps the multiverse, if we are so lucky,
After that, who knows."

"But then again,
Up, down, left, and right
Don't really exist after all.
They are merely relative to where one stands on the Earth
All sense of direction melts away
Once you break through the atmosphere
But it may be difficult to tell where the atmosphere really ends
It's thick at the bottom, and slowly thins as you move outward
Until it is not there at all"

"But I'm probably wrong.
I'm probably wrong in every single way
Wrong in more ways than either of us
Could ever comprehend."

"We are so small.
Only human
But also so large"

It doesn't really matter though.
tinhearts Jan 29
Having no light of her own
The moon, a smitten planet
Relying on the reflection of the sun shone
Brighter as she is the outward picture of the soul, just granite

Inwardly the Son shines as she adores Him
He is the flame
Giving her light to receive and live
Walking on the narrow path

Next time you see the brightness of the moon
Give thanks to the Son (Lord Jesus)
Lighting our way to become One
Loving her as she loves Him spirituality mysterious

Everything outward is a picture of the inward
The eclipse of the moon
From the northwest toward
The southeastern
America’s  sign of

A warning of the soul’s rule
Under the captivity of a Babylonian garment
Mingles the vomit
Whores killing lambs in the church’s embarrassment

Come out of her My People!!!
Adulterated doctrines spilling wine
Under the covert of a religious steeple
Blood stained souls intertwined

The innocent haven’t a clue
Sunday schools happy meal
Jesus came to rescue
Wolves rob and steal

Above the inner eyes insight
Deliverers mounted to save
Filled with the inner light
It’s not too late to change the wave

Three days Salvation plan
The story’s been told
Make a righteous stand
Be brave strong and bold

Don’t wait for destruction
Your soul depends on you
Seek for yourself don’t take my word for conviction
The whole earth is waiting to view

The coming of the Lord Jesus
Finally the moon is under her feet
New Heavens and New Earth reigns praise to Jesus
She’s all aglow being complete

The light of her Love now shines from within
She looks in the mirror to SEE she has become
Perfectly joined to Him
Together as One

All Her Glory is in Him alone

Behold He’s IN You!
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