The Gospel of Potholes

This is something new -

flocking sirens, the gathering myth
of morning

the way wheat breaks before the wind

can a woman think fast enough
to subvert herself?

Can a woman (the street preacher
is praising a tin can)

can a woman, can
a woman
learn to bow?

Always, there is the pressing weight
(the preacher is praising)

God
like a cold hand
in yours.

Who dreams of growing
to speak
to God in an alley - the dust motes,

a child smaller than you.

Rhetoric

You have lived
the end already, the stunning

child dancing above the crowd

I couldn’t touch anything
with these wretched hands

This is the relatively
minor dream -

to enter the boarded door

to enter the boarded door
to climb the stairs

if fire is a contributing factor
you will wear water

and move like a river
downhill

Chicago (60637)

Then you see an innocuous door and a few steps down
and you think, this looks small and rather
less than you expected.


But again and again the rooms unfold
and you walk deeper and deeper into


book heaven.

Like Roaches

The moment you flick the light switch,

the way they scurry from sight

is not art, nor the sound

of them skittering. You have begun

to understand.

Not even the painting

of the lit room, empty. Art is this:

to look at it, the room painted

the moment after

the lifting of the black

and still be able to feel

the roaches there.

University of Chicago

I visited the University of Chicago over the weekend. What can I say? The neighborhood is awesome, the school is beautiful, and the program is extremely impressive. Hyde Park is much less intimidating than downtown, and there is so much diversity. There are awesome bookstores, and the whole feel of the place is very intellectual.

The bottom line is financing. If I can figure out the money situation, I'll probably be living in Chicago next year; if I can't, I won't. Despite that, I cannot say enough about my experiences with the University to this point. It's definitely on a whole other level. I would be extremely honored to study there.

There Was a Little Magpie

after Joan Miro

nothing is important

your tiny heart

stitching itself to the sky,

planets like a girl's fingerprints

children singing about

the sorrow of winglessness,

a heavy secret never to be told

nothing was more important

you became the first

small thing with blood

to love your own face in the mirror

flight

the way you named yourself

Will the Real False Prophet Please Stand Up?

Image from a Borders bookstore's CHILDREN'S SECTION.