OH, CHICAGO! Suite White City, Rewrite. March 2011

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OH, CHICAGO!
Suite White City,
Rewrite, March 2011




Chicago, I see you,
Though to be there, I must root out scenes,
Which now are very long ago, and what I share, here,
May be more dream, fiction, than actual historical event.

My life enfolds in pictures, and my mind, it sees
Lake-front parking, a lover’s lane,
Way down at east end of Foster,
At the time I and my son’s mother,
-- It was early evening --
A woman who in the future becomes my first,
The one, the only wife, and from whom, today, I count,
Over twenty years, divorced.

A man, he came from within the bushes,
A stranger with mayhem as his intent,
He held a great length of metal, a gaffing hook,
Then a big overhead swing, bang!
He punctured the hood on my Dad’s Chevrolet,
Which was a brand-new, 1960, four-door, hard-top, white.

We survived the attack,
Intact, secure behind the doors and car in reverse,
We were lucky, I guess.



2.


I remember the time in the high rise, near North Side,
Up on the 18th floor, where my buddy and I,
We knew this cop, yes, she was fine.
Oh my, Chicago, I remember her, the fond delight!

I liked the way she let her 9MM sleep with us,
(She placed it under the pillow)
And her blues, her uniform with its badges,
And her leather belt and boots, whether she wore them,
Or when they were thrown, scattered and heaped.
A pile of clothes and accessories,
Her undergarments accented the top of the jumble;
I need not close my eyes to picture it.

The ensemble looked good on the rug of the bedroom floor.

Later, in the back seat, police cruiser unit,
I joined the convergence, while she drove,
And her partner sat shotgun, chased the culprit,
All sirens and beacons blazing,
Down the back alleys, behind the bungalows, fast, 30mph,
Galvanized cans crashing, their lids off, flying,
Like saucers, garbage was everywhere all over the concrete.



3.


River View, the amusement park, sat down the block
From my first high school, its Ferris Wheel dominated
That side of the North Branch Chicago River.
Readers, please, excuse the free thinking.
I leap here and hope to insight and meaning,
Back to the time my great grandfather, John,
Came all the way from La Salle to see the lights,
The white city, magic, and when he returned, home,
Told tales about the town on Lake Michigan,
How great its marvels twenty-years after the Fire.

He, my great grandfather, he returned home,
And when he told the family about alternating current,
The city ablaze in the middle of the night,
He ignited in my grandmother lust, she wanted a part,
She sought the grandeur; she had to sell her soul,
What darkness, the narrow, a woman’s common lot,
The drudgery of hand laundry, the knowledge that,
As she often had lamented,
“Yes, I was born too soon.”

No easy task, ironing the household’s attire
With an implement heated atop a wood-fired stove,
Early to bed, early to arise, the great bore,
Small town life, it was said she would bed the devil
-- And many claimed she had -- she wanted out, escape,
When she married my grandfather, an itinerant painter,
Who went from town to town painting church murals,
And following the grand cliche,
He drank his liquor as others might milk from a jar,
And to add to his cocktail’s already heady mix,
The family’s romance says, he had bad habit,
To moistened the stylist between his lips;
And we know, the paint his day had lead for its base.

Her husband, he promised her life, incandescent,
A large role in Illinois history, remember,
The new town rose up from the old, up from the ashes,
And was there not real truth,
Behind the story, the Whites, the miracle,
How they had been rescued at Fort Dearborn?

She sought energy, electric, the moment
She wanted city burning, burning bright, resplendent.
Oh, Chicago! It is from you that I have my life!

DASH IT! Second Version, March 2011

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DASH IT!
Second Version




Dash it, Baby!
Is this the best we can manage.

Don't tell me! Have neither of us the sense,
Reason enough to know which way is up, or down?

Here's the key, there's my desk,
You already have my heart,
You can come and go, whenever you please.

Should you find a spare penny,
Lying anywhere about the house,
Keep it, please, and when you have the opportunity,
Use it, toss it into a fountain and wish us well.

I take my hat off to you.
Don't be hard on me old girl;
We have had a run of bad luck.
Let's hope that things are bound to get better.

Well, are you happy?
I did say? I promised you, did I not, that
I would make you queen of my poetry.
Well, haven't I? Who of us is happier?

You take pleasure in your business,
You have your list of details,
All the very many, important things to do,
And now with your father gone,
You have the legal consequence, and its paper work,
Plus the obligation of those little household matters,
Which he once used to do.

You seem enamored with your lengthy driving about.
I sometimes wonder where you go,
How you might disappear for days!

Not a word about your haunts, not a single line,
No Internet connection, you claim.
And when I ask about your goings,
Why the haste?
You answer, "Antique show on Saturday."
Of course I have heard that one before.
When I ask you, where?
You say, “Pennsylvania.”

Oh, how tedious the dialogue becomes.
Yet I remind you, Pennsylvania is a very large state!
As I press you.
I can see the roll of your thinking plainly in your eyes,
Can you believe it?
Doesn't it look silly
When I write it out in this verse before you
Your answer, “Allentown”?



2.


Years ago I learned the reality --
Buying and selling no easy enterprise.

I know you take every special delight,
And you have the ability for concentration,
At level it requires to be successful at your shopping.

Lord knows, you love a good deal.
I have never known anyone, who enjoys a low price,
A markdown or a discount more than you.

Even your dessert, it appears, tastes better
When it comes at half-price.

I realize that you are accustomed to international travel,
Heavy baggage means little to you,
Except, of course, should the airline catch the weight
Of your carry-on and you must pay for the extra kilos.

Then there is the situation with your mother,
(All kinds of complexities there!)
A topic I shall have to postpone,
Perhaps I shall tackle it in another poem, or two.

And as for me, for me,
I sit up half the night writing poetry;
You must know I am lonely.
I seek company,
The way you combine intelligence, beauty and thrift.
I hope to fill the wee small hours of the morning,
Knowing that you sleep in our bed,
And, that though you travel,
You return and make a home with me.

Forget about it! I shall survive.
No need for undue concern,
Or worry that I am probably the gloomier of us two,
Yet I wonder how you push through the day,
How you manage a smile or roam open and free.

Dash it, Baby!
I am still caught up in the happy bondage;
I wonder if either of us will escape it,
What I have called this thing of ours,
And how your grandfather,
Our dreams of him and his appearance, ties us
To a Destiny, whose inklings, still animates our hearts.

“In the wee small hours of the morning,”

So the old song goes,
While whole, wide-world, deep asleep,
I'd be yours, if only you would stay,
Be in our bed and home with me.

I have difficulty believing that you remain remote.
Can it be? Who resists the hand of Fate?
Have you now and forever become unavailable to me?

VENUS, 2011, Rewrite

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VENUS,
2011, Rewrite



How are you to be a great poet,
When you've got no inspiration,
And you're tired, it's late, and
Night after night your mind runs blank?



How do you find yourself stuck,
Fixed in the old, worn-out malady, writer’s block?

Might you recall instead that glorious goddess,
Made into human form right before your eyes,
With whom you spent yesterday morning, talking,
On the grass, warmed all over, blessed by rays,
An eleven-o’clock summer sun?

And why not read aloud?
What harm is there in letting world to know?
No shame in the telling
That mind awakes, again, from midnights’ torpor.

She’s got it! Beauty, love, and
She’s fire, she’s my desire.

CRAZY LOVE, Sorry Interlude

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CRAZY LOVE,
Sorry Interlude




I am at a loss, dumbfounded,
Neither you nor I have forgotten the depth,
The big range of ready affection,
We always felt exceptionally well-suited,
We were great couple in many ways…



You yourself proclaimed our special bond.
One early, Sunday evening, mid August,
We stood at the corner,
Seventh Avenue at Twenty-Fourth Street,
We were awaiting the turn from red,
A traffic light signal , the sign to say GO,
When I told you of a recent article from “Science Times”,
The every Tuesday section of the New York Times,
It reported that the outside perimeter,
A year and half at tops, the time span of romantic love.

The passion subsides that quick scientists argue.

“Oh!” You immediately demurred,
We had not even crossed the Avenue, before
You took exception, challenged the current science,
And proclaimed, “Not for us!”
You professed the special heat, how our romance,
Our romance more akin eternal flame,
Not subject to normal wane of heart’s intensity.

My soul took flight, my love, ecstatic.
I felt like Superman able to leap tall buildings
With single, terrific bound; I believed my power
Greater than steam locomotive,
That I ran with the speed of bullets.

Poppycock! Tomfoolery personified,
And me idiot for believing a word you might say,
By October you were gone,
Your every promise, your solemn vows, prevarication.
Everlasting love, indeed! It lasted
A bit more than a month and one half.

I am sick of it, this terrible romance,
I can not go on, it’s too sad,
Too much, the caprice,
You toss me to the ground,
The ungrateful child’s unwanted toy,
However you may have wanted me,
I exist no more, and am broken.

For both of us there’s plenty desire,
You sneak up on me and stoke
The flame which still fires your heart,
Neighbors tell me they see you,
Saying how you haunt me,
How you seem unable to let me go,
Signs the real extent,
How much you must still love me.

And I write this love poem,
Though what was once this thing of ours,
This breath and we wondrous, beauteous mates,
Finished, driven apart, and my verse,
Has become a pathetic exercise, a sorry chapter
In story which goes nowhere,
It bears title, everything about us so crazy.

Had I not become accustomed to your way,
Spent no time next to you in bed,
Were I smart enough a man,
To have avoided you in the first place,
To have never said a word to you,
Except perhaps the usual humors,
The greetings ‘Good Morning, and Hello’,
The simple inquiry about your health,
Asking the everyday about how are you,
I would never have gotten to the point,
That loathsome feeling, you love me no more.

And equally, both sad and disturbing,
That mine, the warmest of regard,
Turns to disdain, and fervent wish,
We speak no more, and I never see you again.

I feel you woman. I have a telepathic gift:
I hear when you think of me, and you know it!
The vice-a-verse is true,
The communication goes both ways,
Right now I could clench my teeth,
Do an inward scream, and its loudness
Would startle you and disturb your sleep to dawn.

I wish I could caress you,
Practice the arts I had just started,
Oh, had I more time to turn you,
To make you love slave, enthrall you,
But I really wish, I might have forgotten you,
Relegated your touch to darksome narrow pass,
A place free, blank, where I
No longer remember your name.

Can’t you fall in love with someone else?

I know it’s wrong for me to say,
I love you. So let me go.
Time will strengthen my resolve,
I shall move on, your chance to reconcile,
To prove your word sincere and true,
Though once here, has come and gone.

Darling, we have fallen and are amiss,
No! No joy, fruitless to embark upon a road,
A road running toward distant horizon,
With its ultimate end, the final end of us.

My pledges of love, all my dreams, now lament,
My mind is rent, devastated is my heart
Neither can I live with nor without you.
I must stop it, quit the insanity.

I may believe, I may declare my love for you,
But can not find the reason,
No need for me to keep my holding on.

HE LOVES YOU, JUNIOR SAYS

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HE LOVES YOU,
Junior Says



Honey, remember,
Remember that girl friend of yours?
She was the one, who, you said,
Had abandoned all hope of love.
A boyfriend had ditched her;
He had dropped her hard.



She felt awful, bitter, and
Whenever she referred to him,
Instead of using own real name,
She nicknamed him “boy”.

She fell to despair,
And claimed that she no longer was able,
She could not imagine world without him.

I told you, then, were you ever to leave,
Break your every solemn vow, and
Go into world without me that
I too desire sobriquet. I said,

You might call me Junior!

Junior says,
He is lonesome.
He misses you terribly.
He awaits your return to his arms.
He knows your love is right.
He loves you. You are his heart.
He can not feel a thing without you.

That you had once called him 'dear'
Makes him one of the luckiest men alive!

You alone possess his soul.
You reside at center of his thoughts.
You are his every emotion.
You are his goddess;
You are his dream come true.

You are the love of his life.

LINES WRITTEN IN OCTOBER, Version 2011

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LINES WRITTEN IN OCTOBER,
Version 2011



Oh where are you, my lovely?
How is it you stay away?
What strangeness drives you,
Turns our love into disappointment and woe?



I imagine, you might very well understand.

Yet do not suppose a simple story!

Do not figure you as the role player, the subject,
And, me, the writer, who recounts a conventional,
Everyday tale about love won and lost,
The common drama which depicts us flying
To marvelous heights and then dropping
To a hard, low-bottom sorrow.

For us there is no script with a beginning and an end.

The story stays; it remains the same.
Unlike all things sublunary it does not change.

You shine, darling, you shine.
Tonight you are bright and eternal.
And every morning you arise steadfast;
Your light warms my heart.

UNCLE TED

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UNCLE TED



It's a conceit, I know.

A tear appears when I remember
How difficult it was for him to pursue his labor,
That it hurt him to type a single page.



Even when I was still a child,
I recognized that his arthritic fingers must have ached
Down in the cold and humid of his cellar flat!

Uncle Ted is dead.
He need no more raise those burdened hands to work.

My grandmother's brother no longer prays.
The painted Virgin icon does not hear
The murmur of his fondest dreams,
Or the chant of his many rosary's repetitions.

And the pages and pages of the manuscripts he typed?

Why they are burnt!