Poetry-Life

Lone Wolf Poet: Episode 54

essay cover chalice

“Answer the Lead”
For the Critical Eye

I have nothing to say,
So to speak.
I will say,

However, way back
When, when Sin
-Clearly answered

To a name – way
Before some wise
-Ass made Sin-

Clearly answer for
His word – way
Back when, when

We had some fangs,
Barking up a tree
Over so and so, over

This or on about that,
With more virtue than
Toll: Criticism was two

Of the freer lost dogs
Ever to be listened to,
Playfully circling in

A space of no place,
No time, showing off
Duality’s snap nature

—“Love ya,”
“Need ya,”
“Want ya,”
“Bite ya”—

Over and over, with-
Out end, ad nauseam,
Forever and evermore.
 

This is wannabe John Hospodka’s bi-weekly instructional blog.

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Lone Wolf Poet: Episode 53

essay cover chalice

The Ballad of Bobby Fischer
An Attempted Cover

It’s like how lyrics are easily found nowadays via this great wide world web machine, right? Chalice Sinclearly always finds him his lyrics on it. A song that conveys his moment comes over him, he looks up its lyrics, copies and pastes the song or a chorus or verse into the body of an e-mail, writes something such as “Gitourboy’ta’da-train!” in the subject line, and sends it off to a friend.

“Bobby Fischer Against the World” aired the other day, and Chalice found him interesting. Tormented by an obvious brain problem, Fischer obviously became socially uglier as the years piled onward. You know the whole story by now: Genius goes to schizophrenia. Rah-rah-rah. … What’s new, right? … Sinclearly won’t be running off to go grab a chess board any time soon. Sick and dangerous sport, chess is.

The documentary ends with “The Ballad of Bobby Fischer” by Joe Glazer and the Fianchettoed Bishops playing over the credits. That was Chalice’s first experience with this song. It’s a twanger; narrative and catchy. But he hasn’t been able to locate those lyrics today. He’s been in need of them to creatively interrupt his workday. He’s used Google, he’s used Bing. He’s only found the opening verse posted on some website about that mind-mess of a sport. His search has brought up that some group named Tik Tok has done a cover of the song, and on Amazon he heard a few seconds of it – “Bobby, Bobby, why’d you go away” are the only lyrics he’s taken with him from that sample.

Chalice would’ve liked to have taken the song’s full lyrics and performed a cover of them here, in this cubicle, skillfully arranging them into a tone, a rhythm, meter scheme – an outlook, an emotion – through which his own voice and the mood of its moment would be actualized. … But alas, like me, this cubicle’s only got flummoxed ol’ Sinclearly. And he is at work, at a real job, our job – inside that expanse of a day when he’s obliged to something greater, to something watchfully responsible for him but wholly unanswerable to him; so he’s had to say Fuck it and let the whole thing go.

 

This is wannabe John Hospodka’s bi-weekly instructional blog.

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Lone Wolf Poet: Episode 52

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Chronic Instructs

Even if one takes every reefer madness allegation of the
prohibitionists at face value, marijuana prohibition has done
far more harm to far more people than marijuana ever could.
– William F. Buckley Jr.

Sinclearly is seated

next to a Chicago Public School teacher – a casual acquaintance, nothing less: the lesson of the time after a Morgenbesser’s double-positive-infused spiel regarding the parental licenses taken in a film you’ve had no intention to see, much less ever hear about, when in the silence of the monologue’s aftermath you study the teacher pluck an unstaked Castelvetrano olive from a once-sipped-from martini and place the Sicilian into her mouth and suck-chew: her jaw fashions between the arts of sinuosity and tortuosity:

that’s sort of like how it’d be like to backtrackingly describe how by curtailing the imposition of sudden fear upon the minds of parents of teenagers, intuition positions forbiddance as the single most relevant display of how to savor free, savor free of public and free of school.

~

It really puzzles me to see marijuana connected with
narcotics . . . It’s a thousand times better than whiskey –
it’s an assistant – a friend.
~Louis Armstrong

Sinclearly as an occupant

of the space in a bus gazebo (the two poster ads now adorning its rotating ends: one regards GED training; one warns of DUI – each utilizes a color photograph of a staging), and being accompanied by a soul who is in need of sharing with you the Word of the Lord via a catchy broadsheet of 43lb paper with lustrous aqueous coating, but which to your color sensitive sight has rolled off a press that probably should’ve had its magenta switched out at least two jobs ago.

~

When you return to this mundane sphere from your visionary world,
you would seem to leave a Neapolitan spring for a Lapland winter –
to quit paradise for earth – heaven for hell! Taste the hashish, guest
of mine – taste the hashish!
~Alexander Dumas

Sinclearly in the scene:

an unmanned U-Haul parallel parks, its backing into its space the cause of splinter in several mature limbs of a tree islanded in sidewalk. Behind, a compact gas-guzzler’s plastic back bumper holds the sticker: Separate Church & Hate! The rental truck knocks the front end of the gas-guzzler silly – no alarm sounds, but its owner sees all from the far end of the block where she has just emerged from a value-conscious grocer. In the spasticity of her incensed march towards the inciter of this vision, as she short-strides through the shade that has crept onto this stage of a quaint neighborhood, it appears that out of the top of the swollen sustainable bag jostling at her rib cage three Muppets are flaying towards escape until one finally falls, rolls a tad away from her to the space of the curb reserved for the handicapped,

and there on the curb of a road with no traffic Kermit begins to belt out his big song. You join in with him at “And rainbows have nothing to hide”; but the owner of the gas-guzzler, now torn between confronting an unmanned vehicle or recapturing what she had in the grocer believed to be a butternut squash, stops mid-stride, looks to you and scorns, “I don’t know what your ass is singing for. The mafia wants you dead!” You would half expect a bill of currency to fly out of the leather purse fixed between her rib cage and her personal revolution against waste, but there’s no real handler here.

 

This is wannabe John Hospodka’s bi-weekly instructional blog.

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Lone Wolf Poet: Episode 51

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Washing Your Hands of It at Approximately the Same 8:40-Something As Any Other Weekday, Looking Into the Mirror of the Bathroom (a Tad Unkempt Now From the Flurry of Use That Transpires Between 8 and 10 A.M.: Splashes Left As Small Puddles Across the Counter Top; Used and Unused Paper Towels on the Tile BelowEither Fallen During Hurried Pullings, or the Waist-High Trashcan Somehow Miraculously Missed; … Nasal Carbon Filters – Remember, Buy Them, Buy Them) on the Floor of the Building Your Cubicle Is Contained Within, and Noting How the Bags Under Your Bespectacled Blue Eyes Are Neither Ripe nor Wrinkled

I imagine you with your hair.

“Your hair.”

I want it back.

“No chance. Long, long gone.”

[Sigh.] Is there no God?

“There’s coconut oil and onion juice, I hear.”

[Sigh.] I don’t care enough, really. Not even enough for possibly doable miracles.

“Yeah, yeah, Debbie Downer. … Anyhoo, this whole sitting while you wipe your ass is for the birds.”

I know, right?

“I mean, fuck the properness of how to ‘properly’ [Chalice does air quote marks] wipe. You can’t really, fully, get at it like that. I mean, I don’t understand how you could.”

Well, maybe if our diet was better – less beer, more protein. You know, a sometimes kale not always sauerkraut sort of changing up of things. Exercising; stopping the whole sneaking smokes behind the wife’s back. I don’t know. But I’m right there with you: fuck wiping while sitting. Feels like trying instead of just doing.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’ve given it an honest go every now and again, but trying to be refined like that always ends up making me feel like I haven’t gotten at it all, and so I always end up standing to get the real job done with anyways.”

Face the music, kemosabe: we was not properly potty trained.

“Yeah, but we’ve long ago come into that space in time where we are more than capable of training ourselves.”

C’est la vie. … Hey, remember when you discovered your ass has a hole?

“That was terrifying.”

Bending over and looking between your legs at your ass in the mirror. Good God, what prompted that? You were so fucking scared. You ran and ran around the house screaming and screaming. See where curiosity got you, big guy.

“What the hell, Hoz, I was like 5, 6, maybe even 4. I mean, Jesus Christ, when you’re that age it’s like who the fuck puts a hole there? Fucking terrifying.”

Ha. … Hey, remember that American Masters we caught once? If I ain’t mistaking, Philip Roth stands while wiping, too.

“You know, I think you’re right. Yeah. And you know what else? I think I remember reading somewhere how Nabokov did it, too.”

Hmm. I wonder what other—

[Hearing the code being punched into the key pad for the bathroom door cuts me short. The door opens and a hipster from the douchey marketing firm on the floor enters. … I want it back. … He goes straight into the stall I occupied seconds ago. … Buy them, buy them. … With great patience, having, after all, really nowhere in the world to get to, I grab a handful of paper towels, dry my hands as best as I can, then purposefully drop the balled, wet towels into the waist-high trashcan.]

 

This is wannabe John Hospodka’s bi-weekly instructional blog.

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Lone Wolf Poet: Episode 46

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Acid Casualty
(or, Ordering at Skylark)

“Of course. Yeah, yeah. Sorry, I know you’re busy. Yeah, I’m ready to order, Bob; yeah I am. I will have a vodka martini. [Bob immediately spins away to go make the thing.] I would like my martini as if it were overturned by our government in a fit of book-banning rage. That’s to say, show absolute callousness: Shake it till you bruise it. Batter it. Make a goddamn victim of it, Bob. Make it dirty. Filthy. I want it nearly firm, to the point so you can’t see through the thing’s indignation. … Indignation for what? Indignation, Bob—indignation for its imminent role within my condition inside your establishment here where I’ve seen my common manners fail with poignant regularity. … Not even while squinting your eyes do I want to see through the goddamn thing. Make it impassable to the fucking eye. But no Vermouth, nooo sir, Boborino, I shall not take a fucking drop of that – my taste is too coy-sided to be infused by an opening up of anything. [Bob is interrupted in his making of the drink by another customer ordering a beer.] … However, I will ask this: I will ask that you take the Vermouth’s cap off and simply wave it thricely over the drink once it has been poured and calmed – I feel this pomposity legitimates the sneery constitution I will soon be gaining while empleasuring myself with those gulpy sips I will soon be pulling from that triangular glass you’re cubing right there in plain sight of this whole scene’s eyes. [Bob is back at his making of the martini. At the same time, he is describing to the other customer the after taste of the beer he just poured him.] And as for olives: indeed. I will need one. One olive, and one only, Bob. And don’t you dare pierce that salty oval. No, no, no. Spare it, sir; apply no wound. Whip the little devil into the cocktail with such vengefulness that it does not produce so much as a ripple, but does on the other hand produce a sound that resounds as the detonation that commences an Olympic 50 yard dash. … If you shall perfect this concoction for me on this day, Roberto, you will find that my cheap ass will not tip under-accordingly, but rather nearly decently.”

Chalice, dude, take it easy there cowboy. What the hell, man? You don’t drink martinis. Out to get blotto this evening? It’s Tuesday. It’s 5:35. The wife is on her way. … What, out to become the Muppet who ate Manhattan tonight?

“Fuck you, Hoz. Ate Manhattan? Didn’t you just hear me order a Martini? Ate Manhattan? [I know what he just ordered. I was simply using an expression. You know, I meant the island. He’s being an idiot.] … You have no idea where I’m coming from, Hoz. I had a horrific day. Horrific. … I began a poem. … Ugh! … I was knee deep in the fucking shit, sinking like a lead zeppelin inside that cubicle today. Like fucking ‘Nam in that cube. And all those freaks asking me questions and putting things in front of me to work on or file away. Fuck that!”

Um, those freaks are our coworkers; those things are our job. Maybe you should try actually doing our job someday. … Oh, but I get it, Chalice, I get it. Poor, poor, pitiful old tortured soul you. … Oh, by the way, what would you know about serving our country, much less experiencing the jungles of ‘Nam?

“Tortured? Damn straight. That’s what it’s about. I’m not afraid to say it. That’s what it’s always been about: torture. … You got ol’ prized Collins reading at some botanical garden with some mick poet; you got all those ones smiling away on some website for some forthcoming Brooklyn workshop. Poetry’s just so tweet-tweet sweet little birdies in bloomy trees, ain’t it? All these poetry readings and poetry slams and little non-profit prizes goo goo gaa gaaing on and on with all their life affirming bull—”

That’s the spirit. That’s how you win hearts – an audience, readers. Get in with the ‘in’ crowd. That’s it. Great American there, Chalice.

“Fuck you, Hoz. I serve my country. I serve my country by not being a school boy. That’s how I serve, and I’ve been serving for decades, dickhead. You can go straight to hell. … What, you think poetry is about touching hearts? … Ah-ha! You sort of do, don’t you, douchebag? Thinkin’ poetry’s just so empowering – Poetry! Poetry! Swish-boom-bah! … [Bob puts the drink before Chalice. The drink is as clear as Chicago tap water; inside the glass are three olives squeezed together on a pick.] Like the Good Doctor’s take on eating acid, that’s what poetry is—[Chalice takes a gulp of his drink.] Goddamn perfect, Bob! Perfect!—just like the Good Doctor’s take on eating acid: ‘Jesus, man! You don’t look for acid! Acid finds you when it thinks you’re ready.’”

[I do a heavy sigh, thinking, It’s sis-boom-bah, jagoff.]

Whatever, dude. You drain me. It’d be nice to be liked, appreciated, read. It’d be nice to bring the voice up out of the basement or outside of the cubicle every now and again. That’s all I think.

“Ha! Still petrified of the ol’ ‘cid, I see. … What was it? 1989? Edie Brickell & New Bohemians?”

You shut up now.

[Chalice slugs the martini, and Bob walks by and scoops up his empty glass.]

“HAHAHAHA. I guarantee, Hoz, you are the one person on this whole flat and minefielded planet who can say he was busted for being up in a tree while fried on acid at an Edie Brickell & New Bohemians show. HAHAHAHA—”

Shove it, Chalice.

[Fuck, it’s true. I was up in a tree, on acid, it was the 80s. … I ate some acid when Edie Brickell & New Bohemians came to play at our college. I actually ate a bunch. I had always been very skeptical of LSD because I had witnessed friends and acquaintances trip out on the shit. Acid always seemed to hunker down and be in there for too long of a time. Whether you wanted to keep on trucking or not, acid seemed to keep on zooming and zooming, rolling on and on for hours and hours. I had long found a sound friend in mushrooms: ‘shrooms could be controlled, manipulated on my end, I could maintain a rather speculative decorum on ‘shrooms, flirt with the gals like a Turtlenecked, Courvoisier sipping scholar, remain cognitive enough to listen and learn from the world about my inherent duality. I’ve always been able to come down from ‘shrooms whenever I’ve wanted to. But for whatever reason, on that particular day I decided to give acid a go, and with a handful dose at that. Crazy, I don’t really know why I decided to party-up then, at that point in time – I never cared for the band. Who knows? But during the concert I was standing next to a tree. When I looked up into the tree it became immediately apparent to me that I should be up there in it. I’d be able to see the band over the something like 200 students who were in attendance out of the private school’s student body of just over a thousand. Once up in there I began to hear loud barking. I looked down and there were two campus police officers standing down there yelling up at me. Their teeth were all I made out: like dogs’ teeth when dogs are growl-snapping at you. I climbed down and the cops chastised me. They walked away, got a few yards away from me, and without any thought I climbed right back up into the tree. Again, barking; again, teeth. But this time when I climbed down I was cuffed, and put in a cell. (I would figure it out about a decade later: it was probably a liability thing I was violating.) In a jail cell for hours while on a handful of acid at the age of 19, 20 – I  tell you what folks, that scene got implanted and has me getting flashbacks till this very day—friends, acid does go zooming on forever. A bit of my character crumbled into 20th Century pre-Gizmobation-splintered selfies in that Five Colleges of Ohio town’s jail cell. I lost my shit. I heard them discuss at one point about getting me to the hospital. I sharted. I don’t have the constitution for that type of deep tissue mind-massage. I’m a wimp. And since the moment of my release from that cell back in ‘88, ‘89 – whenever – I have speculated, and I believe rightly so, that one more hit of acid would make me go all Oar-like on this world. So, that was it for me and lysergic acid diethylamide. One and fucking done.]

“HAHAHAHA—”

Jesus. You’re so tiring, Chalice. Just drop it, please. I’m spent; didn’t get shit done at work today with that fucking shit shooting through the brain all day. We’re going to be in for a shit storm tomorrow. And I don’t need any of your shit here. Not now. I just want a little peace; I need a drink. Fuck poetry; fuck you. I just want a cocktail.

[We fall silent. I catch Sinclearly’s eyes in the back bar’s mirror, and he holds my stare. His stare is condemning, challenging, but I don’t withdraw. I take up the challenge, in fact, and stare right back into his eyes, refusing to be the first to blink. … After a spell, the wife arrives and grabs the stool next to mine, kisses me on the cheek, calls me “My little drunk dialer,” then says, “Hi there, Bob. Wine, please. The pinot.” And I blink.]

… Yeah, Bob. Sorry, man. Just spacing out here. … Anyways, my bank’s arrived. So, hmm? Yeah, I’ll start me out with a Martini, please.

“Uh-oh, the Muppet who ate Manhattan,” Bob says with a wink before turning away from the two of us.

 

This is wannabe John Hospodka’s bi-weekly instructional blog.

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Lone Wolf Poet: Episode 44

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Total Sum of Less than Zero

That was fucked.

“Whatcha gonna do?”

I wouldn’t’ve let the jagoff get away with that shit, that’s for sure.

“Hoz, it was a dream.”

First off, the jagoff was from Boston. … Boston. Then the guy belit—

“See! Boston? Why would I ever dream of someone from Boston? Where does that shit come from? … I had no control. It was a dream.”

[Weird dream. … Sinclearly was with a large group of revelers at a rock show. The scene was good and raunchy. He knew a few of the folks he was with, some of our pushing-50 Motorhead-loving peeps, but others he did not know. As the show was going on he became more and more comfortable toking and joking around these strangers as it became quickly apparent to him that they were friends with the folks we know, maybe they were their coworkers, or maybe they were from their other orbits of friendships. … It was an outside venue; it was a pleasant night out. Even legal exhales materialized in the night air, but the crowd’s gyratory state took the chill out of the collective mind’s atmosphere. Chalice was even sweating a bit. … Damn, the music was good: jangly, rocking; the kind of boogying that brings you back to those nights when whiskey leaked from the flask down the crack of your ass and you couldn’t stop shaking it up out on the floor – the crowd never dancing for a fight, but never sweating over one coming neither. … The show ended, everyone was feeling zoned, right on. The group Chalice was a part of made it out of the venue and everyone began looking for cabs to grab (they were obviously in the city, the skyline visible), until one of his long-time friend’s friend surprised them all by pointing out the large helicopter he had lined up to fly everyone in the group to the after-show party on the other side of town, where the band they just saw was going to do a little private, acoustic thing, and there’d be more booze, more partying. I knew all of this because you just know these things in your dreams, right? … So Chalice climbs into the helicopter with everyone else. There was a bunch of them, so it got real crammed in there. Chalice was buzzing pretty good. Everyone got all sort of intertwined with one another before the helicopter lifted off. In the air, Chalice began feeling self-conscious. Our long-time Motorhead-loving friends were now hanging around people doing really cool things and making really big money at it. There was talk of working on movie sets, of being at Playboy Magazine, of advertising, of greenrooms on Broadway. It seemed like most of the strangers in the helicopter were in some artistic endeavor – sound designers, assistant directors, screenplay writers, editors, etc. And then there was old basemented, cubicle-dwelling, wannabe poet, self-publishing paranoid schizophrenic—old Chalice Sinclearly me. … So there’s this conversation going on and Sinclearly’s really feeling down on himself, and he glances up – he was on the helicopter’s floor – and this sleaze-ball looking dude – handsome, donning a few days stubble over his sculpted cheek bones; just very Mediterranean in appearance; every wife’s wet dream, really – total sleazeball—so this dude looks Sinclearly square in the eyes, and as a natural contributing and facilitating statement to the discussion at hand, says right at him, “I’m looking at the total sum of less than zero right here in front of my eyes.” … Ugh. And that fucking disgusting New England accent. … And cut.]

You should have dropped him.

“Easy, Hoz. I was like a pretzel in there, all tied up like I was on that floor. I couldn’t have thrown a punch if I wanted. … Anyhoo, let’s change the subject before you really say something we all regret about a large and historic region of American Culture.”

I know why you were dreaming of Boston.

“Pray tell, Mr. Know It All.”

You got revolution on the mind. … They might all now be Southie-wannabes cruisin’ The Hub for a wicked rippah, but it was the epicenter of our Revolution – our only all-out kill-the-rulers revolution. … Boy, you got some revolution on that there mind. Getting all heated up and politicized these days. … Seems like just yesterday when you looked upon blatantly political art as disgusting, as not being art at all but rather mere commentary. I know you don’t like the thought of being political in your work, but Chalice, listen man, it’s only natural that we’d start giving a shit about the greater world at this point in time: today; this hour of the Great Test of American Testes, when the world is becoming more and more unreal, unread, de-truthed, and so in turn our basemented cause is becoming a less and less meaningful, pertinent rebellion. Being political isn’t going to turn you into an academic-bound per-usual-Lefty. … I wouldn’t think. … I’d think it’d make you a man – a caring and thoughtful participant in the human race. It’s you climbing out of me; you getting my head unwrapped from around us. … A good thing. An American thing.

[The work by Chalice that is here under discussion:

Da Wall
A Perspective from Chicago
The Wall:
You can stone-out, go into pillow-mode and seep into concept
As each brick’s craftily laid – encircling as, too, amounting – as one’s,
An artist’s, memories schism into imagination and keep on discording
On until acidly mastered in the mortared lines and angles of a nooks
And crannies paranoia: A crazed mood of reclusive-longing patience
Wherein sound mind-wanting wails transmute inward to the cinema
That is the underfold of auditory effects essaying the outside reality
Amidst lyrics lapped with the madcap connects of an insider’s view:
“Mother did it need to be so high?”
Or, like that one wall:
You could have movie-starred with a monkey, then emerged beyond
Your witch hunter days into an era nationalized by amateurs icing machines
In a heated miracle on ice, wherein you’d scare non-Christians into un-blind-
Folding what’s ours; and confounding Putin’s mentors, this era, too, saw other
Non-Christians reclaim guerilla warfare as Freedom’s warfare (as our own
Muzzle-bearing Patriots did for our birth, but none since); despite your hostility
To the revolutionary imagination, you still – in an era still without the emoti-
Con – could preserve enough of some socio-moral core to word into history:
“Tear down this wall!”
But your wall:
You in your all-about-me belief use the anti-tremendous vocabulary
Of a playlot’s jagoff (the punk who we in our struggling Progressive decorum
Must unfortunately permit to breach us: the type of brat every parent, not just
His or her own, needs to smack down), Twatterly believing that in ratings
Lies a God-given entitlement to come between the legion on which we make
Our stand and the high-blue expanse of Hope’s great encompassing vision,
Like as if, jagoff, you can cut our imagination’s sighting of the Wicked Witch
On her floor sweeping ride, a middle finger raised, spelling us under her script:
“Surrender Russia”

~Begun on January 25, 2017. Let go of on April 25, 2017.]

“Whoa, whoa, whoa there, Mr. Rabble Rouser. … Let’s not get too carried away with pride or sentimentality here. And please, don’t you ever go trying to coax me up and out into conciliation from the maddening reservation of this basement. Ever. … Zap ‘em with your sirens, man! Zap ‘em with your sirens!* … All we should really be concentrating on today is stepping the fuck away from our Gizmobation, and figuring out where my next buzz is coming from.”

 

* American Photojournalist (Dennis Hopper) welcoming the boat in Apocalypse Now.

 

This is wannabe John Hospodka’s bi-weekly instructional blog.

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Lone Wolf Poet: Episode 43

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“A Morning Stroll in Bridgeport, Chicago”
(Sunny, Light Breeze, 71 Degrees, Birds; Sadly Beautiful)

I dream the unlived Sin-
Clearly: he’s enmeshed in the low-
Tall piano jazz amounting with-
In Sunday window’s screened-in scene, in-
Where, at an inflowing ashen depth from the framed
Open pane, perhaps even seated out
Of this sidewalk-sight, below the framed water
Color of a bare bent back (gray and grayer
Strokes – 10? 9? 8?… More? – tinge the viewed
Atmosphere with a spine soft-arched down to its fray
Between hippy, nonchalant, rump cheeks,
A light bodied cascade of split-ends fallen
To the bold-lined platform of Chicago

Shoulders—
No neck;
Arms and thighs –
O! Imagine those calves!
Unseen but understood

To be tucked against her innie, into her breasts’
Stud buttons), where his eyes, in puckers, eye
The tweed perspective of the Hechtian inking a tea
Into taking a hit of moonshine in its stove-top coffee.

… I dream him, the unlived pluck of a harp
String over tall grasses tilted in the twirls of the Age
Of Chivalry’s zephyrs that reach into the shade
The trees give themselves once brought to the appeased
Enmoistment that is the summer’s ‘I’m cool with self,’
When leaves touch their own shadows to the shadowings
Of the undersunned sun-meant sides of the sunnier
Leaves before them, those even yet behind
Those that take the elegiac air-prods first-

Most and were always never
To have both sides coexistently
Shaded, but yet attain this due due
The plushing acrossments of sword-
Wielding-times’ blowings of wind.

Such vision strikes chords. – I dream of Sin-
Clearly, unlived, denied the romance of the days
When inking was the act of scoring shade into skin
Amidst the quivery barbs of a dead structure.
 

This is wannabe John Hospodka’s bi-weekly instructional blog.

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