Another Chicago Trip & Some Old Poetry

This past weekend I went to Chicago again but for a work related conference. My hotel was located in Rosemont, and its surrounding areas seem to be heavily populated with latino citizens-- a fact which I was reminded of at almost every intersection by the presence of Mexican flags, cerveza depots, and "si hablo espanol" signs. Even when we traveled outside of Rosemont though, I began to notice the pride that folks displayed for their respective institutions-- Sox hats jammed on nearly every working class head in the city, Cubbie flags tacked inside of loft windows, bars named "Shoeless Joe's" (a place where, by the way, if you casually mention Jamie and Marcus from Michigan, the bar tender might pour you one on the house), etc.

In any event, in honor of all the local swagger I witnessed in Chicago I thought I'd post a very old poem that represents my loyal stomping grounds, Ann Arbor, Michigan. This piece doesn't really speak to my current writing but, "what the hell"?

* Oh yeah, make sure you check out the latest mix of tracks on the play list. They're kind of random, but that's just me this month.

Peace.

Ann Arbor: Syncopations of the Necto
“One thing about music, when it hits you, you feel no pain.”
-- Bob Marley

To the two of us, it is mostly
about the music: bass reverb-
erating through the hips of a woman,

speakers spilling out staccato
heartbeats, silence slurred
with dissonant tongues

like Duke Ellington on E.
Strobe lights are reckless hippies;
clashing, cacophonous, breeding

androgyny-- the only recipe
for heightened consciousness.
The room is full of honest liars

affirming their nature
in worldly trends and sex
(my favorite kind of humans).

Sam is in the corner
with the too-tall blonde:
Napoleon, scaling the Alps.

I’m standing in the haze
by the dj booth, experiencing
sound as a quake:

each seismic wave overtaking
my body, rippling through
limbs, rupturing in movement.

This was the summer
before college, when stress came
in the form of scratched cds

and blown house speakers-- not
corporate marketing jobs, monthly
rent or electrical engineering.

We should have horded that feeling;
locked it away in jewelry boxes
and cupboards, rationed the sound.

It was the music that made us.
Just two kids lost in the pulse
of time, trying to keep the beat.