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Poems On / About CHICAGO  5/5/2016 6:52:45 PM
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Best Poems About / On CHICAGO
 
 
 
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  169.     

An Irish Enclave,1956

South Side of Chicago,
long before Barack Obama

On bungalow porches
and out in backyards,
on hot summer evenings
old men lower themselves
into green canvas chairs,
smoke and sip beer,
laugh and relive
Easter,1916
and plot what they’ll do
when the niggers pour in
and eddy all over
the dregs of their city.
 
Donal Mahoney

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  170.     

Poor Humor

Humor Relating to Being Poor- Chicago Style
We were so poor that eating out in winter was snowball sandwiches
We were so poor we had possum slices in our lunch-pails.
We were so poor that the mice brought us cheese.
We were so poor we ate air sandwiches every night.
We were so poor that we had sliced bean sandwiches, just one bean
We were so poor we had dirt on stick in our lunch-pails.
We were so poor we that the coal in our stocking at Christmas was a snack
We were so poor that when a fly flew in our mouth, we swallowed.
We were so poor, we made sauces out of our own spit.
We were so poor we thought airplanes were UFO's
We were so poor in our family that DNA tests didn't work
We were so poor we would take turns licking the spoons
We were so poor we took turns resting in the oven for heat.
We were so poor that people had only four fingers when they tried to stuff themselves on the last bean left.
We were so poor that my sisters hid bread in their hair for later.
We were so poor that finger-licking good was real without the chicken
We were so poor that every night we had mayonaise sandwiches
We were so poor that we had rabbit paw for dessert.
We were so poor we evicted praire dogs from their burrows for the extra space.
We were so poor that the wolves brought us sheep
We were so poor that we sucked the leather off baseball gloves
We were so poor that every morning we had sugar sandwiches for breakfast.
We were so poor that friends took the shirts off their backs and we made snacks of them
We were so poor that the church mice took up collections for us
We were so poor we ate the apple page in Genesis.
We were so poor we put a little salt on the apple iphone and munched.
We were so poor we caught bees, ate them, and hoped for honey
We were so poor the cows ran away
We were were so poor that the termites in our house were on welfare.
We were so poor that in winter going out to eat was slush balls and snowmen.
 
Lonnie Hicks

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  171.     

Street Religion

I


I have walked out in the city streets under the darkness of the Chicago night and observed the acid raindrops as they fell from the sky like tears from a stoned angel

And wondered to myself how the harlot that is western civilization has survived the throbbings and pulsations of a thousand orgasmic military clashes in her streets

And embraced the consumerism of two thousand dilatory ages, yet remained tall as a sort of Iron Jesus in the world of mankind, scarred by the oneness of the lonely Byzantine separation.

Veni Vidi Vici to the soused boys with the peachfuzz mohawks in the postmodern philosophy classes who drink tears, ammonia, lighter fluid, and piss with Allen Ginsberg.

The wages of her sin are the stepping stones to hell by Jacob’s ladder otherwise known as the ski lift to deadness at the Disease Control and Prevention Center.

The boys, though not refined, may seek the truth under the heap of rubbish that is bracketology and kiss Aphrodite’s breasts by the dawn’s early light in the republic.

The giants of the earth, the pillars of that civilization that is undead, are the machine gun toting radical Fascists from the suburbs of despair and mental hospitality, left behind

To eat the droppings of the men who came before. And the women who came after. They sing the song of so many perverts walking in the land of the lost and singing to their scars.

The doppelganger they have hidden behind is the faηade of monumental decay through which the pageant beauties of shimmering skin and naked intellect have thrust their desires.

And the silent retreats which are the ghostly remnants of Rome and cold coffee and the Palace Theater, in them can be heard the sound of the seashells which embody refined intellect.

Beat dead in the streets which are holy land are the corpses of decaying ravenous skunks from ages past and poetic movements past such as those who burned Harlem to the ground.

Jazz funk and soul are the genres of spirited wasteland artists who have survived the negro summers only to find solace in the onslaught of dadaism and DuChamp’s toilets.

I am amazing and I am the only one to sled down Marie’s hills in the wintertime with bleeding legs and burning heart and vicious smile for the years gone by.

The block industry of vulture corporations took their victims and spit out jungle-like remains of all that remains in the whiteness that is factory manufactured cocaine heaven.


Those damning remarks by the artist who ejaculated from that tower window and into the street – the cradle of filth – below suffice to drown the sunlight weaved in her hair.

The watchman of the impervious streets sits alone on his beat like Kerouac or so many schoolgirls giggling during a hollow teacher’s sex education speech prepared in advance

And dangling like worms in front of the face of the fish that is my mother. Listen to the sound of the fury in the breeze and the trees and the simile fees charged by pavement cops.

Where art Romeo is not the question, but rather the answer to the question posed by the generation that followed the Pied Piper into the annals of world history books.

All night long the Communist cries from the dogfaced intellects in the city square affects my ears like so many virgins losing oil and the ceremony is about to begin.

Don’t be greedy or grabbing at the narcissism of the modernist Eliot-worshippers who paved the way for my revolution to pave the way for your horror and panic.

I am the king of my own destiny on this jungle gym ping pong table called breath and the muses are darkened by the Satanic light of tombs opening at the final trumpet.

For tragedy has overcome every street corner and every asinine remark made by bloviating dicks in the classrooms of Socratic thought. They thought they could transcend Grecian

Garbage and prove that my id is not something deniable or readily accepted by the women who claim to know me so well, my lovers of philanthropic principle by the watermelon beds.

Seed of my own brother Luciferus Dieciferus star of morning scourge of eventide at the Isle of Man in the Adriatic Sea and the bell is tolling for whom it tolls. Tender is the night.

Tender is the night that Nietzsche bowed before in the enthralling rapture of asexual fantasy or dreams spotted by the organic dogs of cannibalistic writers who starved generations.

End of my driveway is the gateway to Irish eternity or speed exaltation. Drunk from the whole pride of energy drinks Mistah Kurtz and his scummish dethronement of darkness’ heart.

Things fall apart and at the end of the age God will look down from his post in the land where Vishnu died and say that industrialization burned a hole in man like a robot and

Then there were none, none left in the land I created for him to inhabit. Collect the twelve baskets of remaining feces from the lava singed valley of despair and garbage collecting.

They would rather read Shakespeare and speak in lofty voices and cologne their corpses with the smells of bodily fluids extracted from a delicate process of graveyard symphonic rape.

Inquisite mind open their intellects to the teachings and discipleship of so many resultant disciples of terrorists. Israel, land of my fathers, is blooming at last with Hebrew racial

Tribalism and radical anti-biblicalism from the mouths of the undead prophets mocked and dead and killed if not deceased from the crossover movements of the screwed generation.


II


Literature is the hallucinating ravings of a diseased and disturbed mind, collectively transposed against the trigger of Lithuanian communism and religious disruption.
 
Jared Midwood

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  172.     

Those Good Tomatoes

Chicago, South Side


Late July and I am waiting
for those good tomatoes
brought to the city from farms
on trucks with a swinging scale,
brought to the city
and into the alleys
by Greeks and sons
in late July
and early August,
tomatoes so red they reign
on the sills of my mind all winter
too perfect to eat.
 
Donal Mahoney

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