August 2000
Letter 10
Son of the Big Shoulders
Careening into the cricket-laced dawn.
Into the Midwest August Bourgeoisie
dawn. Into the sticky, no-shirt
dawn. The beer-less, half-stained
waxing-moon dawn. The city summer
unkempt and memory-laced
dawn.
Oh Chicago, city what got
the big shoulders. City w/
a chip on one, forever
proving your manhood. Oh Chicago
city of the pioneer & immigrant
what stained the prairie winter
what tamed the stinking onion.
Oh Chicago of culture after
culture blended into one
fine meat stew, of screaming
airplanes in the night, of
races segregated so that
neighborhoods quickly & deftly
become others and the
accelerator the trusted ally.
Oh Chicago of your Picasso
scared the Mayor, your
once-stained Miro & your classic
museums, the ones the French
would long to loot
& repatriate its jewels.
City of the Big Shoulders
still building
wrecking
re-building
the concrete hammer
active in the
sticky-aired
summer.
Oh Chicago, w/ your
Von Freeman bebop Tuesday
nights at the New
Apartment Lounge, of your
jazz intense & free
of your Pale Hose
striking a blow w/
a Big Hurt & fireworks
illuminate the South Side
night.
Of cow after cow
pig
after pig
fowl
after fowl
slaughtered - no longer here -
to feed the millions
of unrepentant
carnivores.
I bathe
in
your wet days
& star-watch
into
the dawn.
I am your child
your creation
I seek the
brotherhood
you've
nourished
long to re-create it
in the land
of the holy
chariot.
I miss your architecture
your bold plans
your commitment to plans
that WORK.
Chicago, I am your
son & carry your
lessons
in my blood.
They have taken me
from
my city, yet this
city of my heart
lives forever
&
will reclaim my
bones
as its own
dirt
peN#978
3:36AM
8.10.00
3451 N. Ozanam, Chgo, IL
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