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.

Mayweather Puts on Boxing Clinic Against a Desperate De la Hoya

On May 5th, Saturday night, the best pound for pound fighter in the world and one of boxing's few living legends stepped in the ring to settle the score once and for all. The most highly anticipated fight since the first Tyson v. Holyfield, this match has undoubtedly left many De La Hoya fans sick with the sour taste of loss.

After a few conversations today at work, I was compelled to write this post and silence the De La Hoya groupies who were clearly wearing Stevie Wonder’s sunglasses during the fight. Real boxing fans know that Mayweather used his accurate jab, laser-like left, and ring-generalship to outclass Oscar. Compubox, as well as a set of contact lenses prove that Mayweather picked his shots and landed with enough accuracy to actually frustrate De la Hoya.

There were possibly two rounds that Oscar did enough to win on the scorecards; however, Mayweather’s topnotch defense rendered him extremely elusive and hard to find. Towards the end of the fight Oscar began to show signs of desperation, firing half-ass, non-effective flurries which mostly glanced off Floyd’s gloves.

Mayweather's precision won the fight, hands down: they don't call boxing the Sweet Science for nothing. And if you ask me, the judge who scored the fight in De la Hoya’s favor was probably looking for a gig with Golden Boy Productions.

In Other News...

Normally, I would never support this type of uber-ignorance but since it's in the name of Kalamazoo, whatever.

"Meet Me In The North"

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