whisky sour in my hand
somewhere near division
the heart got exploited
by the vision
turnin inward
on myself
awaiting the great
fade out
double zero

city and the music of noise

was america was
chicago was life worth

working for ina cross

road. you and me and any one

fought through the seasons

the vocals the


the steam of whistling


i could feel the touch
the warmth beneath your voice

in a cold world
you could shout you could scream

you would have to

to be heard

then the aftermath the streets

the faces ina diner

ina hard won heartfelt

part of town
mocha skin tones made by

sun and genes
cream and sugar and
coffee black

where noise is music

toasting broken hearts and

dishes and bottles. you woke me up
i can feel you today thousands

of miles away
i can laugh
i can cry ona dime ina city

and the music of


i was and wasn’t



i carried paper with me

in a knapsack
or an overcoat pocket in the winters
of west side chicago

my back against bricks
i held them under weak hanging
lights threading open mics

the Appalachian trail
did not stop me

the subway trains
the bars
the libraries (of course)
into parks where the sky
opened up all my thoughts

often i lay them out
beside my jack

i felt the social
around me

dead air

i didn’t
so alive
was i

casting madison avenue

fishbowl eyes

Our spirits, in the spaces between and apart and far from, are yet to be hemmed in, anyway, they sway in unison with and out of synch then, consonance and dissonance together holding hands, not necessarily about coming together by choice, some were forces above and beyond our bell curved comprehension, and more out of synch are the spirits with the reeds with the grasses with the grains. Ceres.¬†Above overlooking the whole operation, downtown Chicago, casting Madison Avenue fishbowl eyes… against the grain as pressures come to bear in our espresso machines in our offices in our relationships in our lives.