I want to vomit. I want to vomit forever and ever and never stop.
Way beyond Easter disenchantment
and into the kitchen realm of all these things,
really wanting to break, I go.
I am a transient in Chicago snow falling,
full of revelry and the warmth
of everything I’ve lost.
Down these backyard alleyways
between black giants, I am following my breath
to a little room of evening respite,
to a place of rest —
wherever that is.
The voice of so many Sunday mornings,
concerned forever that I impress and grow,
will tell me when I’m there,
in that cadence I used to know so well —
it seemed another shade of me.
It’s been a long time since I grew my home
in the city’s womb, beneath the trees
where books and names were born for me —
where the days were belonging,
the nights were endless travel,
altogether deep and whole.
When the wilting swore, I took my core
and drove off into the sidewalk sands alone,
not knowing if I would ever return
to the wooden leper land of knowing —
to a place of fiery rebirth.
Since then, I’ve seen a gathering of things,
across my path or just a step ago,
and I’ve never stopped dreaming
of the living I did,
on endless yellow days
so long since gone.
Tonight is different from the rest;
this darkness climbs the high-rise walls
and smiles to me on my urban way —
on a night where I’m ready to abandon the walk,
to forget where I’ve been
and find a place
But now, between footsteps on the track,
I can hear the stinging guile of every person
that ever hurt me;
their lies accumulate like the drifts
that mark my way,
cold and unfamiliar
the last impression of the chanting crowd
on the saddened heretic —
no apology to be heard
in the lone still of now —
in the hypocrisy of my smile.
It’s only apropos, how my stamina fades…
like lake Michigan into the sky.
I unmark my passage and my dream,
and take what I want and need tonight —