Lone Wolf Poet: Episode 24

essay cover chalice

“Fuck Scotch”

Nothing worse than a 50-year-old suburban kid alive in the city now for over half a life, crowing on ‘bout high school Punk bands, segueing into bandmates’ names and you recognize some of the names from chit-chats between your wife and the friends she’s known since those days (some now even among friends of your own) that you’ve sat through, daydreamed through them all while hearing them all throw out all these names of bands, and this one high school, that high school, that boyfriend, this one boyfriend—hehe-haha; wink-wink—you’ve sat through all those hehe-hahas silent, with nothing much legit to offer, and you daydreamed ‘bout how the only real way you’ll make up for your lost time from back then, being as you were too much the Catholic boy, one with a penchant for paranoia and solitude—daydreamed ‘bout how if you had not been such a Sin-

Clearly by birth you’d never have had to of waited so long to lose your emoter virginity to the sphincters of words—daydreaming here ‘bout the only real way to make up for lost time from back then, with never having anything equivalent from your own back then to chime in with, is to accentuate crappy craft, citing Pop here in the wake of a poem, plotting Abacab’s track “Like It or Not” against the ethos them high schoolers of Downers Grove’s early 80s have forever needed to be cited as being Punk-born, this ethos that is in all actuality—to any graphic mind at least—nothing more than the artlessness of Ma-ma/Da-da’s suburban sprawl/anti-family principled taste for Scotch, especially how like now like back then you headphone the song and, with this crave to be something far cooler-hearted than that creepy loner you’ve been in proximity of ever since driving school, you envision the song covered by a cool chick as she waits for you in the empty aisle of a teeming bookstore out there beyond the deadpan world of the basement you keep all your wannabe posterity down in—some cool chick waiting in the Lone Wolf

Poet section to give back to you what the real you has never missed out on in this explosive world out here beyond the safety nets that are the basement and an end stool at Skylark. Now overhearing a conversation, out here all alone now ‘cause you want to again be the you you emerged yourself into for over a decade—the you who got wooed into being with it for a while a bit too late but in just enough time to be snagged by the wife—the you who before becoming dismayed with sociality all over again hung out in clusters at venues and bar hopped and confronted newly confronted strangers with a cultured wit and a bookish charm—the you before the you now who has the wife back home who gave you her unequivocal blessing to come out tonight to search out that you you feel the need to voice from again before emoter’s block bursts you into bursty piles—all alone overhearing this like-aged, Scotch-sippin’ dude’s tête-à-tête, you squeeze Sin-

Clearly into those pupils of yours there in the bar’s mirror: Déjà vu, creep: The wake of a poem lingers you well past the welcome it swore to make of you.

at The Hideout, Chicago
January 10, 2015

 

This is wannabe John Hospodka’s bi-weekly instructional blog.

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Lone Wolf Poet: Episode 23

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Bush Doctor

Yo.

“Sh-sh-sh-sh.”

What? Don’t sh-sh me.

“Ssshhhh—”

Really? Then why the fuck are you calling me? You know my cell is for emergencies only. … What the hell is it, Chalice?

[Chalice says nothing.]

Where are you?

“In a bush.” [All whispery.]

Hello? Speak up. Did you just say you’re in a bush?”

[Chalice says nothing.]

In a bush? … I’m hanging up. Bye.

[I do not hang up. He calls my bluff; he stays on the line, says nothing.]

Listen, dweeb, I’m walking down Halsted. Hear the traffic; sirens. It’s loud out here. I have no time to play little hide-n-seek games with you. Especially when I can’t make out what you’re saying. … Hello? … I’m hanging up.”

“I’m making something of you.” [Whispery; creepy.]

You’re what? Hello? … Can’t hear you. … La-la-la-la-la. … Hanging up now. Bye, asshole.

[I hang up.]

What I don’t see is that at this very moment in my after dark stroll, as I step off busy South Halsted to head into the quiet backstreets and silent alleyways of homicidal Chicago, while now in my paranoid head I begin to envision that he’s concealed inside any given bush or behind any given Dumpster along my trek, waiting to pounce on me, scare the living shit out of me—what I don’t see at this moment is that I am in the crosshairs of his insight, and that he’s already, many moons ago, and curiously unbeknownst to me, made this of me:

Instant of pure fright; instant wherein
Utter awareness is made of utter absence
And simultaneously vice-fucking-versa:
A prey backed into a corner; backed in,
Clawing insanely, screeching methodically
For preserved meaning come morning.
… And behind every line: Fright finished:
On its knees, its forehead, elbows, forearms,
Palms all pressed to imagination by memory’s
Collapse, its back arching, flattening in great
Amplifications as it sobs into imagination
That sob that can only be sobbed by a man-
Child in the throes of having lived beyond
An attempted kill,  lived through the freak out
Fending off the insanity of this cubicled reality
With a hard-bitten, unapologetic word choice:
Self-defense against being mooted is perfected 
In the line of this instant when tears cease to be,
Of this instant when memory needs tears most.

I can only imagine what he’s titled it. “Not In Line With”?  “The Fall Into a Line”? “A Fall Into the Line”? “Coloring Outside the Line”? “Coloring Inside the Line”? “Finish Line”? “Lay It On the Line”? “In the Line of Fire”? Or, something like “BOO!” Or, something real personal and pointed like “Quit Being Such a Pussy” … I don’t  know. …

 

(A Song for Episode 23.)

This is wannabe John Hospodka’s bi-weekly instructional blog.

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Lone Wolf Poet: Episode 22

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Barrier Blues (Writer’s Block’s Telling)

While quite surprisingly finding himself in a drinking establishment the other night, Chalice Sinclearly eavesdropped:

     “Grace, listen. I have come to you tonight to appease my own paranoia, to sedate my very own guilty memory. …Hell, since when have I been able to tell the difference between guilt and memory, anyway? …Pretend you didn’t hear that. That’s really not the type of question I’m intending to bring out in the open here.
      “You see, I feel that if you and I are to ever remain friendly and sharing throughout our lifetimes we must relieve a barrier – that entity which, ironically, happens to be what brought you and me together. It is this that must be addressed here. Yes, we must bring her into question, whether you – we – like it or not.
      “Now what I am about to say will be said with utter respect for, and with very warm feelings towards, Flo. But you have got to understand my vocal apprehension. You have got to understand that with her as your best friend and with me as her former beau – I mean, the three of us lived together, Grace. We were like family. We were family. Flo and I shared a bed, sure, but we all three shared the same bathroom mirror.
      “I was what went wrong. You know that, you were there. I think you’ll understand my embarrassment, and how I have a sense of dread in knowing what you know of me from that happening, from that ill staging. Grace, like Flo, you witnessed me silence away. I did not. I still have no idea what you saw. I’d like for you to share that with me someday. Till then, I’ll remain embarrassed, in dread.
      “Now I don’t ever expect Flo’s forgiveness nor do I ever expect I’ll ever deserve it. However, I do hope you’ll respect me when I say to you that forever is a long time, and fortune telling is a TV scam. And so, Grace, I have resolved to pace myself through each of my days, each day making another humble attempt to get back to the outside of myself.
      “Please, can we relieve the barrier? I don’t want to always have a slight fear of trying to speak with you just because I know you communicate with Flo on a daily basis, and because what I might say could be subject to report. I don’t want you to come to you and you harbor a fear that I might overwhelm you with inquiries about her. I want her to become, between you and me, a private word, barely, if at all, mentioned.
      “Grace, I’d like to believe that you and I had a special friendship growing, apart from mine and Flo’s situation. I’d love for our friendship to continue. I guess what I want to say – well, what I want from you tonight is your assurance that the past is the past.
      “Time out of mind, Grace? Time out of mind?
     “Grace, I wish I could let Flo in on the loneliness I’ve caged myself in. I’ve got to tell someone: the only thing at-large inside loneliness is confession. Loneliness heals a scream with a moan. Understand it’s a flesh-positive, though colon-taxing, incarceration.
      “Forgive me, but like I said, I’m saying this for myself. I know I’m being selfish here, but I hate the fact that we came together under that circumstance. Can we start anew? I mean, I’m torn by the fact that it has always been proven that you and I have more in common than Flo and I ever could. A harsh fact, but a fact. I just hate thinking that you and I might never allow our in-commonness to flourish because of this barrier.
      “Grace, I’m not suggesting that we relieve the barrier so that I can act upon the opportunity and make some kind of effort to seduce you. But I am asking that we relieve the barrier so if I ever have the urge to hold your hand while we’re in conversation, I don’t need to feel any apprehension in reaching for it. Let me put it this way: when the three of us were surviving together you were going through an extremely rough time in your relationship to what’s his face, and you cried more than once when I was the only human present. I know this is my own paranoid problem, my own string-less violin, but because of the barrier I always withheld from offering you my shoulder. Grace, I never want to withhold my shoulder from you again.
      “I don’t know. I hope I’ve made some kind of sense here. Grace, I’m simply hoping for the continued privilege of us sharing, unequivocally and tenderly, the wisdom we gain throughout our lives. And it is my paranoia that says we will never be able to do that if the barrier remains, if we don’t address the question of Flo once and for all, and discuss the very real need for her to be absent from the present tense that resides between us.
      “Now, with all that gibberish said, I must fall silent.”

Sinclearly was seated at the bar. The older gentleman who had just delivered the above monologue was seated at the bar, as well, and like Sinclearly, he too was alone. There was no Grace present; the older gentleman seemed to be reciting to the can of beer before him. Sinclearly asked, “Hey, who’s this Grace?”

The older gentleman looked at Sinclearly, studied his eyes for a moment: “I suspect you haven’t seen her around yet.”

“Then, where’s this Flo?”

He waved an arm through the air, and giggled sarcastically: “Kiddo, you got to open your eyes a little.”

“What’s your name then, old man?” Sinclearly asked.

The guy answered without hesitation, in a tone of voice that had obviously been haunted by a graceless age: “Why don’t you just make one up for me, you nosy son of a bitch!”

Needless to say, Sinclearly had worn out his welcome. He exited the tavern in quite a rush; and it was not until he was on the bus, nearly at our stop, when I realized that he had forgotten to leave some sort of tip on the bar.

 

(A Song for Episode 22.)

This is wannabe John Hospodka’s bi-weekly instructional blog.

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Lone Wolf Poet: Episode 21

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Literally Not All That Interested

There come pauses in the vast unfussing that is Chalice Sinclearly’s life as a constant wannabe.

There come pauses in his life when I interrupt him in my Why not me? sighy way of sometimes being posterity-driven, wherein I try to get him wondering if we shouldn’t go ahead and be the homey poet of a placid, pocket-sized plot, say a shoreline place – an East Coast sort of town where between the malleable hours of poeming we go for moderate walks along the blah-blahing East Coast ocean, constantly maybeing our maybe nots for all the here and nows of all our good and gones. Or even, say, a rural Michigan town in which behind a modest home set on a couple of acres we rehab a woodshed into a writer’s shed, leaving the property to venture into local craft breweries only very rarely; and never giving readings we nonetheless pull off a Pulitzer, and so when we’re long gone there will be tours of the homestead, and in the “Nasty Shack” our last pens will be on show, set upon an otherwise vacant oak writing desk – vacant, except for them pens and the pocketknife we’ve had since early grade school and still keep close in case the Daniel Boone in the Lone Wolf Poet comes across some unforeseen danger – gets himself ambushed.

There come pauses in the vast unfussing that is Chalice Sinclearly’s life as an agreeable evader of syntax.

There come pauses when I go at him with all my What ifs, urging at how he might even want to eventually amount into that Five Colleges of Ohio state of mind we strung ourself out into for a couple of B-average semesters when encompassed by the American architecture of a time that came to accentuation for keeps and for reals sometime at that point in time when Sherwood Anderson forever made of all such-like Ohio states structures of the “inability to translate inner feelings into outward form”*; and in this we are overly published in The New Yorker, picking to read and discuss on The Author’s Voice podcast a some decades-back “cohort” we’ve never taken the time to get past admiring and get to in effect reading – well, never to the point as we have with those ones who’d show up in Esquire in those same mid-80’s years wherein the publishing world seemed so Playboy to us; and we make the point to project in our discussion of the read story that the Lone Wolf Poet is the type of being who when in discussions in front of readers and tonguing over the written word as an idea, an object, a possibility, is susceptible enough to use the feminine or plural pronoun even though it’s all about himself. …

But then – thank you, un-campused world; thank you – there never fails to come into these pauses interjections of clarity when Sinclearly himself shoots down our romance over the neither here nor there by recurring in me the how of why the “should be” has always never been for the gift of poetry: those awakenings when he interjects with “Tool.”

 

*Madden, Fred (1997) “Expressionist contours in Sherwood Anderson’s fiction”. The Midwest Quarterly 38 (4): 363–371.

 

(A Song for Episode 21.)

This is wannabe John Hospodka’s bi-weekly instructional blog.

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Lone Wolf Poet: Episode 20

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“There Is No Title for a Poem that Wants to Middle
Finger Its Balance Between Its Poet and Its Poetry”

Of note’s the guise’s slope
in the compulsory slip Sin-

Clearly clears way for once
clarity’s back’s to the inside

Corner “my way” and “or take
the highway” form when met

At a cease creased into the angle
obliged by structure to be bent-

Free and free of free form:
Dunced by craze to face the in-

Side angle, clarity’s backed back
Out to the one-sided slope noted

To be the guise’s who bemusedly
inside-outs the panoptic slip Sin-

Clearly clears way for once clarity’s 
poise gets hell-bent on getting even.

 

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Lone Wolf Poet: Episode 19

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A Sort of Socio-Moral Study
Part 2

“You are not growing a rattail.”

Yes I am.

“You are clearly Class 7 on the bald scale, and you’re pushing 5-O. Listen to me here, Hoz, this is serious. You are not growing a rattail. That would be a dreadful step backwards. All the respect you have been trying for would be lost in one fwell soop.”

I’ve been trying to gain? I’m the self-publishing author of an instructional blog, mofo, one with like a dozen-plus hits every couple of weeks. Bam! I got me my character intact. … And what the fuck is a fwell soop, Chalice? It’s one fell swoop, idiot. Learn your pronunciationals.

“You obviously misheard me. [I did not.] … Regardless, you vanity-ridden, delusional nobody, just what kind of embarrassment are you wanting to become?”

Fuck you, I’m growing a rattail. And, I’m dying the sucka yella.

“Well then, you can trust that you will never, never, be seen in my presence ever again.”

You, embarrassed? You? Really? This coming from the guy who I watch go full-on creep whenever we get in an elevator with a half-way attractive lady, always starting in with that Viagra Triangle jive talk. Total sleaze; up-and-downing her with your sick eyes and talking to her ‘bout your latest checking account balance in that faux, sex offender Southern drawl of yours. You need a toupee to top that creepy shit off, baldy-locks. … Look at that hunk of gold on your finger there. You’re a married man, you pig. … That smiling you do to those poor ladies you’re assaulting: tongue stroking your crooked teeth and never once blinking. Creep. You disgust me. You’re the thing I’d call an ‘embarrassment.’

“That’s YOU you’re describing, numbnuts. YOU. … No, no. You’re right. Sure, grow the fucking thing, Hoz. Cool. That won’t freak anybody out. Nope. Especially won’t freak out the wife, that’s for goddamn sure.”

No it won’t. … Listen, Chalice – Mr. Stereotyper Himself – I am who I am. And one of the things I am is married. I have long surrendered to this reality. Surrendered with great certainty and compassion in heart. I don’t go around hoping in my head that I can still pick up the chicks.

“Ha! Of course you do. You know you do. It’s built in our nasty man chemistry. … Sheeet, you just said ‘chicks,’ bitch. That ain’t objectifying at all. You sure sound like a male showmanist pig to me.”

Whaaaat?! … You know what, blow it straight out of your ass, Chalice. I have a sense of dignity. I am committed. … And hey, it’s chauvinist. Chauvinist, you complete idiot.”

[He flips me the bird.]

“You ought to be committed to an asylum, Hoz, that’s what you ought to fucking be. Talking to your—”

Whoa! Now let’s simma down nah. Ok? We don’t need that threat hanging over the ol’ head here. … Ok. … Now hear me out on this one, Chalice; try to take me seriously for a couple seconds here. Ok, let’s face up to the obvious: one of the biggest blunders of us people is when we defend and fight for choice but then condemn others for making a choice that is different from ours. Right? I’m not bringing up anything earth shattering here. This is complete grade school shit. And what makes this blunder even bigger is that such condemnation is usually imbued with the assumption that the other’s choice was made without consideration – was made as a lemming. That there’s one very arrogant stance to take. Now, there are bad choices everyone can agree upon: choosing to excessively indulge in intoxicants – which you do daily, Chalice, much to the detriment of your literary output; choosing to drop out of high school – which you wish you would’ve had the balls to’ve done, giving you a more motley back-story; a mayor choosing election over disclosure – sweet homicidal home, Chicago. There are choices that family and community can consensually condemn and work together to help change and correct. My choice to grow a rattail would not even be a blip in the socio-moral scope of things. Not a blip.

“You are not growing a rattail. I have a job to keep.”

Ha. Who’s the vanity-ridden one now?

“That’s not being vane, Hoz, that’s being real. … Remember reality? You ought to get back to it. It’s nice and safe there for a nut-job like you.”

Real schmeal. Listen up: We’re going home, Chalice. I’m re-embracing yours and my actual condition. … Fuck tucking in your shirt, we’re going to look like the meth dealing trucker we’ve always known our self to deep down be. … I am who I am, and one of the other things I know I am is suburban White Trash. … Never questioned any of that shit, man; we existed right in there with it all, and we were all comfy in being Trash till those European bigheads seeped into our perspective and in your early twenties you began trying to pick up the Art Institute girls by telling them over the cheap Manhattans that they bought you, ‘Yes, I have slept with a man, and it was lovely.’ [The lie never once worked. God, Chalice really has always been a pig, hasn’t he?] … What I am trying to do with this choice of mine is ingratiate us again into what we have been running away from ever since we got to be in our early twenties and started to read that Czech-exile’s books that got us going on a philosopher-like second guessing of the idea of poetry – all those damn books that got us believing there’s actually virtue in being a cultured—

“Whoa! What are you—what the—what?”

Time to get back to where we started from, Chalice. Sure, our crowd today recycles, wants to see gay marriage rights, shops at farmers’ markets, utilizes Zipcar, rides bicycles like we own the roads, doesn’t tolerate racism, and shuns the NRA; but American poets have begun to stop there, they have begun to choose to stop at the point of merely placating our cultured, liberal ideals. Now, that’s not an entirely bad thing, of course, it’s just that with stopping at such unproblematic, totally effortless, stances and practices of social responsibility, American poets are actually choosing to stop before the road gets bumpy. American poets are wussying out, neglecting to risk – neglecting to really fucking risk to expand into the private estimations of White Trash with illuminations of the nonjudgemental questionings of rigors. American poetry, in character, perspective, has increasingly, disgustingly opted to be a goddamn Man Bun.

“Hoz, Hoz, Hoz, you’ve totally, totally lost me here.”

Chalice, I’m growing a rattail.

“So what’s the deal? Of course you are. And why the hell wouldn’t you?”

[D’oh.]

 

 

(A Song for Episode 19.)

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Lone Wolf Poet: Episode 18

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A Sort of Socio-Moral Study
Part 1

Well, that was a total fucking embarrassment, jackass.

“‘What’chu talkin’bout, Willis?’ You’re the A-hole who done wanted get’im some churchin’ in.”

What? You knew I had planned on going for the ol’ bi-yearly fix, it’s not like I sprung the visit on you or dragged you by the ear or anything.

“I’m not ashamed of a goddamn thing. I said unto the people the truth.”

You never are ashamed of a goddamn thing, are you, Chalice?

“You never are ashamed of a goddamn thing, are you, Chalice?”

 Don’t be a little prick.

“Don’t be a little prick.”

 UGH. … Where’s the Reverend when you need him?

“Ha! Hey, buddy boy, you know damn well the Reverend knows I can be as big of a little prick as I want, whenever I want.”

Well that’s the point, douche: I need his magic shoved down your throat right about now and get you away from this use of speech for a spell. Hell, we all know you’ve proven to be a prick time and time and time and time and time—

“OK, so really, what’s the fuss, Gus? I done rose. I gone mades the peoples’ ears perk on end. I learned them is what I done. I shined a light, shined a livin’ light on their errant ways; displayed upon the canvassed minions the crisis of their casual overthoughts. I mades the Reverend Any Major Dude prouds is what I done.”

Alright, alright, stop it with this faux Southern preacher speak. It’s fucking insulting, cock. It’s fucking racist is what it is. … Chalice, that was neither the place nor the time to choose to do that. Fucking-A, you could’ve taken out an anonymous classified in the Bridgeport News if you feel that strongly about it. …

[OK, let me interrupt our confrontation here to bring you up to speed. At the start of last week I got the inkling to go to church. On occasion, maybe twice a year, a beautiful sadness overcomes my perpetual sense of inanity, and my courage aches to be revitalized with a visit to a place where the promise of unreality emboldens one’s belief in the presence of a reflective community. I needed a little “we” time with the believers. I chose 8 a.m. Sunday Mass to attend; get it over with early, and have the remainder of the day to come up with excuses to avoid reading. I informed Sinclearly of my decision, and with a shrug and a ‘Don’t bother me none; shit, I can take this hangover anywhere,’ he agreed to attend with me. So, the Sabbath rolls around, and Chalice puts up no fight when I reach out to him at 7:15 to see if he’s still into checking out Mass with me: he rolled out of bed, went to the kitchen to grab an ice tray out of the freezer, stepped into the john, put the plug in the sink, dumped the ice cubes into the sink, filled the sink with cold water, reached into the medicine cabinet and grabbed three packets of Alka-Seltzer, ripped open the packets and plopped the tablets into the full sink, then plunged his face into the water, occasionally bringing his lips back up to the surface to take a gulp or two of the effervescence before plunging his face back into the freezingness. Once all the liquid was sucked up from the sink, he looked up to himself in the mirror, and said to me, “Now, that’s how you get bidness done.”

Things were going nicely. I had been getting in my usual amount of daydreaming, daydreaming that today consisted of sword fights with pirate-types, me bounding about the altar and tabernacle, saving the laity from sure rape and pillage. I caught Chalice every now and again sticking his tongue out at one of the dozens of squirmy children who would occasionally get on their knees on the pews to face backwards in order to more fully examine the interior design of sanctity. But then that part of Mass came along where people are able to speak up from the pews: a girl will ask for thoughts for a sick aunt and the whole congregation will respond in unison, saying, “Lord, hear our prayer.” Today, a husband brought up an ailing wife – “Lord, hear our prayer”; a wife brought up a husband serving our country overseas – “Lord, hear our prayer”; a child brought up an injured puppy – “Lord, hear our prayer.” But then out of the freaking blue Chalice chimes in: “For all the political-leaning, bookie-indebted jagoffs in this parish who practice the Bridgeport Roll, rolling through stop signs without any consideration ‘cause the very act of consideration suggests possessing a sense of culture, a sense which this neighborhood unfortunately can’t seem to shake its fear of. Being cultured. I know all you macro-chugging, soccer’s-for-homos-and-illegal-aliens type of racist Democrats want to kick the ever-livin’ piss out of the very idea of ever being cultured”; and without missing a beat, Chalice leapt straight into a rhapsodized “Lord, hear our prayer.” The parishioners, caught off guard, some stunned, others steamed, merely mumbled the petition, their words half-assedly shoring up his. The priest gave Chalice a piercing stare. By default, because it was obvious Chalice and I were attending the service as one, I was on the receiving end of Father’s scolding stare, too. We bolted. Surprisingly, no Bridgporter chased us out the doors.]

“I ain’t no racist, bastard. … And you’re just afraid to admit it right here and right now: I staged a coup, motherfucker. I shook Bridgeport down. I’m your wet dream, pussy-boy.”

A coup? What in God’s name are you talking about? A coup? We live here, buddy boy; sorry to say, but we aren’t going anywhere. This is home, and you damn well know we could not have asked for a better plot in life. We want to keep our taxes in check, keep the streets plowed, the garbage picked up on schedule. You don’t fuck with the 11th Ward like that—especially not inside Nativity.* Do you realize what we—what I’m going to have to deal with now? I can’t wait for the precinct captain’s next visit to our door. That should be a pleasantly intimidating experience. … Hey, you know what a real coup would be, don’t you now? …

[We stand here for a full minute in silence, eye to eye. Me, I’m anticipating; Sinclearly, he’s a prober. The first quarter-minute we abhor each other. The second quarter-minute we are two alone. The third quarter-minute we are torn together. And in the final quarter-minute we are one person.]

“You would never.”

Yes I would.

“You don’t have the balls.”

Oh, but I do, Chalice, I do.

“Why would you do that to yourself?”

To me?

“Ok, to us.”

To us?

“Ok, ok, to me.”

Because my man, we come from the land down under Madison, from the land where it’s justice to say: “We are proud to have with us the poet lariat of Chicago.”**

“No, no, no.”

Yes, yes, yes.

“Hoz, no, you are not growing a rattail.”

[To be continued.]

 

*Bridgeport is in Chicago’s infamous 11th Ward – home to five of this city’s mayors.
**Mayor Richard J. Daley introducing Carl Sandburg in 1960.

 

(A Song for Episode 18.)

This is wannabe John Hospodka’s bi-weekly instructional blog.

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