I really enjoyed writing the triptych of prose poems about Chicago a few months back, but I noticed that Chicago Blog (the first one) displays very oddly on my PC laptop, and I'm not sure why. So, below, I'm assembling all three blog entries together in one place for the first time. I wrote these based on my journal jottings during a trip I took with two old girlfriends to celebrate our 40th birthdays. Enjoy.
Chicago Blog: No Ketchup Allowed
Coming soon, Dada prose poem of lime-flavored art and lionesque piers of Ferris Wheel gin, complete with celery salt.
In it, The Venus de Milo sports mink pompoms. Homeless black men give me The Onion free for $2. Hundreds of porta potties escort us to the lakeshore, serenading us with the drumming of a thousand empty dill pickle buckets.
Frank Sinatra voiced-over the William Tell Overture to berry-burst explosions of pointillism.
Obey the Metra. Throw Miró a dulce cupcake. Wash your face in blue Chagall. Occupy Wall Street with a New World Order chosen by musical experts. The teacher at the Prairie School pastes her broadsides into windows and names her boat Semi-Precious. Blow out the candles; it's time to fly.
Chicago Blog 2: Inventions of the Monsters
In the second installation I offer an Art Nouveau triptych: three female forms, tousled tresses scented with crushed marigolds.
A mosaic window. Endless subway tunnels of humanity. A marathon wheelchair. Soviet Backscatter X-Ray technology reveals knotted balloons of nostalgia swallowed to pass through customs. They have burst.
Sandburg sends the hog butchers packing to the suburbs in a flight of granite steps. They take the blue line.
Poverty is the Italian beef of angry foam-board. The buoy bells they ring for me.
Ceres blesses the towering corn cobs along the uphill river. The Sears Tower follows the Tao to the tune of blues harmonica.
Three reenact the past propped on elbows over sprinkles and buttercream. Protests, protests everywhere.
Chicago Blog 3: Anyone? Anyone?
The Wobblies and the lovers photograph themselves in fun-house reflections.
We stand back with our arms crossed, reserving judgment. We are ditchers.
The Hobo College carries the banner with worn-out soles and can't catch a lift. After 26 miles the runners hobble through the streets, weighed down by their medals; the anarchists still serve up deep dish portions of a monumental White Castle. No substitutions.
Who will bail out the students? Where will they park their parents' cars? The new pilings have sprung a leak deep down and we will discover the flooded basements much too late.
The ashes of the old city congeal into plexiglass and steel. The miles of grasslands have become urban renewal. Condominiums sail by.
We taxi the tarmac hunched in our capsule of air and close our eyes.
Original Posts with More Photos:
Chicago Blog: No Ketchup Allowed
Chicago Blog 2: Inventions of the Monsters
Chicago Blog 3: Anyone? Anyone?
Chicago Blog: No Ketchup Allowed
Coming soon, Dada prose poem of lime-flavored art and lionesque piers of Ferris Wheel gin, complete with celery salt.
In it, The Venus de Milo sports mink pompoms. Homeless black men give me The Onion free for $2. Hundreds of porta potties escort us to the lakeshore, serenading us with the drumming of a thousand empty dill pickle buckets.
Frank Sinatra voiced-over the William Tell Overture to berry-burst explosions of pointillism.
Obey the Metra. Throw Miró a dulce cupcake. Wash your face in blue Chagall. Occupy Wall Street with a New World Order chosen by musical experts. The teacher at the Prairie School pastes her broadsides into windows and names her boat Semi-Precious. Blow out the candles; it's time to fly.
Chicago Blog 2: Inventions of the Monsters
In the second installation I offer an Art Nouveau triptych: three female forms, tousled tresses scented with crushed marigolds.
A mosaic window. Endless subway tunnels of humanity. A marathon wheelchair. Soviet Backscatter X-Ray technology reveals knotted balloons of nostalgia swallowed to pass through customs. They have burst.
Sandburg sends the hog butchers packing to the suburbs in a flight of granite steps. They take the blue line.
Poverty is the Italian beef of angry foam-board. The buoy bells they ring for me.
Ceres blesses the towering corn cobs along the uphill river. The Sears Tower follows the Tao to the tune of blues harmonica.
Three reenact the past propped on elbows over sprinkles and buttercream. Protests, protests everywhere.
Chicago Blog 3: Anyone? Anyone?
The Wobblies and the lovers photograph themselves in fun-house reflections.
We stand back with our arms crossed, reserving judgment. We are ditchers.
The Hobo College carries the banner with worn-out soles and can't catch a lift. After 26 miles the runners hobble through the streets, weighed down by their medals; the anarchists still serve up deep dish portions of a monumental White Castle. No substitutions.
Who will bail out the students? Where will they park their parents' cars? The new pilings have sprung a leak deep down and we will discover the flooded basements much too late.
The ashes of the old city congeal into plexiglass and steel. The miles of grasslands have become urban renewal. Condominiums sail by.
We taxi the tarmac hunched in our capsule of air and close our eyes.
Original Posts with More Photos:
Chicago Blog: No Ketchup Allowed
Chicago Blog 2: Inventions of the Monsters
Chicago Blog 3: Anyone? Anyone?
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