This Side Of Chicago
Errrol Miller
Mexico by motorcar in 157
and now in 192 I'm touring Oak Park,
rather pensive The Woolworth Poet
is from rural Alabama, raised on possum-fat
and hickory nuts, transverse, for
The Keeper of the Words I bring you tidings
from the wasteland of the Delta: we
have no white horses, just Spanish moss
amd mild hysteria, Margaret, the hired hand,
doing the best she can. Last night the moon
turned very blue, I rowed out on
Lake D'Arbonne to no avail' where to go,
what to see, when to stop, like
Kerouac's lonesome travelers I am lost
in unfamiliar fields, hopping another
dead-end freight to red-clay parts unknown.
This surreal alternate route
with snakeweed and tomatoes, sexy
Italian women preparing more spaghetti:
what I need the most is a new thesarus,
another shot of euphoria, for the Eagles
to regroup and record more sad songs.
But it isn't in the cards today, Cisco,
my hand shaking irregular, my poetry
oozing vagabond nouns and verbs,
this old world spinning at 60 mph.
