Wednesday, March 4, 2009

Midwestern Hospitality

God, dear brother,
do you see me breathing here,
seething here intimately,
communing consistently with
angels and delinquents
screaming for anarchy in
Chicago?

Go home. This isn't mine.
Delilah, I think,
you've moved me inappropriately.
I'd never say this on my own.
Alleviate my sensibilities,
too often I submit to
rationalities and do not
listen to myself.
I must go back to
Chicago.

Oh, this aching foot of
mine. How it drags;
how it holds me aloft.
I'm answering the phone
with halted breath.

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