Mama's got a new pair of shoes

I like the way the dead daffodils look - frozen in their yellow possibility of Spring on the table.
I like to make old people smile- the shining blue glass of an old man's eyes an echo of a long dead grandfather.
I don't mind the snarling 5 o'clock crawl of commuter traffic- only a reminder to take my time,
that slow
and steady
wins the
race.
How did I find myself here? In this state of mind- confident and hopeful
smiling as if everyday
would be as good as this one.

Found :

tucked in a notebook for the last 7 or so years- a love letter to my boyfriend, before he became my boyfriend, which in fact proves the existence of love at first sight. In your face pessimists. Here's to all the unsent love letters and the hope folded inside- I am inspired by my own wild teenage heart. I guess I did know everything then...

Here's a tip for you. . .

Waiting on your last table is a high that can not be replaced. As I looked into the face of my final customer I had an overwhelming sense of fuck you I'm out!! Tossing my crusty unraveling apron into the Montrose Brown Line garbage, I felt myself grow an inch or two. It's not that waitressing is the worst job, because I assure you - you don't want me to do your taxes or pave your driveway, but it serves no real purpose. Not for me anyway. So, in light of my new change in careers I offer you mere non-serving mortals a few tips from behind the apron. . .

1.) Unless you are old enough to be my grandmother/father I am, in no situation, your "sweetie", "hun", "honey", or most importantly, I am not your wife so don't treat me like the dog who fetches for you. This bitch bites.
2.) When you or someone in your party is rude to the serving staff we don't spit on or "taint" your food- we ignore you and make everything painfully slower for you.
3.) If you do want to be messed with snap your fingers.
4.) It's not my job to fill your water glass- if you look around you might notice young men carrying pitchers full of water... they are called bus boys and they will get to you and give you more water because that is their job. That's why a portion of your tip to me goes to the bus boy.
5.) Don't request things from people who don't speak English and then get mad at me cause you didn't get more butter.
6.) show your appreciation with your money- I am not here because I like it, you are...
7.) It really isn't hard to be a waitress it's all about timing really.
8.) Get off your cell phone. It is SO RUDE to give the hold-on-a-second finger to the waitress
9.) Stop asking for separate checks. YOU do the math or put down your form of payment and I will split between them - If you can't afford to split evenly or you don't want to pay a little extra for a friend these are not really my problems are they then?
10.) I don't come into your office at ten till five and ask you to stay for an extra hour or two so don't go into a restaurant just before closing and expect good/complete service. You are an inconvenience to everyone and everyone hates you for being so inconsiderate.

There are so many many more but I guess those were a few I thought some of you out there might need to know. Jerks.

Im ready

It is awkward to admit to someone you are not as smart as you thought. To sit in front of them and hear yourself selling a bit piece of your truth: I am terrible at grammar and perhaps will never be a good writer due to this. How long can I blame past teachers and schooling? The truth is that I never cared, that is until recently and I fear perhaps it too late to change. But alas this is the old dog new trick debacle and I am not one to count anyone out. With that said, I commit to writing more, and writing things that are decidedly more interesting. Cause no one cares about my grammar. Apparently not even me. Well I'm 27 now, so it should be a whole new game. I am almost thirty and I must admit this stirs no fear, only the sound of my own thoughts growing louder in their search for sense. At least so far this year I have made headway... graduating, quitting smoking, and of course a real 9-5 job. So I got that going for me, which is nice. Whatever's next... I dare you

Amen

I wore a flannel today. I'm sad I no longer have Chuck Taylor's so I might have to put those on my list. Ahh, the list. Of things. Things to do, things to get and things to look out for... always waiting for something to happen. Well, congratulations me - you made it happen. I am proud of you (me). Everything can be calm again and a regularly scheduled program begins. What I am really excited about is my recently booked trip to Florida... ahhh SPF 40 and a book and just being quiet with my parents. Sounds great. I think my life has taken a sudden beautiful turn and I do not need anything tonight. A huge sigh of relief, a huge step in the right direction. A huge weight that is slowly lifted from my weary shoulders.

Reply

It settles down
between the soft spoken voice
of an old friend.
Unannounced
and without reason
the ancient struggle of man vs. self
plays out
to the lonely tune
of silence,
in no need of filling,
the cracks with in your heart
tell all there is to say.
And there is the sound
of you setting your life on fire.

bothered

I hate broadway musicals
I hate looking through jobs that I qualify for but will probably never get
I hate that I slipped on ice and my neighbor pretended not to notice or help me up
I hate doing homework that doesn't count for anything
I hate wearing glasses
I hate wearing contacts
the grammys are stupid
so are the oscars
athletes are over paid
and I
am
bothered
by everything
today.

A nod to T.S. Eliot's "The Wasteland"

This is a poem I wrote that is supposed to be a modern Chicago take on T.S. Eliot's "The Wasteland" . Of everything I have written this is my favorite and while I intend on working on some of this still I figure where else am I going to display this? If you have never read Eliot's poem, mine might not mean anything to you, also if you don't read poetry in general! To no one: enjoy!

Ad Astra Per Alia Porci
To The Stars on the Wings of a Pig

May has run backwards, blowing
Newly budded Oak trees with bitter icy air, echoing
The late evening el trains distant howl, spreading
Winter's last breath and Cottonwood seeds, enveloping
Chicago in Springs cruel tides.
Winter snow's heavy splendor on the window, sweltering
Under blankets to the whining
Of the radiator.
Summer's brilliance bloomed suddenly, covering
City sandstone's in the thickest of Boston Ivy.
We wandered to parks, and the Lake Shore, catching the late fading sun
An evening of decadence spent lying in dune grass.
Le plus grand faible des hommes, c'est l'amour qu'ils ont de la vie.
When we were young, visiting the Upper Peninsula we hunted
For mushrooms in the forest collecting what we knew
To be edible in the dense shade of aging trees.
I was afraid to be lost there forever amongst such giants.
Awe for the greatest of nature, growing thick on the pine blanketed floor.
There is release in the open breath of the woods.
I fall asleep to sirens, the lull of AM radio,
Waking when I please.

Where do gardens grow? What violets thrive
In cracked salted pavement? My fellow
Citizens, do you not recognize the gaping maw of abandoned
Buildings, the For Sale sign hanging
Over the many door's of your neighborhood
Glinting in the sun like gold? And when the levees break
(You can not build boats amidst the flood)
You will be left
Clutching to the weather vein
On top of the roof you barely afford.
While men roam the deserts, blending
Into hills of blowing sand, the meaning of which
Is found in black fountains of Arabian sweet oil.
All the answers are no further than your own two dirty feet.
You called me a lioness as we lay in the flowers together
Pushing aside my flaxen curl- and when we walked home,
Your eyes shining, I was never
Certain of your gaze. Only the space
Between our hands, and the sun's
Cool reflection over the rising and falling endless shore
A feeling of missing someone
I was still standing with.

The old woman wore a navy blue turban.
She waits for the Lincoln bus to return
To the retirement home. Lamely, she pushes herself
Towards me holding a small leather photo album.
She shows me yellowed and sepia faces
Of children long since grown.
The daughter who never finishes anything.
A son that stays out all hours circling the City.
Her hands a translucent map of veins
And loose garish rings.
She warns me against taking taxi's,
Arabs and African's can not be trusted and dislike the handicapped.
This is why she takes the bus.
Refusing my help, she shuffles aboard
Pats my hand and continues home alone.

Sopped City,
Aching ever higher, building closer to the sky.
Unrecognizable are the hardened faces
Hidden among the Street of Dream's promenade,
The great whir of choking traffic never ending
In the afternoon haze. I have not seen
the City of big shoulders,
Here only the men forging for scraps between
The discordant hum of shopping, the drum
Of ladies high heeled shoes on pavement and the melting
Of one language into another never ending.
It is my understanding that all this glory
Is built upon the muddy sand of landfills,
An unclaimed land,
Once stretching its barren shores
Into the never ending plain
Of May's possibilities.

copyright 2008