To Chicago

From Division St. the howl cracks windows and rumbles doors.
On Washington, gunfire and sleepless nights.
Michigan rages and raves but is in bed by nine.
The South captures the subtle ambiance of middle-class, do-
It-yourself America and cries for the riches the North showers every day from their
High-rises and sky scrapers penetrating those dreams that elude to happiness.
They sleep, those high-ups in their million dollar suits,
So do those yardbirds, bags weigh down their eyes.
I have seen this as I walk during the blazing summers
And bitter winters. The wind bites, and burns, and beats until the blood
Paints the new homes. The city will teach you to help those that will help you.
Got to know people. The weather fluctuates like my bank account, but always going below zero eventually. I’ve been at the bottom, and baby, it feels great.
Chicago, don’t change. Stay the same. Always re-ignite when the flames devour your soul and don’t settle for the second city status that taints you.
I will miss you Chicago. More than ever. The people clamor at each other’s hands to clap and smile so that a goodbye is never alone.
I will never be alone. And it is thanks to you Chicago. Thank you.

Ambrosia

Taste's as divine as the first sunrise
a prize on your lips that is sultry
sweet like the bee-hives buzzing in gardens
that have been locked up for years now.

Taste's as poignant as the last scent of you
floating placidly within those old walls
like a ghost haunting the bitter essence
of existence thumping under my shirt.

Taste's as euphoric as the very moment
you open a book and read the first line,
the pages breathe age into your nostrils
while the poem on the last page is filled with
the smell of spring rain.

Winter's sweet snow dances on my head,
I'm still devouring those beautiful meals,
and your hand still warms my body
like the summers' first days
counting backwards
so I never leave.

Night Knight

Sweet dreams you man in silver arms,
on a stead that is half-blind, confined
by prostate hooves that crumble under the deep
mud piles forming like bubbles of hot
lava.

O how you only wish to ride under the blue moon,
so pale,
and save the night from falling beneath zero
so low,
and build a castle in every corner garden that endures,
so long.

Those shields and swords will only write you a brief future,
we all want those books to speak well of us,
brushing our egos is hard work with wine in the veins,
loosed noose around the neck at the first sunrise,
built from those long hairs that swept off shore on the atlantic,
with the pink hue nudged at the center of that deep purple gaze.

Your exhausted, take off that armor, so tired
and dreaming lopsided thoughts of endless oceans and costless sails,
with seagulls diving in and out of existence,
with their children on their backs
with their children on their backs
somewhat innocent to imagine timid fur that rests on your cheek,
it is nice to just rest on a piece of wood that floats helplessly,
don't worry about all that
don't worry about all that.