find myself a city to live in's photostream  

This is a love letter to the city of broad shoulders, broads, and pork shoulders. She's had plastic surgery, but the nose is still broken.

I like bricks, and, Jack, she's a brick house. She's a skirt steak, free fries with a shake. She's got the meat and the motion. She's got a Jiffy Lube and a notion . She's got a Great Lake, not an ocean.

Cheap rents,
sleeping in tents --
attention, gents
that's my bottle.

Old-man bars,
rust-bucket cars,
pennies in jars
for your thoughts.

Hanging around,
nothing to do but frown,
rainy days and mundanes
always get me down.

Dry hump,
fly dump,
don't sit there like a lump,
acting like a chump.

Punch Drunk
went out to lunch
with a sucker punch.
(He had a hunch
it was a supper club.)

Down at the bar and grill,
at the far end away from the chill,
sits a girl who's about to spill
her guts from too much coffee and swill.

A 5 o'clock shadow falls over a stumblebum corner. Pull down the shades and call the coroner.

A shave and a shine
above a place where you used to dine.
Come back to the five and dime,
Tom, at the counter where time waits.

Hubcaps and cheap sox,
raindogs sleeping in a box,
"cheat you fair" --
what do you care?
Shut the door and check the locks.

Kickin' rocks
she plays the squeeze box,
cold as an icebox,
while their eyes lock
in a street shot.
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Found while wandering the streets and back alleys of Chicago/ collecting seemingly random thoughts and observations/ compiling collages and soundtracks from the collective unconscious/ deconstructing the landscape of symbols and meaning/ colliding with coincidence/ running at the mouth/ consuming and puking beauty... "Truth" is a tentative and tenacious thing. As the neon invitation to the hotel announced, "Transients Welcomed." The revolution WILL BE commodified....
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Here I was, hoping to franchise a chain of typewriter/8-track/vcr repair shops. Guess I'll just go back to developing that chain of buggy whip boutiques...
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Like dollar stores and the poor,
we'll always have Cleveland.
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Cityscapes and pretty scrapes,
drinking of the finest grapes.
Busted noses and rubber hoses,
busted dreams and unkept roses.

Forgotten faces, empty spaces,
lipstick traces on pillowcases.
Foreclosures and abandonments,
breaking all the Ten Commandments.

On the boulevard of broken dreams
in space no one can hear your screams.
Turn out the lights, turn off the beams --
everything's not what it seems.