I'm Driving

I'm driving
It's dark outside
And the street lamps glow orange
Illuminating the car
In measured flashes
As I write stories in my head
Using the sky as ink
And the road as my page
The shadows are my characters
They dance and fight and disappear
And they fascinate me to a point
That's almost scary
And I feel full and alone
All at the same time
But I can never think of an ending
To my story

If Chicago Could Think

Standing on a transparent ledge,
You'll see nothing but steel beauty
But look closer, squint both eyes
And my streets turn to rubble
Washed in White

Alien accents driving
Lipgloss-covered taxi cabs,
More entitled to my streets than
Wisconsin in the back, who says
God Bless

Jazz simmers from open windows
Tourists lose themselves in slices
I stare into a mirror made of coffee

And my reflected silouhette is crookedly

Beautiful

The hungry help the starving;
"Will tell joke for money."
There is nothing funny about it,
But pale faces crack into smiles
Anyway

Wind coming off the River
Sweeps violence through
My heavy doors with a whisper,
Evolution with each revolution,
I Promise

Note: edited version 

Chicago

Curb-side trash
Takes human form.
Visitors are awed,
"This city is so clean!"

Art Museum Patrons on a Sunday Afternoon

Old men,
With round, Whiskey bellies,
Tug on their serious lapels
and hum at Picasso.

Old women,
With glasses perched on pointed noses,
Jingle the bangles around their wasp wrists
and nod at Monet.

Young men,
With pants tucked into sneakers,
Scratch their 5 o' clock beards
and raise their eyebrows:
A Question.

Young women,
With their painted mouths and curled lashes,
Cock their wide, proud hips
and purse their lips:
A Critique.

They enter clutching the fare for priceless art - a reasonable, twenty-three dollar fee.

And leave with tired feet, puffed chests, and a deluded sense of understanding - the heavier cost by far.

You Better Not Cry

“Because he will grip you by 
the shoulders and wrench 
you around and he will bring 
his bristly mouth to yours and blow
stars 
down your throat
until
you are so full 
of
light.”

—	You Better Not Cry by Augusten Burroughs