errol miller
Me&My Girl
Desolate angels, we were
pretty pretty pissed after the plane unloaded us. Mary
fell down and kissed the very earth that raised her: Midwest
living and dying, pictures of Michelangelo drunk an Berghoff
beer, blood-suckers demolishing the Eternal City with words.
There are, of course, always historical circumstances, the Devil
moving into a corner of the church. Near St. Charles Avenue,
near the Lakefront, near the Loop, the water rose again, decades
of discourse degenerated into a celestial sneer. Lightning
flashed over animated Cubs ill Wrigley Field. Good kids blinked
and moaned and carried on, ttiey were storing memories
of the present destined to come and bloom again.
This was the real Bohemia, the Left Bank, the Gorilla Show
where Cinderella is eaten alive by greasy mechanics
in Joe's Bar&Grill. So goes the crowd to execution,
through goofy beatnik concerts in the park to grow their hair
longer, their tem[)ers shorter. We'll need professional help
to salvage this visit, to diag our Beat dreams around
the corner of Berkeley Street to rest.
By August it will all be over.
We shall not double back this way again, me&my girl.
Dostoyensky takes up pen and prepares to write: living
on the edge of a Northern precipice, original bitches
and speechless brothers afraid to speak. Here, we are too
much like bums, after touring Frank Lloyd Wright's exquisite
story we had a drink or two with former friends, rain fell
and the mournful revolution began: narrative of the city,
its hysterical tenants sickened by melancholy madness,
speeding down the turnpike in battered Volvos,
more ugly ttian oll frustrated girls from the 50's
or dilapidated flower-children from the 60's,
trusting iri trqason and Q blind one-way vision
of the way things are in Chicago.
