Purple Mountain of Despair

Condos in high rises in the Loop
sit empty on weekdays
They know who’s important.
Flats in high rises near Division and Larrabee
sit empty too;
Flats in high rises near 39th and State
don’t even exist anymore
But they knew.

A few blocks
A few shades of skin color
A few hundred years.
Different worlds, different lives
Different responses to gunshots
and the “American Dream.”

The suits call for a transformation
and go to their front lawns and school
referendums and charity donations.
While communities are broken,
displaced, still destitute
but out of sight, off of valuable property,
until next time.

The free market for some,
a delicate illusion for others,
and a cage or cold stairwell for the rest.

It’s time we the people put the wrecking ball
to the whole damn thing.

It was a boat, or a ship,
I guess I don’t remember.
I know I was in the back.
We were paddling hard,
in disagreement,
until the weather got rough.
Then we both humbly crawled inside.
I think we were lost anyway.
We came to on a beach
crowded with our high school acquaintances
clad in swimsuits and prom dresses.
Everyone was bright and smiling,
but I have this gut feeling they were sad.

New places are beautiful, if only because you take the time to notice. The lake near your apartment will never be quite as breathtaking, the trees and leaves and colors never quite as vibrant as the ones you see as a visitor. Daily life somehow takes beauty away, covers it up with schedules and chores and bad memories and those people who drive you crazy.

But still, there is something magical about home. There is a comfort in knowing what’s not beautiful. In knowing what’s wrong and hard, and whose smile might help it go away. There is a comfort in knowing the streets, the best cafes, the depth of your couch, and your favorite place to sit on public transit. In knowing that often the best part of going away is the feeling you get when you crawl into your own bed once you’re home.

Winter seems to have hit pretty hard, and fast. Sitting here warm, I have a beautiful view.
Of a mallard alone on the cold, wind-ripped lake, fighting the white caps as they crash.
He’s determined, pushing slowly north-eastward with his little orange feet.
He’s going somewhere, and is going to have a hell of a time getting there.
I think I understand.

Washing machines, rusted wheels.
Relationships, passions, all the thoughts in my head.

Blue and burnt orange skies,
the color of breathing in Chicago in the fall.
Visions that pose questions with no right answers at all.

These are the movements of trigonometric equations,
the ones not printed inside the cover of the textbook.
The ones few can ever solve.

Like those little waves that hit big rocks
and die out in a swirl.

I am listening to soothing music on my CD player,
but the Reba McEntire show is blaring over my headphones.
I don’t think the decor in here has changed since the 70s,
but all signs are bilingual English/Spanish now.
Sometimes I wonder just what world I live in.
And just how quickly it is and isn’t changing.

Time
alone
is supposed to heal,
to make it all go away.
Slowly but surely,
we move on.
Yet, I am not moving on.
Or forward, or much of anywhere at all.
I am stuck — frantic, confused, broken,
and in love.
Months do pass quickly
but they leave me
behind.

Three kinds of writing. Three blogs.