Smacked by Robert Browning's Glove

May Bob Dylan mow it.

 





As if all those other poems and paintings and jobs and songs 

were shavings

for the night maid to sweep up. 

This is it. Quality. Perfection. 

No shit.

Look it over.
Look it up and down.

Under, behind, inside and out.

Lovers friends children ancestors ghosts demons and angels

This one's for you,

Stay thirsty my friends.

The best student always failing,

loves failing again,

Her spiraling human disfortune has floundered diving into pools of

gone

madness is not only a myth a burden

a caricature of itself

it is the lifeboat

sinking and rising

again and again



It seems like only yesterday. Fencing boxing crashing breaking and burning anything in my way to hold onto love or to steal it's ghost in the mask.  

The proverbial Rebel throwing the lug wrench off a cliff, I jumped into music writing singing & playing while my paintings kept me alive. Friends tolerated my insanity. An Odd Job or one of the Hellcats.

Now I know this girl in the 'hood, if she doesn't watch out she's gonna get diced or take out someone else. And it's just like someone took me off the shelf and dusted me off like an old encyclopedia, opened it up to the page on Diane Clones. Except she's not an artist or a musician. I think she's going to die of soul starvation.

What goes around comes around. I can only thank my lucky stars to be alive. They thought I was a goner too.

 


 

 


Underneath the Bridge for You


At Blue Island & 16th Street: 

Deep down inside. 

You know the place 
with faces in the walls 
that you can't really see 

you know they are there 
and they can see you 
but you don't really care 

because 

you've been there too 

the cool damp dark hard dirt grit 
twisted metal rust
stone walls grind away 
any memory of a home 

if you ever had one 

2008  Pilsen/Little Village in Chicago.