chicago

i like quiet rooms
white chirstmas lights
melancholy songs
and silence





idol worship





throw stones into my eyes
watch the ripples reflecting outward







eating a dollar dog in the arts/bohemian neighborhood of chicago (wicker park)

i have good lips for pouting
and bruises in my eyes
from too much dreaming
not enough sleeping

my voice isn't quiet
but i try to make it
to show you how embarassed i am
how sorry
for intruding where i obviously don't belong
(alienation)

i read the sign at the sushi bar across the street
puzzeling out the strange-familar symbols
and spin the the red plastic chair





a loaf of bread blocks my reflection
in the bakery mirror.
one, two, three, four:
my family's smiling faces
and a loaf of bread.





. . . . .


nothing outstanding. except maybe the last one...