“Chicago-based poet and educator Kevin Coval has one of the strongest and most long-standing literary visions in the city.”

—Chicago Tribune

“[Coval is] Chicago’s unofficial poet laureate.”

—NPR

“In Everything Must Go, Kevin Coval taps into nostalgia familiar as a former lover’s cologne. Colorful characters come alive in his prose. They make you laugh and the documentation of a neighborhood undergoing gentrification makes you wince. This book is dope.”

—Natalie Moore, author of The South Side: A Portrait of Chicago and American Segregation

“Everything Must Go is a requiem, a novel in verse, a history of a neighborhood, and a city that time has put through a fun-house mirror. It is powered by the love and friction of people building lives that fill out the shape of a neighborhood—and the loss they feel when the neighborhood’s new shape no longer fits them. Whether or not you lived through the Wicker Park of the 1990s, Everything Must Go will have something to say to you, something to teach you, and something to make you remember.”

—Daniel Kay Hertz, author of The Battle of Lincoln Park: Urban Renewal and Gentrification in Chicago

“Kevin Coval is an architect of ghosts. His poems salvage, memorialize, and rectify the body of a city. Positioned beside illustrations from Langston Allston, these poems leave no ghost untold, and no building untouched. It’s a book that brings attention to the smoldering of gentrification, and thoughtfully mourns its feasting. A must read for anyone sitting in the present, having recently escaped the mouth of the past.”

—Kara Jackson, National Youth Poet Laureate

“A vibrant yet solemn portrait of Chicago’s Wicker Park in the 90s, this collection examines gentrification and commemorates what gets lost in the process.”

—Lit Hub’s Most Anticipated Books of 2019

“[Coval writes] fascinating, beautiful poems.”

—Trevor Noah, The Daily Show

“Kevin Coval made me understand what it is to be a poet, what it is to be an artist, and what it is to serve the people.”

—Chance the Rapper

“I’m reading these great poems right now. I make sure I find time to support artists that help other artists. Tumeric is good for your inflamation for your information. This book is great in detail about human life. It’s very interesting to a human being with unlimited emotions. I recommend this book with black seed oil!”

—Sharkula

The BreakBeat Poets Series

ABOUT THE BREAKBEAT POETS SERIES

The BreakBeat Poets series, curated by Kevin Coval and Nate Marshall, is
committed to work that brings the aesthetic of hip-hop practice to the page. These
books are a cipher for the fresh, with an eye always to the next. We strive to center
and showcase some of the most exciting voices in literature, art, and culture.

BREAKBEAT POETS SERIES TITLES INCLUDE:

The BreakBeat Poets: New American Poetry in the Age of Hip-Hop, edited
by Kevin Coval, Quraysh Ali Lansana, and Nate Marshall

This is Modern Art: A Play, Idris Goodwin and Kevin Coval

The BreakBeat Poets Vol 2: Black Girl Magic, edited by Mahogany L.
Browne, Jamila Woods, and Idrissa Simmonds

Human Highlight, Idris Goodwin and Kevin Coval

On My Way to Liberation, H. Melt

Black Queer Hoe, Britteney Black Rose Kapri

Citizen Illegal, José Olivarez

Graphite, Patricia Frazier

The BreakBeat Poets Vol 3: Halal If You Hear Me, edited
by Fatimah Asghar and Safia Elhillo

Commando, E’mon Lauren

Build Yourself a Boat, Camonghne Felix

Milwaukee Avenue, Kevin Coval, illustrated by Langston Allston

Bloodstone Cowboy, Kara Jackson

Can I Kick It?, Idris Goodwin

The Life and Death of an American Neighborhood

kevin coval

illustrated by langston allston

Haymarket Books
Chicago, Illinois

© 2019 Kevin Coval

Illustrations © 2019 Langston Allston

Published in 2019 by

Haymarket Books

P.O. Box 180165

Chicago, IL 60618

www.haymarketbooks.org

ISBN: 978-1-64259-083-8

Distributed to the trade in the US through Consortium Book Sales and Distribution (www.cbsd.com) and internationally through Ingram Publisher Services International (www.ingramcontent.com).

This book was published with the generous support of Lannan Foundation and Wallace Action Fund.

Cover design by Langston Allston and Bryanna McNeal.

Interior design Langston Allston and Jamie Kerry.

This is not the rebuilding of cities. This is the sacking of cities.
—Jane Jacobs

they came

made a village

an alley to play in

a street to wander

a growing mass

new corners / comers

just off the boat / train

on the Ave. just out

the loop, off the bus

stop. fight for a job

for pay, for food, a spot

to stay in the country

when the country

was a saloon. a sanctuary

for George Marcus Coval

fleeing Ukrainians

trying to kill his family.

the streets Algren slunk drunk on.

when men were scattered & scared.

women too. golden-armed dropouts;

fathers, barmaids, prostitutes.

Native then Irish, Russian, Polish

Puerto Rican, Mexican, Black.

then everything shut down.

bungalow ambitions shipped

elsewheres.

the kennedy sliced the belly

in two. just like that

cut from the loop. the gold

coast, jobs just east, the block

its own prison staring Cabrini

in its eye.

no white person

with money wanted

anything downtown

anything other.

didn’t want someone

to step over on the way

to the suburbs, the grocery

fast food mcmansions

then stop.

hammer time.

the tasteless taste shift

raiders of the last art

mobbed the block, returned to the city

in hordes. redline ward wand-wavers

waivers, TIFs, democratic party tiffs

tips, investments. investors,

a bare-brick cafe.

outposts, pastlines

gerrymandered galleries, records

erased, reckless

corner stores closed.

the sons & daughters

of farmers went to art school.

blue collars turned plaid. sub

-urbanites with failed dreams

want what america promised:

heroin & cheap rent & space to think

& nod off in a basement. shifts to make

shit. squatters excavate spaces. the place is

a house party, turned rave, turned electro

turned Red Dog, with white noses

white powder to white powers.

a whole country waging

a war

on drugs, a commercial

boom industry for private prisons

a war

america is

destined to win

a war

waged in these

Division Streets

a war

in this village

this wicked park

a war

to stop the mix

to stop workers from mixing

so intimate they can smell

each other’s cooking.

1

the doorframe’s round like a half moon.

round like doors in the ghetto in venice

an architectural wink to let jews know

what home was safe to enter.

it musta looked this way in 1906

when George, who died of a heart attack

before we met, walked in & out as a boy

making his way in this new city / country / century.

how many times, i’ve walk this block

unknowingly. i moved to Wicker

at the beginning of its end. rotated around

this street & doorframe my whole life

a magnet, an axis, a grand sun drawn

without explanation or nation.

2

Aunt Joyce raised me.

den mother to the Second City.

we’re having blueberry pancakes

at a cafe on Division that’s come & gone

so often the street’s a revolving door.

as if she told me for the thousandth time:

you know your grandfather lived a few blocks from here.

we went, the two of us, in the end of summer

as fall wraps a light coat around your shoulders.

after the waitress cleared plates, syrup still stuck

on my hand. my aunt, the best comedian in the house

of Belushi, as i’m all sentimental, tears ready to fly, says

yeah, not so much to look at.

3

if i love youi’ll bring you here

4

George met bubbe Pearl at a dance in the community center.

he’d have to take a streetcar to see her again. she was from out west

a thousand cousins stuffed onto a block in North Lawndale. he’d sink

in his seat when crossing the neighborhood cuz he was solo in a ward

of gangs & didn’t want anyone to know he fell in love with a Polack.

5

of course, i don’t remember

why we were fighting, but we were

& it was before you left what i wasn’t sure you would

& there you were just sitting on the stoop

where George came to live. this safe zone, you said

you came here to be close to me. you went to the spot

i go to tether me to earth again, a line to my body

its history, where i revolve on axis. you have access

have broken in & sat & laughed with me on the landing

in the light where my life landed, you went right to the spot

i go, a spot that’s not my home, but is my ancestral land.

no one here has ever

been to the lake.

a giant poster of Travis Bickle

waves two pistols, a joker-wide smile

in the window of the flat iron building

at the center of the changing City / country.

no Emma Lazarus. Robert De Niro in Taxi Driver.

the statue of liberty on benzedrine.

the new New Colossus, a mother

of exiles, is not a jewish socialist.

Scorsese’s american trope is Mailer’s

white beat, the tired, disaffected cool

& latent rage of feeling

like you’re owed something

you could never collect. a generation

trying to kick cold turkey the City/

country’s broken promise, Rockwell’s

false image, Hoover’s chicken-in-every-pot.

but it’s not just Norman’s here: the children

of Chicana factory shifts form Mestiza punk

collectives that organize fiestas

for affordable housing rights; the illest

emcees Cliff Clavin by day & stalk

the mic at night in grey-blue tuxedo pants

they didn’t have time to Clark Kent out of;

Howie’s down the street slanging vinyl

at The Beat Parlor; Kendal’s in the basement

providing access to herb & Black Nationalist Lit:

a mass of fiends stalk the six-way

looking for some sort of fix.

is scrawled at the base of the poster

hurriedly on cardboard, as if to say:

you’re still without home, this is temporary

as if to say: if you ended up here

something has goneterribly wrong.

1994

the typewriter is from mt. sinai’s resale shop

it is cool & all i can afford.

the writers i love are white boys

who love Black culture. hip-hop

put me here. in this chair

at the kitchen table. the blunt

in my hand. i’m smacked

trying to hold it all together.

the expressways were built

& my parents remember.

they left & i return.

an aliyah like my people before

to a populated land.

i was born here

but haven’t been in some time.

my grandfather grew up a few blocks

from where i’m dizzy with smoke.

what does it mean when we appear

the children of white flight

back

again

where am i supposed to be

where i am supposed to be

where am i supposed to be

where i am supposed to be

where am i supposed to be

where i am supposed to be

where am i supposed to be

where i am supposed to be

where am i supposed to be

where i am supposed to be

where am i supposed to be

where i am supposed to be

where am i supposed to be

where i am supposed to be

(what else would i write about)

1

the first night was early august when even the eve refused to cool. it was

past midnight. i asked the Kings outside if they knew where i could get

something cold to drink. i could use a beer, a jug of water, something to

keep me from being hot & lonely. i asked if they wanted anything, this

group of four young men: skinny & Mexican & tattooed wearing white

tank tops & jean shorts & bulls hats with silver necklaces, the makings

of mustaches. they all just looked at me. i asked again & the street was

actually quiet for once & the quiet stretched taut over the city like a wire

around the neck. these boys didn’t say shit, just looked at me, for fifteen

seconds in silence that could’ve been an hour. the older looking of the

four said there’s a gas station on Ashland. i said thank you & started to

head that way until under his breath he said they’d take a six=pack. his

homies giggled. i looked back & laughed & the leader shot a look to the

rest like what’s so funny.

when i got back, we opened a case & sat on the stoop. they made the

steps a school room. mapped out the neighborhood, block by block,

who ran what streets. what beef. names. signs. colors. counts. bishops.

conservative Vice Lords. peoples & folk. five & six point stars. almighty,

insane. gang affiliates & factions. they were stuck here. moving white &

weed. trapped in the trap. they could not leave without heat, a constant

look over the shoulder.

2

i stroll anywhere

anytime. dayglow, moon

night. my skin

a pass. a piss

a joke, a way

out, always.

i stole, got caught

let go. no record

stalks me thru courtrooms.

i have no history

upon arrival. i am

always writing it.

i drink & drive

been pulled over

by CPD / nothing

thankfully. it’s not luck

it’s just / white. on the block

in the streets. the city’s

mine. art institutes

collect my image.

i can tilt my fitted

toward any nation.

i’m a welcomed

guest. a warning shot.

my reputation precedes me.

dated Lena

a skinny girl from Ohio; i dated

Gina, her friend from undergrad.

naturally we moved in together

1632 W. Beach St., the beginning & first

apartment in Wicker. we worked

as waiters. covered each other’s

shifts. i began writing in the morning

like religion. Jayson was trying to find

something to keep him alive.

his father photographed the famous

for Ebony. Black & middle-class

enough to move to Evanston.

his only older brother learned

multiplication, how a pack

becomes a brick & mortar

a laundromat front.

he took pics like his pops but the light

dim in his eyes. his brother amped

he moved to a neighborhood in transition

where a shoebox could become a wall

in the closet, bundles beneath the bed.

the carpet littered with tiny blue bags.

scales on the faux marble kitchen counter.

a giant diamond appeared in one ear.

a rope chain over his black tee.

i came home one night before he hit the club.

he left the restaurant weeks ago. there’s a business

card sitting on the table, just his first name written

in cursive, beeper number at the bottom, beaming

like he is

the dopestthing i’ve ever seen

a long boy, a tall jew. cro-magnon

with Samson’s hair. he’s quiet.

a giant who takes such little space.

a twin mattress on the floor in the tiny

third room. no dresser drawers.

clothes folded fastidious on the hardwood

like a gap employee in the fascism of retail.

an israeli army dissenter, who didn’t

want to kill Palestinians & fled

after Rabin was murdered.

we drove a white truck

all over the city. picking up

& dropping off reupholstered sofas

from the Westside all the way to wilmette.

we lugged armoires up three flights

of rickety back steps, hanging over bannisters

hung over ourselves.

we learned the grid like marksmen.

a number; 1600 is Ashland, Western 2400

how blocks change cause of a letter: N to S

east to west.

all day we crossed viaducts. D playing

the radio, replaying the war;

border guards & second-class citizenship.

he was on the lam, dumbstruck.

grows tomatoes & jalapeños in the backyard.

he offers me mint & lime. his teeth wide as rows

of tombstones. drinks long-neck bottles of Tecate

from a red cooler planted on the porch. he roots

on the stoop & watches Beach St. litter with children.

in the lot across the way they play on a mattress

with an alley cat in the tall weeds sprouting dandelions

& purple-headed flowers. his round body posts beneath

the moon of a porch light, an indigenous king in baby blue

jeans & a dark denim jacket. when he returns from the third shift

at the butcher shop, he puts down his knife & washes the blood

from his hands. we know it’s dawn when we hear the release

of air, the pop of the cap, the first sip as his friend strums

a small guitar & night creeps to sun & the sun rises like Jesus

or Jésus or poor Lazarus who mighta wanted to get some

rest or just stay right where he was. the block calls him

Mr. Rooster cuz he sings a Spanish blues, la melancolía

waking the neighborhood, announcing the new day.

wears a phone on his belt

like a gun. each call so urgent

he must quick draw. he wears gold

sunglasses in the winter & cargo shorts

year round. his face a baby butt

rash from vacation in the Caribbean

or somewhere in Mexico though

collecting rent’s the closest he’s been

to Mexicans.

he lives in a suburb 20 minutes away

& works downtown. he owns four

other buildings in the neighborhood

& is buying more before the bubble

breaks or bottoms or tips over. he

& a college buddy have a side business

buying empty lots that might serve porkbelly

in a cafe with rusted candelabras.

he wears flip flops with socks

& wants to flip properties

like a wrestler. this rigged match.

this hollywood sport. this fantasy

economy anyone can pull up

their bootstraps. he talks to me

cuz i’m white like him & not

like my roommate or anyone else

he takes money from.

he steps out his BMW

onto the block like a petit prince

a conquistador. the only Spanish he knows

is mañana es mia.

in the park. sips brass

monkey from a corner store

bought with a dollar & change.

he heard it in a beastie boys song.

his ID says he’s old enough to drink

alone in the new city. it’s near midnight

on a friday. the streets swell with folks

but the boy will not speak

to someone for days.

during days off

he’ll watch. he’ll lose

track of time. he’ll learn

the city by listening to it

halt & grind & fire.

the boy will aspire

but for now

there is a corkscrew

unfurled in his hand

for the walk home.

his pocket got a knot in it.

tips scrambled for the little

he makes, he scrambles

scared someone will fuck with him.

scared no one will fuck with him.

the new city’s burped

& birthed him, got him drunk

& taught him how to hold liquor.

how to piss in an alley.

how to run & cut

thru an alley.

how to open

someone’s face

like a bottle of wine.

The Chef

became lonesome for english & a good cheeseburger & returned to

american kitchens a sought-after star. opened his own spot at the end

of an empty Milwaukee Ave where Wicker’s bohemian pack had not

yet come. new french cuisine in a small storefront for less than half of

what you’d pay in the bistros downtown. he ran the kitchen like a tyrant

improvising. steaks were high & seared in butter, a sprig of rosemary.

if you order the wrong dish or leave it in the window too long, a pot

might come for your head. his temper like the temperature.

an upstart venture on a mound of debt. some nefarious lenders, some

banks. both will kill you.

Chef would braise a pork chop like it was on fire. herb jus just the liquid

to save it. everyday he made an employee meal at 4:30 & we ate like a

family. after the night, he sat with a customer or alone at the end of the

bar with a glass of wine, still in his white coat, a soldier in fatigues after

battle. once in a while he’d apologize if the pan hit you but mostly he’d

just sit & sip & teach me how an artist works: relentless & with fury.

*

Amy the Manager’s also a Buddha

waiting tables is learning how to juggle three or more hatchets at once.

the moment your attention’s deterred the whole thing can go left. a busy

saturday night, its own rhythm. a couple of mistakes; the difference

between a livable wage & being late on the first. the service economy

dependent upon how a class or two above happens to feel. if i did 20

tables, i could leave with a baby knot. 5 shifts a week, i could cross the

poverty line.

Amy saw me struggle. flustered by the demands of a big party, my

mood soured by a pretentious two-top. she grabbed me mid-service as

i stumbled thru an evening, half the restaurant full & half my mind in

a notebook or some girl’s bedroom or the hope of something more. her

hands firmly on my shoulders, face inches from mine, said water waits for

no rock, it moves around & over. that’s what water does. it flows. be water &

keep it pushing.

*

Virgil the Sommelier

Queer as the cabaret he’d sing in on off nights. sometimes as himself,

sometimes as one of the women inside. there are multiple iterations of

everyone; G-d & grape. at the end of a night he’d sit me at the head

of the bar & lay multiple glasses, like Bozo buckets, on the freshly

wiped countertop. he’d grab bottles from dramatically lit shelves

twirling & telling stories about clubs, drugs & dick in the 80’s: a foulmouthed

show-girl. each glass a tiny taste; an entire evening dedicated

to Beaujolais, Bordeaux, Burgundy, another night solely of Sémillons.

Cognac’s a variety of Brandy & i wanted to be down. he’d hold a glass

to the light, a quick swirl to show me its legs. tells me to put my nose all

the way into the bouquet, savor the liquid in the cup of my tongue. the

pallet expansive: floral & fruit, earth & pear there, wood & chocolate all

in a droplet. an ancient monastic alchemy of origin & grain.

Virgil, my fabulous professor, dancing Queen sommelier.

*

Leon

gives me a crash course in fine dining finishing school. how to delicately

place Coq au Vin on a guest’s plate with fork & spoon then ladle au jus.

the order & swiftness of wine service; the proud, non-judgmental display

of the label, the gift of the cork to sniff at the base of the glass stem, the

tiny pour to taste & pleasure in pushing a whole bottle of Châteauneuf

du Pape. juggler of courses & plates. how to hold three dishes with

grace. four’s a slop house. present the food on the red carpet of the white

table cloth with je ne sais quoi.

he makes more tips than i thought possible. one night over a thousand

when a made man gave everyone in his vicinity a C-note. he’d count the

night’s take in an alcove near the side work, wrap his cash in a brown

paper bag flat & tight & slides it in his waist band near a gun, a gold

heart, a sick wife. the greatest server the city’s ever seen.

*

Tony & Angela & then Angela

Tony would saturday night with a table of good fellas. steak au poivre

& lamb on the bone. a few times he was in with his family. Angela’s

his girlfriend. there’s no judgment in service. you bring someone what

they desire. Tony’s an investor & never paid for his meal but tipped well,

especially when Angela was there. she’d inquire about dessert but rarely

ordered. she liked the music we played & wondered at the artists. i asked

if she knew Gang Starr or Guru or Donald Byrd or Roy Ayers. she said i

should make her a mixtape. i told her i wasn’t trying to get killed.

years later at the post office that’s now a gym, i saw her ready for

another set of lunges. i wanted to say hi, for her to recognize me like

when i’d bring crème brulee to the table & her smile was a celluloid

dream. eyes on burnt sugar then up at me, alight & alive, when i was

glad to be a part of her day that was sweet.

*

The Guys in the Kitchen

are my age. Jose

the sous chef, takes the expressway

from Cicero, has 2 kids & a girl. Pele

washes dishes & lives around the way

wears a sleeve of names. hopes to move away.

his family came to make bank. america a way

post-nafta. we listened to crucial conflict, smoked hay

in the middle of the alley. they’d talk shit in Spanish, wey

the rhythm & play of the ball court. after a tough shift, a way

to bust out laughing. my Spanish broke as me, wey.

didn’t know what they meant, each sentence punctuated, wey.

i thought maybe i heard an additional syllable, YHWH

my G-d, these dudes save me some nights, affirm my way.

from buey, literally an ox, a labor & sacrifice, a razor blade

Big L told us. we cut up thru the evening, pool tips con hombres

count bills in the back, we scrape, to get by, any fucking way.

the barkeep.

the milkmaid.

the pierogi molder.

the sweatshop sewer.

the steel worker.

the automated lever

everyday

for thirty years.

the furniture seller.

the kolache baker.

the concha baker.

the butcher.

the supermercado bagger.

the paletero.

the fruit cart slicer.

the tajín sprinkler.

the steel worker.

the automated lever

when factories left

no one could afford to eat

at the taqueria, the polish diner.

the ingenuitous pimps.

the street walkers.

the corner kids

moving white.

the white flight.

the hood of hustlers

overnight.

the divestment.

the abandoned carcass.

the real estate vultures.

the steam punk squatters.

the drug den denizens.

the artist studios.

the coffee shop.

the thrift shop.

the storefront gallery.

the used bookstore.

the new restaurant with

the tattooed chef.

the music venue.

the barback.

the bar’s back.

the art’s here.

the art’s for sale.

the SROs

the single family homes.

the night life.

the knife fight.

the guns patrol

where guns patrolled.

where five years ago

the new homeowners

wouldn’t go.

it’s seedy

then unique.

the boutique.

the urban outfits.

the cute developments.

the real estate loan officers.

the offices & officers.

the internet tech startups.

the flat iron.

the artist loft office space.

the sweatshops.

the whole floor.

the whole foods.

the strip malls that made suburbia.

the jobs that made the hood

obsolete like

the iceman

cold in this new economy.

iron hands the color of oil.

blue shirts stained like church

glass. the young guys still got fresh

lines from the barber. old heads let it

go a little. all the fellas at the tire shop

know how to submerge rubber in a bath

to determine what caused rupture.

detectives of the tread under broke

fluorescent suns, a forest of dead

Michelin men. source of constant rescue.

roadside assistance for the hood

long after the sign says closed.

community festival notices taped

in the window. styrofoam coffee cups

filled with filth. an empty bottle

of henny is a good saturday night.

black shoes & black belts of the lug

wrench. sockets spin out of hubcaps

like a dice game. yellow jacks lift

cars on the corner, hercules

with a seesaw. some wear back

braces. most have tattoos, gold

crosses around their necks, down

to save anyone who pulls up.

Urbis Orbis will always be a haven

for those of us who don’t have a home

in this country, this society, this city.

Tom, the owner

the center of bohemia. a giant room

machines once lived. shut down

moved on. an all-day seat costs a buck 80.

Tom the owner used to shoot

i heard. grew up in the suburb next

to mine. now sits in the middle of an oval

bar chatting quietly with regulars

reading newspapers & Derrida. white

mugs turn beige. Brown neighborhoods

turn white. during the day, light leaks

over chess games like piss. people & tables

scatter like buck shot. no baristas. the difference

between those who work & those who hang out

indiscernible. you pour your own refills.

shady shit always seems to be happening:

the night i meet Rudy & Alonzo we cop

a bag out the alley after they ask if i’m

a cop. David the sculptor takes me around

the corner to his studio. shows me a gun

& asks if i’ll act a look-out for a liquor store

hold up. the girl India’s eyes are an ocean

after the Exxon. her room, a palace of sadness.

Larry’s got locks. 13 years sober trying to raise

his daughter right. the light at night made

our bullshit ethereal. all of us leads in a low

budget film that’ll never get made.

we gather here seeking a home

we’d never name, some book never

published, some painting tucked in

a closet, closed up, gone. grown. some

away forever. some regular life.

it’s a gym now.

monthly fees.

members only.

was a sailor. two tours in the first gulf war.

a castoff. after we met, i saw him everywhere.

he’s well-loved on Milwaukee Avenue

& seems to work at half the restaurants.

he could get anything you ever wanted: opium

a pocketknife, spray paint. he always had a girl

a thin dark-haired beauty, new to the city

small dog in tow. he’d end up crashing with her

a few weeks in some loft with marble countertops

& after they fought & broke, he’d hit the block

like a summer jam. he’d paint canvases

of flowers he saw in Iraq; clusters of bellflower

bunches of yellow chamomile. he’d drop acid

& skateboard downtown, unanchored, well past

business hours when buildings would flower

like bombs in the sky. it was a time

when no one had a last name

only their first followed by a brief description:

Rudy who works at Earwax.

Rudy with the ponytail.

Rudy with eyes like whirlpools.

Rudy with tattoos of violets.

Rudy who skateboards.

Rudy with the PTSD.

Rudy who said to meet him here.

Rudy who said i could stay with you.

Rudy who owes me forty bucks.

you know Rudy, the sailor

the painter, the busboy

the veteran, ghost addict.

Rudy the con artist

the hook up, the petty thief

& personal chef to the homeless.

Rudy the hero of Milwaukee Avenue.

my first friend in the new city.

a gentrified pastoral ending on a Shakespearean remix

light trapped in the storefront. door ajar to the avenue.

dust dancing an errant sun beam. the must of espresso

& pesto mingles with new money buying mansions

lining the park. white aprons, oil stained tassels. hairnets

on the heads of young men being moved out

the neighborhood. vintage seats, repurposed school

desks. Big Star, the white taco spot, still a car wash.

a menagerie of lamps, a vegan haven. freak show

posters, posers, all day diners. carnies selling a dream

& hashish. frog-legged boys & beards. men dwarfed

by history. six-fingered guitar strummers. everyone

an indie-band, wondrous skeleton & snake charmer.

tattooed women pass an hour with Huxley; how

many hideous / beauteous creatures in this brave new world.

an apartment of poems (too broke for a suite)

B

i mis-gendered him

at first, a whole generation

of Chicago boys who grew up

in House, comfy with a spectrum

of style & sexuality.

his uniform: silver booty shorts

roller skates & high white socks

with candy cane stripes, a mesh

tank top. he wears beads of sweat

like jewels, a camera or two

like medallions.

B’s at every party. every night

there’s a DJ & dance floor to praise.

he pops out, pops a shot & whispers

into the ears of all the women

i thought too beautiful to talk to.

every time he conjures a smile

a magician, as they hid hair behind

an ear to offer the fruit of their lobe.

eventually we speak. he tells me

he’s at work on a pictorial document

of the scene. its glory & horror. its ecstasy

& heavy drugs. jack & juke journalism.

he says i should come to dinner.

*

Melody

is B’s girl.

a wisp of a woman from southern illinois.

wheat thin & virginia slims. hair a haystack.

the freckles of a farm girl. her breasts a bounty

a bowl of blood oranges. she spoke in a 50’s twang

Rizzo-esque. there’s a hard edge, a chronic hint

at past distress. her dress, a lyrca halter. she looks

18 but feels forever like her youth evaporated an era

before she was born.

they live in the attic turned loft. a long run

of a room with pillows on the floor to sit, low

tables, enough fabric for a Moroccan gift shop.

they sleep atop a bunk bed. there are bowls

of salad & plates of hummus & olives. hash

rolled in spliffs. acid jazz & breakbeat science.

candles & the leaking light of street lamps. Laurel

the downstairs neighbor is there.

*

Laurel

has a lazy eye. close cropped

bone blonde hair. a tattoo on her scalp

of a black rose. Laurel’s an adjunct professor

at columbia college. Laurel makes pictures

of dead things & ghosts: skulls on a dinner table

tricks of light that look like the faces of ancestors.

i’m not smart enough to understand. Laurel

teaches me to say make pictures. take is patriarchal

make implies the hand of a creator, a conversation

& manipulation of vision, a reframing. Laurel’s

the first person i know to have her own apartment.

art on the walls from colleagues, paintings of past lovers.

she’s a decade older & i’m a cave man recent

to language. she makes me feel all broad back,

bone & stamina. Laurel has a room dedicated to sex.

equipment like a gym class. a whole weekend in her

house of lavender. i’m a brute learning not to crush

a bird, a dumb man just beginning to speak.

*

Geoff & Alexa

also live in the building. she’s from

cambridge, wealthy, beautiful & unemployed.

Geoff’s in a phd program at the university

of chicago studying postmodern philosophy

writing about Derrida & deconstruction.

their apartment’s wallpapered in aluminum.

Alexa djs industrial techno

not the soulful elevation of what Chicago

& B dig but the early electro iterations

of what happened in the abandoned houses

of Detroit steel. iron symphonies of a tweaker

in the war on drugs, in the moment industry

fled the heartland to leave space for the sonic

experimentations of the first generation of kids

who would make less than their parents.

Geoff & Alexa take me to Crobar, a club

i could never afford. Alexa knows the bartender

the coat room girl, the guys at the door. a princess

of the night with tiny bags of candy. Geoff follows

& puts a pill in my mouth. the space is a monstrosity

multiple rooms & walls of music, stories of speakers

lights low & throbbing. models, investment bankers

& basketball players souped up on designer drugs.

MDMA disorientation. house distorted, a night train

quickly gentrifying, white like the powders, white

like the peoples.

*

Crazy Horse

Melody asks if i’ll take her

to the interview. she’s the type

not many say no to. i drive

an ’84 volkswagen rabbit

i bought off my cousin for a g

when i turned 16. it’s a rag

top. we hit North Ave like Thelma

& Louise dipped in denim & a sundress.

The Crazy Horse is a gentleman’s club.

today is Melody’s audition. she has

to dance & sweet talk. she takes a bump

in the car before we go in. she worked

in Rockford & Joliet but this is a shot

at real bread. her homegirl says $1200

a week, at least.

the spot’s swank, a grotto of purple

mirrors & warm neon. the waitresses

look like they swing from serving

to the stage. Melody says i can watch

her interview if i wish. i’m a gentleman

so i wait outside the back office

standing at attention like a soldier

a Kevin Costner, guard of import

my body a tool of use & value.

*

the end of sociology

Melody comes to the crib to ask what she says is a big favor.

a phd student’s writing his dissertation & wants to spend 24 hours

in the lives of his subjects immersed in

the work. there’s a little bit

of bread & will i spend the night

cuz she don’t know dude & B’s out of town.

of course i’m down

the professor takes us to dinner anywhere she wishes.

Melody never had sushi & a spot just opened on Division.

the waitress brings towels before the meal to wash.

the professor orders sake & maki & asks Melody

about her life, her parents & education. he records

on tape how her moms would leave in search

of a man, her absent father, Melody’s on some

teen wonder woman shit, sacrificed herself so her siblings

could glimpse normal. her dyslexia undiagnosed.

she dropped out of school & waitressed as a sophomore.

started dancing at 18 cuz there was more money to be made

& g-d gave me these titties for a reason, she said. she’s paying

for her sister’s college, for real, in her first year at Eastern.

it’s hard not to fall in love.

the professor says you eat the ginger

after the meal. but we keep putting

the little slivers of spicy flesh on top

of the fish. we like mixing everything up.

we go to a dive after & the professor

makes the mistake of trying to match shots

with us. we know the bartender & the street

& how to hold liquor. the professor gets shitfaced

& we bring him back to the apartment

to sleep it off.

Melody makes a fortress of pillows

& sheets in the middle of the long room.

she plays The Ramones & The Clash & rolls

a spliff. we stretch into night & she talks

about Chicago & leaving & returning with more

money & fame. we fall asleep for a little & i wake

with her head on my chest. i kiss her temple

awake. she raises her mouth to mine

& we jump.

*

everyone ghosts

i never see anyone again. after that night

Melody & i know better. the house broke

& primarily drug related. i was thinking

about doing less anyway, felt i was relying

too tough on something other than myself.

plus she’s not trying to leave B

but maybe

a year later, i see her

in a big baby

blue Olds with bench seats.

she’s out. moving west.

like vegas, west, all her shit

in the back seat.

she’s flying solo.

she doesn’t get out of the car.

i just lean into her

window for a little

saying my goodbyes

softly, out

on the Ave.

when the internet was a flyer

someone put in your hand

a word from a mouth near enough

to whisper. there’s a number

to call, a fake address to send you

off. a forgotten warehouse

where the party jumped …

we didn’t have to go thru the rigmarole.

we knew Rye-kn; a free-wheeling, up & coming

drum & bass selector, who always knew

where to get the good shit.

*drum & bass:

the Caribbean churned thru the raw mouth

of post-industrial, post-colonial mad max car speakers,

triumphant sped-up dub platters & Method Man’s chopped

vocals sprinkled like glass shards; a music for the end times.

Danny the Wild Child

went from backyard parties

to top-billin. records dug

in bridgeport thrifts

& George’s Music Room.

a White Sox cap on his head

like a Southside king.

when molly was ecstasy

unstepped on mdma

& the come down

no ground tooth lockjaw.

euphoric & bullshit. all we’d need:

a moon & a warm body.

Chicago was

the murder capital, for real.

its children lug milk

crates into reclaimed public

space the private corporate state

owns. on the day they tried to kill

our parents’ jobs

we were flying

you couldn’t find us

Millie was the belle

of the ball. she came home

the first night we met, naked

under a new street lamp on Beach St.

but never returned. i insisted

on a condom when the whole scene’s

who you could trust. a small pocket

of people & pills. we were

in a storage facility

while the guard slept;

third generation jackers

new skool tweakers

off the shits, grinding

til the change

of the base drop

& shift.

i was there when liquid kitty used to be The Bop Shop

—J.U.I.C.E.

jazz embraced its son.

old heads in Kangols

recognize the snot-nosed

foul-mouthed motherfuckers

in oversized denim. a Tuesday

work night to put in work.

when a freestyle was off the dome

in the tradition of the city’s great

improvisers; Phil Cochran & Viola Spolin.

glasses sweat like the crowd

gathered in layers before the band

stand; hoodied monks, strong heads

nod in approval, a ritual to keep

the crowd moving. young bucks might

fuck up which meant heads would stop

& you could get stomped but homeboy

could return next week after practice.

rap’s gymnastics, kids flipping in empty lots

on a mattress, an art & kung-fu dance.

when emcees were swordsmen

who carried words in a velvet case

& polished brass when they’d get to the bar.

all day long, a generation mumbling

to themselves over the rumble of L trains.

mad men superheroes who hold down day

jobs & emerge in the night with bombastic

nome-de-plumes: Shadow Master, Eyespy

Longshot, J.U.I.C.E., Ang 13, Prime, Captial D.

Tuesday’s a proving ground, wordshop

workshop, masterclass, shogun swap meet

spot to see new poets from sides of the city

the city didn’t want you to see.

we were out there, on Division

catching wreck & getting open.

ending on a remix of Howl

underground saturday night

in the basement of the six-way.

steps down to the bookstore.

incense, drums, prayers. Black

& mostly that. poems, a song.

a gathering, a cipher. communal

healing. here would be the start

of my life unconstrained

by northside segregationists.

a life of Black poems i’d been

preparing for. reading alone.

here they were for real. i am

& always will be that white

dude. another one & yet again.

the trope of the culture. will i be

different if the country isn’t.

on the side, then on the mic

in the center, yet again.

here is the beginning. the X

marking the spot i was born

again. in / to / out / of the caldron

Mario, Tina Howell, Chuck Perkins

Reggie Gibson seasoned. here

where i met avery r. young

Dennis Kim & Brother Mike.

where i saw the freshest minds

of my generation employ bad

assness, stark lyrical aching

bragging themselves Black

into the streets til dawn.

the only way i know a song

knocks is to play it in your truck;

a ford big enough to explore rap

dreams, seemingly attainable

in the cabin of our cruise ship.

first generation Korean-american.

your little brother also an emcee

& still alive. the GOAT

poet / rapper in the history

—of the hybrid.

we went to rival high schools

but met in the basement

of Lit-X; earnest kids with spiral notebooks

& jeans two sizes too big, trying to get on

& a word in edgewise.

you rap for your people

born with two tongues, Typical Cats

regular joes, immigrant stories

Chicago / america is reticent to claim.

your sing-song style bread

crumbs the generation now

gathers in the crates

of an old oak, a cd stuck

in their parent’s dodge. a budding

pidgin. to think your folks wanted

you to be an architect. the whole time

you were the blueprint.

all summer

your truck bumped All-City.

we’d pull up, pop out; hit the corner

store, hoops court, park jam, bbq;

a constant movie; a moving cipher

weed rolled, we’d roll, nowhere to go.

windows down, before the fall, before

you said the ancestors stopped

whispering to you like that & the Last

Child was working on a record

& all of us were still alive.

looks at me once & it feels like all night.

she’s Jeremy’s girl. Jeremy works with Jayson

& i at Wildfire. he’s every emo indie guitar player.

she’s the daughter of a Filipina nurse & an eastern european

house painter. she dons a platinum-blonde wig & long eyelashes

fake as fuck. smokes parliament thins & plays stand-up bass

in an all-girl ska band. she lives on the top floor west

of Western in the tallest building on North Ave

the living room is for band rehearsal. she serves

champagne & Hennessey in mason jars. i see her

around at house parties. we go to a rave on Webster

hop a fence & cross the old bridge to get there.

we make out beneath a billboard & spend the summer

falling asleep to Sea & Cake. she’s bipolar & pansexual.

wears a kimono open with panties around the long apartment

at any hour regardless of who’s there. she don’t care or hide.

she’s high. a fine mess of a woman & i love a good mess.

a long cigarette dangling like a delicate fruit at the stove

making eggs. tummy, ass & eggs. last night’s mascara

smeared about her eyes like perfect wafts of smoke.

on the day the landlord raised the rent

25%

(which we thought illegal

but what lawyers did we know

what loot could we wrangle)

i had a duffle bag of clothes

a typewriter i carried like a briefcase

an ’88 chevy nova that was a library.

i’d see Jayson one more time

departing Old Town Ale House

on North smiling like the skyline.

he was out, had a man, retired

from the game of bundles & closets.

we shook up on the Ave. he took a dollar

out his pocket, tore it in two & told me

to hold half. i keep it in my wallet, still, today.

we said we’d stay in tune but it’s hard in a city

of rush streets & tumble.

D had an army-issued backpack

slung across his chest.

he walked to the train

without goodbye

& disappeared into the subway’s

sunken stomach

at least the diners stay open

late: the ham-on-bone at Western,

the long car on Irving, the white

palace at Roosevelt; temples

of halogen lights & refillable mugs

where waitresses are kind

& sometimes the hand

they put to mine to lift

my head from nodding

is the only time i’m touched

that day.

i know where homes is

tucked beneath the kennedy.

i’ve known the north branch

of the Chicago River at dawn

long before i signed a lease.

bags of clothes. books. a city

-wide storage locker, the only

key in my pocket. i sleep

in my car, i sleep at my mans

my mentors, my girl’s

before i lose her.

2 a.m. couch surfer. sucker.

baked bean aldi booster.

the tips i take

at the end of my own shift

are rolled in a bustelo can

tucked in the space

the spare’s supposed to be

next to a knife, a roll

of quarters, a quart of

Listerine, a bar of Irish

Spring, a tooth

brush, a box cutter.

i do laundry at the Y.

i’ll clean anyone’s clock.

egalitarian nurse. 20% psychologist. you cure

our ailments for an hour or whatever, under

any light / night / joint / condition you find us.

it’s like you took a Hippocratic oath to kindness

despite our thristy advances you cut down

like a lumberjack. despite the wage gap.

mood wed to income. incomparable actress

who brings me & my head-ass homies eggs at 3 a.m.

with the grace of a film star in color-vision.

we all feel lovely when you call us honey. it’s not

that i can be whoever i wish in front of you

but i can be myself finally without shame.

high priestess of the Golden Nugget who bore

extra napkins the morning my aunt passed.

temptress of the BBQ who touched my shoulder

when dropping the tab, who loved me for a month

& dropped me like the tab. you are all good

to my father who holds your hand every time

for too long & i tell him to stop but get shooed away

cuz this is lite work in a heavy lift & maybe a moment

to catch your breath in the whirlwind of the weeds.

you are a beautiful breed. excuse us all. who sees

who serves the people more, our needs & insane

demands, our idiot-synchronicities. who is more

resilient than a mature dervish wheeling side dishes

& heaping pots. ballerina of the four top. you take us

in & return us to the world fuller then when we came.

drinking outside’s the freest

we could possibly be. everyone

wishes to walk in the stew

of summer clutching a canteen filled

with cold gas as night sweats

the base of your back, gathering

tiny pools underarm like little

armies of funk. forget the law

which governs state agencies. this

the law of close quarters in concrete.

a necessity of sharing a bedroom

or two with someone stressing you

after the gig or kids turnt up on television

& kool aid. the thick of glass in a bag

in your fist down the street, slinking

thru a park like an animal unseen

around these parts for quite some time.

a free being recently departed from a dollar

& some change is dangerous, lives as if

anything’s possible.

The Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath

Mark 2:27

every friday after sundown

a ten-block walk to the intersection at Damen.

we won’t stop in the liquor store or scrounge

change for an elote. we won’t turn on lights

or spend a dollar. we quick step past section 8

lots gut bare. no trespassing. if time’s abundant

a slink thru side streets to see scribbles of madmen.

most often a devout hustle down North Ave

to consecrate the corner & get a spot in the minyan

with men posted up at the 6-way intersection.

a mechitza, a partition between us & those

we won’t see on a tuesday. we’re a motley flock

invisible to the newly paid. our cessation

from work lasts till the first three stars emerge

in the Westside sky or some other miracle: a 20

falling out a pocket like a lost feather, a bag

of bottles left too long unattended, a truck bed

open for the quick take. our incessant con

to get over & get by.

G-d could rest after day six.

we scramble thru all seven.

all the men on the ave

keep one foot on the wall

& one in the earth. Black

flamingos posted like capital

P’s. David, Jeff, Oba. no one

has an address or last name.

all the men on the ave

jaundice-eyed & fire-tongued.

mad dog breath. bare bottles

are bells at their feet. offerings

to an Orisha left back South

side.

all the men on the ave

got grocery carts of metal.

Latino / Polish workers

on new construction sites

turn their kind eyes elsewhere

leave out copper fragments

in this new economy of not.

all the men on the ave

know the alleys are treasure

maps. haul other men’s trash

to the recycling center on North.

trade their weight for a few bucks

a few bucks for a bottle or some

other triumph at day’s end

before night scrambles to sleep

if sleep at all.

all the men on the ave

dress in gowns of gladiators

from smaller markets

where jobs flew

like southern game.

all the men on the ave

are a teamof superstars

who want the rock & won’t pass

hopefullythru the chronic night.

all the men on the ave

are awake, painfully.

lights hanging overhead

in place of the heavens.

carries photocopies

the Korean owner lets him make

for free. he’s got originals too

tucked in a cabinet, a beautifully

handwritten folder. Oba adds

to the stack daily. fires off

hundreds & hits the ave slanging

words all day long. each day a new song.

they go for a dollar. some he gives away.

he’s generous that way. knows how to finesse

how to conversate. psychologist-comedianguru.

street hyphenate; he’s got poems

for days. poems about the new age

& the new folk comin.

Jeff Zimmerman paints a giant mural

of his face in an alley off Lake & Damen.

the mural gets blocked by new construction

but his eyes become the moon.

eyes cat-green & yellowed

eyes that welcome all who stroll by.

eyes trustworthy & necessary. & that’s all

i expect from art, something to believe in

to have a function & serve it. the antithesis

of so much of the bullshit hanging in galleries

popping up along the ave.

eyes that staypeeking into the future.

one night Oba puts a band together

at Yo Mama’s Cafe. he plays the sax

& reads. baristas, bartenders & beer

backs come. musicians too. folks i hear

on the street or corner or late night at Estelle’s;

a man the people know.

he knows & yells my name

from a half block away.

i always pay my dollar.

it’s street tax. a luxury tuition

to study at the feet of Oba Maja

poet laureate of Milwaukee Avenue.

squats in a storefront long enough to open a coffee shop / gallery

called Yo Mama’s Cafe. he stretches the sun up in a doorway

on the avenue. the ancients wake & walk past. he’s shirtless

in karate pants. lumberjack shirt, denim overalls & roller skates.

tremendous locks race down his back. he shaves his head

& wears snow goggles. in the summer he runs to the Arab

store for drum & rolling papers. there’s an espresso constantly

steaming at his elbow. a canary. he carries hardbound books

in a belt strapped to his bicycle. Foucault & Public Enemy. Fear

of a Black Planet un-ejectable from his walkman. he’s always

alone in thunderous headphones & has a hundred girls in his pocket.

his bed lays in the middle of a furniture-less future. he stirs a pot

of gumbo beneath the blue line & sells paintings he found in the alley

embellished with crowns. he’s avenue royalty in a gas station onesie

chuck taylors jackson pollacked & laceless. he’s 36 & a visionary.

he’s 49 & a screwball. he’s from the south. he is from the south

side. he’s skateboarding down the ave in adidas joggers & a gas mask

three stripes & apocalypse, going nowhere in particular.

we have the tallest buildings in the world here,

damn near, right? we are something, something

you shouldn’t take lightly, take us serious.

Thigahmahjiggee aka Skarkula

got kicked out of circuit city

for dubbing tapes to sell.

you like hip-hop music

dressing all over your salad.

Maxwell St. mixtape hawker.

warm bear hugger. hunger.

train car sleeper with a contaminating grin.

beard Buddha, the happy one with arms

in the air. he just don’t care. Martin Luther King

Jr. Whopper With Cheese. that free

associative. associates. hood famous

with david letterman aspirations.

aspergers. calamari astronaut.

tether-less in the era of kinkos.

he outlasted the chain

& the burger king

& the real world

& yuppie capitalism.

he delivers more than the tribune.

the only constant.

always on the hustle

five-dollar hollers.

Sharkula, will die

if he ever stops

moving.

speaks in riddles. carries a harmonica

& a paper cup though he really wants

a brown bag filled with lightning. he says

his brother has a home for him in evanston

if he could make it there. his beard has grey

& he has seizures & one winter sleeps

in an empty school bus beneath the blue line

as hundreds of condos rise like an armada.

one night it’s so cold he asks if he could sleep

in my apartment. it’s the only thing he ever asks

of me. that & if i know where his brother hides

the key. he turns on & off every light switch

to control when the darkness returns.

he soaks in the tub for hours. harmonica on the edge

like a bar of soap. his nude body propped up.

streaks from the street lamp drape him

like an illuminated blanket. he eats an orange

& lets the peel cascade into the water like petals.

slangs scents so the public stays fresh.

he’s got Malcolm’s paperback in one pocket.

an accountant’s ledger in the other. a light

blue button up beneath a khaki trench coat.

you smell him from three blocks away.

a forest of sticks lit & burning. a smoke stack

portable salesman able to skate if the cops come.

rambo ammo holsters X-ed across his chest:

amber, frankincense, & myrrh. the wise man

who woulda brought baby Jesus gifts & brings

holy odors to Jesus’s mother off 26th.

kufi-ed & righteously perfumed off a red line

near you. a mobile economic plan. pink wands

wafting from a card table in a park. anointing

the neck with a bouquet of jasmine, nag champa

burnt offerings out a knapsack, a moveable feast

of sandalwood, permitless, & perpetually illegal.

Mikey & i inherited the apartment from Anna

who lived there with Leo & made the baby Anton

& moved back to Baton Rouge to be with her people.

four bedrooms on the top floor of a three-story greystone.

Mikey’s room, an earlobe down to Damen Ave we’d sit

on the stoop & drink on the weekends & watch the whole

hood whiten. Aunt Joyce is alive & says weekends

are for amateurs so we play cards, too broke to go out anyway

& project super mario brothers life-size on the living room wall.

we get high & have girls over & homies would yell up

to Mikey’s room at 3 a.m. to see what was poppin after

the bars shuttered. Idris moved in after he & Krista broke

right before he met Felicia who he married. they made

the baby Taos & moved to New Mexico to be with her people.

but before we are a community center flop house hotel cathedral.

squad deep. there’s Kristin, Tina, Lisa & names i didn’t know.

Mikey met Cindy up the street at a party. she lives two doors

down at Augusta. he writes her a note & sticks it on the door.

they go on a date. she sleeps over & is loud in the night.

they move to Germany, get married & live in washington

state now. he writes poems & keeps in touch, mostly with Nate.

Nate’ll go to school in Tennessee, then Michigan & i have no friends

again. every morning the last fall we live here, i take the blue line

& walk thru the apple-crisp air, right by 1750 W. Haddon

where George moved 100 years before. my life revolves around

one place, one apartment for a century. this city has no memory

only my own & i can’t afford to stay. all my people are moving

all my people are memory & i’m right here, still alone, trying

to carve a community out of ghosts & the gone, trying to hang

on, weeping in the doorway, calling my ancestors’ names.

when a girl you know says

i have another friend who likes hip-hop

you think dude prolly corny

for no good reason except masculinity

a toxin & you on guard for wackness

like a vampire killer, in the era hip-hop’s underground

at war with the empire & moving to strip malls

& pop charts. & true, no one knighted you a lancelot

for the culture but strictly hard-core heads ward off

clown-ass mugs like the plague.

but she is your homegirl

after all & there’s a house party

prolly for her bornday & our mans

Itch 13 is spinning records at the crib

which is live, not acid-in-the-punch live

tho the shit’s mos definitely spiked.

the Black Frank white is alive

via Itch’s hands, the first time he utters Uh

the apple bottom of the record funk drops

the spot. the whole body bounces up

by the second Uh & dudes is mad

i get more butt than ashtrays, my head raised

for the first time that night, scouring the room

for anyone to cosign the joyousness

the DJ, Craig Mack & especially

the heavy-breathed poet Christopher Wallace

animated east coast stomping, mean-mugging

the country, brings our modest saturday night turn-up

& sure enough, i see this other dude’s

eyes recognize in the living room, in a sea

of heads bent, another head popped up

at the signal, same nod, same bat channel.

we prolly mouthed the whole verse

when most rappers we knew

& B.I.G. were still breathing

& we were

young enough

to be

gathering brothers, everlasting

like the toe on pro-keds.

R.I.P. Craig Mack

rumor is

two lovers ride a tandem bike past 2 a.m.

when bars close to sketch until sun up:

billboards peeling like birchwood bloom Krylon colors;

doorframes that lead to dead apartments bear the dynamic duo’s

signature;

a tavern that stopped serving drinks long ago, it’s widow eyes shuttered

lumps of coal, brighten again. their names separate

but close enough to intimate the possibility

they held hands while doing it.

a couple of banditlovers

wearing dawn as a cloak to paint stars on dead steel

& bring a neighborhood of foreclosed

storefronts back to life with gloriously free fonts.

live here, love here

& remake the streets into a gallery

for all the people to see

admission always free.

i asked my man to ask your girl for your number & bam we got 22s of

Honey Brown & walked the park. you said you wanted to hear something

i wrote. i whispered a little rap in your ear, beneath a giant oak

met you at the gig; an after-school arts program Vero dragged you to.

her husband rhymed & we worked together. you came to the settlement

house on Augusta in the sweaty-ass air of August. hair pulled back slick.

said some funny shit ‘bout the food & smiled. said you wrote a bit too &

why that some sweet spot you put your palm to.

when i said i’ll pick you up at 7, you thought i meant 8. i was on whiteboy

time. had to wait a half hour while you got ready & your not-really-

little-cousin Carlos baby giant full of slick talk & jibaritos, started to

roast me on the wooden stairs i came to know your uncle built.

Carlos bust out & said yo you look like that dude from honey i shrunk the kids &

the little ones cracked rainbow-colored smiles from freeze pops melting in

their hands & Carlos was victorious & not yet 11. later you told me his dad

was killed a year ago, a few blocks from where we stood.

the sun sunk west & all the apartments spread shadows on the ground

slow like a sheet unfurled in the few lovely moments it’s suspended

above the earth, the bed, your body before finally falling.

we made it out on Milwaukee, walking south & stopped in front of

Earwax; the coffee shop i knew all the busboys & could g weed at. you

looked inside. said you weren’t hungry. said you didn’t eat white people

food, got mad at the idea of a veggie burger. all the new faces, all the

white faces, my own

in the glass. your eyes, Wells like the school, close. the lake, great,

ocean, crossing, bacalao & African bloodline. you said you couldn’t go

there. this space wasn’t for you. wondered what we were doing here.

a year & a half later we’d yell in the vestibule. you’d rip my shirt & the

plastic buttons bounced down the steps your uncle built. & of course

you were right.

but i’d hoped this was something different or i was or this was the city

big enough to love you in.

the long, drunk room a darkened sanctuary.

windows blocked opaque to make day insignificant

light impaired. in here’s timeless. a deprivation

tank to meditate when the sky falls & you need

to revel in pissy swill & the certain stench

of someone else’s body. in here’s all better.

99 problems & a bottle of beer

on the wall. the condensation from whiskey

on the rocks is holy water when applied right.

a pit stop vacation from the day

for those who could never afford one.

a hades between work & the work of home.

a bridge to the well & wet ring a glass makes.

there’s a myriad of reasons you might be mourning

here. there’s a popcorn machine, a bag of Ruffles

a jukebox willing to suck your dirty bills for a little

bit of funk. the spot peeks at you out a side street.

its Old Style neon in the window winks, nods

to your anonymity. even a regular can disappear

here on the round & spin of a stool, beneath

a thousand thighs rubbed on the low; skirts, junk

touched in jeans, hips smashed against the evergreen

of a pool table. who hid night in a bottle. here

people know your name & forget it & shout it

in anger & elation. so much has spilled & i’ve spilled

so much & spilled onto a seat that saved me

on the occasion i needed to spill into someone.

respite or retreat, here’s fellowship, a seat

reserved any day of the week. this thanks

giving family of strangers, ancient hall brimming

with inebriated comrades, a cheers to you:

our glasses raised & empty.

got hundreds in an igloo

cooler. hot & dense. stuffed

with queso & peppers, pork & corn

delicious & delivered to dingy bars

littered across Chicago’s last late night.

THE TAMALE GUY

a hero of sorts. unknown to the masses

unmasked & cloaked in dimly lit dives

weaving thru packed houses & some sad

scatterings of last calls in flak jacket flannel

dodging failing elbows & mixed drink condensation.

THE TAMALE GUY

appears from thin air.

the dust & bustle of Western Ave.

THE TAMALE GUY

feeds the multitude: hipsters & punks

artists & waitresses, after midnight

denizens who need a break & stiff drink

& something to soak it all up.

THE TAMALE GUY

must have a family, some army who helps

him wake & resuscitate for this 2nd hustle.

THE TAMALE GUY

might carry mail by day

or punch buttons & a clock

in a factory. might live in Pilsen

& wander the south branch of the river

near Ashland on the weekend & watch

fishermen lure smelt.

THE TAMALE GUY

lures the hungry, feeds the drunk

for a couple bucks.

the poor after all the pours.

he’s there in the lonely of night.

THE TAMALE GUY is there.

it’s may & crisp.

an apple. the sixteen-inch

softball players wear long sleeves

beneath their insurance agency

sponsored jerseys. there’s a light

rain. a grey canopy

of sky. you are

hungry. luckily Humboldt

has fried food stands

with warm meat in the windows.

Lucy is the Puerto Rican

woman selling empadillas

not empanadas she says.

her smile a secret

she tells everyone.

she puts a shishkabab of chicken

& tostones in yr hand

like a popsicle. hot sauce & salt.

we walk near the pond

& nobody knows

us

here

&

here

all the ducks are booed up

the birds too

chase each other

call each other

with song.

even the snail shells

abandoned on a rock

at the edge of the water

are left

in a pair.

this is a drive-by

date

something quick

to see each other

& make out standing

near the field

house before you

have to leave

before you throw away

the tough bits of kebabah.

the park’s so big

for a moment

you can trick yourself

you’re not in the city.

this same park

where bodies were pulled

from this same pond

where Puerto Ricans fight to hold

their homes on the Paseo.

my hands are birds

at yr hip. a flurry

a hot

sauce.

Humboldt’s beautiful

& changing like all

the neighborhoods

for how long

we will live

here

how long

will we call

this

home

league of misfits

the alley cat dragged in

from a night of dives & plans

abandoned. an awkward or

awesome date depending on

the number. we have to exchange

the shoes we came in with.

dismiss the mess of strings.

whites dirtied & brute. we

have to leave what we

know in order to roll, to

get what’s nasty. the grime

of another’s funk & feet,

the sweet meat. pick a ball

the right weight, a perfect fit or

something close to comfort. a marbel

marvel or neon magic. a rock we might

spin into turkey. grab a beer, a pitcher a

bouquet of bottles. lace up & punch the names

of the motley bunch assembled this odd night. how

we all got here a miracle of luck & endless history.

lanes rowdy or bare. lights the stark oppressive halogen

of the gig we’re trying to forget or the black light 70’s

bedroom your uncle prolly made a kid in. the juke box’s

been updated twice. once in the hard rock big hair Jon Bon

Jovi 80’s & again, in the early aughts when Nelly stormed the

Midwest like a tornado of coco puffs. this is not the roll of

Fred Flintstone. the white cave where men escape their lives,

wives or preoccupation with middle management. this is the

most radically integrated space in a city of viaducts. this is a

northside squad of Filipina doctors sippin & celebratin

out their rounds; a crew of first generation Latinx coeds

post-test at the Waveland. shout out Diversey Bowl, the

gem above the Ace hardware that went missin as condos

crept along Lincoln. the best bowler i know’s a 3rd

grade CPS teacher with nails long as magic

markers, painted every night for a star trek

in the Afro-future. just one more game /

night where it feels like it’s everybody’s

birthday & tomorrow’s a distant rumor.

there were three.

i went to the man in the middle

who knew the least english.

bulbous cheeks like cherry snow

cones. a laurel or hardy mustache.

Chicago had a polish radio station

low in the a.m., an all-day murmur.

the chatter of a different country

in a neighborhood of newcomers

when Ukrainian Village was polish

& Mexican.

black combs bathed in electric blue.

mirrors everywhere, an infinite endless

reflection. grey smocks & grey-haired

barbers who brought their lunch to work;

brown bags with pickled beets, cabbage

stuffed with sausage & rice.

the blade, exacto-knife precise, over

my ear, clip the lip meticulous, a geometric

concern. sculptors of chin, when i knew

no one else, they took me in. i told them

my bubbe was polish, czesc, we joked

we were cousins, though the mother

country lined her kin into pogroms.

hands of oak & pipe tobacco, hold

a knife at my throat. the sharp

gallant scent of aftershave. baby

powder on my neck like a kolaczki.

they’d send me back into the world

anew, lines sharper than the viaducts.

feelin like a million bucks for twelve.

i’d tip three, every two weeks

until the sign

says closed

& the massage spa neon

glows.

Yesterday, I retrieved laundry / cleaner than bells,

unmentionables / caressed by another’s / mother’s hands.

Samantha Thornhill’s “Ode to Gentrification”

my greatest luxury, sweet ladies,

you fold my drawers to fit

perfect in my drawers. a prophetic calculus

a measured plotting. i’m one of what, hundreds.

you’re one of three, depending on the day

i get it all together in the off-white laundry bag

after a night of too many or too many nights.

you know i prefer boxer briefs & grey sheets

& v-neck white tees. you smell me at my worst.

what is the condition of falling in love with your nurse.

you allow me to come behind the Smurf-blue door

separating customers from the cash register

& soap store of travel-size tide & bounty.

i one arm heap a sack of soiled mess

onto the scale like we’re at a carnival. i’d like to win

you a prize & always walk away with your fluffed

treasures. i hear of your sister Marie, your daughter

Maria, your husband who never takes you out cuz

he too is too often working. in the few minutes we have

before i pay & step, i love you like the city; fleeting

& forgetful & you love me like the city; so long

as there’s pay. but every week or every other week

or anytime i can get it together i’m consoled by knowing

every garment on my body’s caressed by your hands.

the old two-flat could hold three families

or ten. inspired by the Palazzo Medici

the bungalow dream of the middle class

carried across an ocean by an italian

with good hands, a dedication to detail

& the love of laying mortar. tuck-point

with fine white lines, irregularly long

& rectangular prisms of red or gold.

sturdy like the lie of the economy. the two

flat; a family to live & a family to rent

or a whole crew of aunts & their kids

from some country not Chicago.

now there’s pop-up brick veneer.

cookie cutter lego mansions that stickout

like newcomers on the old block

who can’t shake up with the corner

boys the right way & wear sweaters in summer

around their necks like herbs. boat shoes on yachtless islands.

the workers rushed & underpaid. merely bricklayers

not masons. no art or health care, just rapid profit.

a few days to erect a home. viagra condos.

bricks different. the old were heated

in the kiln for days. stood for centuries

resistant to the hawk & murderous

downpour of spring rain. now they’re porous

nuevo riche, grey sponges that leak.

ACME boxes by the truckload. a cinder

fabrication. a luxe forgery. Louis Sullivan

rolling over in a pauper grave.

where blood & oil

used to meet, a thousand

feet meander with a map

on concrete unmovable

as bone. the area’s name

whispered sent shivers

if people even knew it at all

just weeks ago. there were jobs.

old machines that made

a country then slept

in dust for decades

as moss grew from light

beaming thru a broken

windowpane every day

at the same time like a punch

clock & shone a million

atoms & hands

& dollars & quiet plans

to change this earth

no one’s cared for

since the crack era.

there’s a block

or five. some houses

the bank foreclosed.

storefronts empty

as a pop song.

a coffee shop became

an oasis in the desert, a fort

in a forest of wigwams.

it hangs old photos

from a friend’s mfa

show. the barista

plays acoustic punk

& puts a flyer on the wall

in search of a drummer.

they jam outside one night

& the owner likes it. the weather

is light jacket right. a prospector

heard the gallery next door

has an up & coming artist

fresh from saic & free beer.

a graphic designer with no kids

& more income than five teachers

gets a tattoo in a Cholo font

in a parlor that once baked pasteles.

the city sold this lot

for a dollar to a son

who inherited properties

& tax breaks from his father

whose father also owned.

this is not the first time

wealth moved from family

to family handed down as birth

-rite & rights to the land.

this is the first friday in the new city

& the illusion is that all is free

& meant for the public to merry & revel

& walk on ground zero as cranes

circle like metal dinosaurs.

there’s a booth with crystal jewels:

land theft on a necklace. a license

plate coaster maker. a driftwood

sculptor. a vinyl bowl artisan. a white

stencilist with dreadlocks portraits

Black icons who suffocated beneath

recording contracts. the pieces sell

like nostrum, like the quack condos

encircling this block of mausoleums

for the widowed & empty nesters

who want to return to the revival

after paying taxes in a school district

in the suburbs for the last forty years.

a bread & circus marketing plan

backed by big liquor & real estate

developers, the local business

council. the culture industry

writ largeas walmart.

Urbis Orbis closed.

light fixtures upgraded.

the windows new. the 11th season

of mtv’s the real world, the latest neighbors

seven strangers who are not polite.

viacom production teams broadcast the death

of a neighborhood as far as transnational cable lines

could reach.

beautiful vapid twenty-somethings

famous for being famous moved in

from other states with a loft of new furniture

& disposable income. their lives incessantly

monitored without the worry of Orwell.

teachers, residents, baristas & sculptors resisted.

a coalition each night gathered in the hundreds

to protest the country’s story of constant removal.

they lathered the door at 1934 W. North Ave

with red paint, a lamb’s blood like Moses commanded.

a tale in reverse, the lord passing over. the choir chanting

the Southside anthem na na na na, na na na na, hey hey hey,

good bye like prayer & prophesy. an omen. until pharaoh’s men

removed them; from the street, from the neighborhood

& soon too from history.

nothing in the new city’s organic

small batch sweet butter cream.

mustache service counter. too bothered

to barista who wants to be a millionaire.

it’s so expensive to eat well. i can’t find a juice

less than $12. the best bite in the world’s spicy

tuna on fried Japanese eggplant. it’s nicer

getting robbed this way. my mom says

the old city was scary.

the new city’s small & cute.

the new city downloads cupcakes.

the new city ubers from one organic boutique

to the next.

g fc (gentry-fried chicken)

long wooden tables from the park district

painted in bright jewel-tones. feng shui walls

peppered with old news & bricolaged frames.

lines of white meat out the door for an hour

since the reader raved of non-gmo amish farmed birds

rolled in rice powder, fried in coconut & kale oils.

a 2-piece here’s more than an 8-piece on 87th St.

true there’s no honey-spiced kimchi on 87th St.

no apple-orange sweet potato slaw. we’re a long

way from the empire Harold Pierce & his wife Hilda built

when no one would feed Black folk a quick & necessary meal

five years before ray kroc

two years before the colonel

the colonial.

Hillary’s Urban Eatery

h.u.e.; coded, as in white people love brunch. invite us

for hollandaise, holidays, we will turn up everywhere.

hillary like william’s wife, who just said super predator.

hillary not from the hood, but who owns here now

& sends her progeny to montessori. urban as in loneoutpost

rustic tables with pastel vases stuffed with baby breath.

huevos rancheros with soyrizo (whatever that means) & flour

tortillas. the coffee is black & strong. every server, white & pierced.

every cook & dishwasher, Brown, like the sugar

the sweet that moves white into the neighborhood.

erasure

bone clean store fronts. catwalk selfie mirrors

marching to the train. the proximity to the loop, the loot

what made here so g-ddamn attractive. stacking studios

where whole families made dinner. side streets, a mini-target.

hotels sell empanadas, matcha cafes, dog groomers, yoga boutiques.

all Division Street’s a strip mall, a yogurt stand, a trend mill, a tread mall

a mote of outdoor seating & fifteen-dollar cocktails armed

with summer aperol spray. splayed.

the neighborhood neutered.

its guts removed. all the good bacteriaout

which opens the body to sickness, whiteness

whitewashed. wicker park’s a quinoa wrap

a lite grain, a lite beer, a small brewery

a facsimile of what it used to be.

my people always been pioneers

at the front lines of new territory.

homeless with no mother country.

a life advertised in time magazine

where rent’s never an issue

& the electric’s always on. a life

the country summons & carrot

sticks. america itself, a new land

a foreign refuge. our experience

from jump, different. we came

running, fleeing chains but many entered

in them. we moved freely: Maxwell St.

to West Town, North Lawndale

to Edgewater, Edgewater to Skokie.

my people always been pioneers.

carpet bag soldiers in a war

we didn’t know we were fighting.

diaspora peoples with bags & endless

boxes willing to sign anything & pledge

allegiance to the myth of mobility

& constant segregation, as long as we

can put these boxes down for a minute

to feed the children. these are the fatigues

we found ourselves wearing. white

litmus tests to see how safe the hood is.

canaries in the mine, chum in the water

coyotes ushering other white bodies

across the border, holding the fence

to prospect for gold. scouts

who returned with tales of ethnic

foods & how much your dollar

will fetch in the new land.

wrestling with the poetics of Muhammad Ali

i am

the last

man

standing.

still

work

in the neighborhood.

but can’t afford to live

in it.

everyone is gone

or dead

or ghost

what was ours

is mine

alone.

i stalk the streets

still

uncertain

who is we

&

who is me

the afternoon the towers fell.

she’s a barista now

& works at Alliance

the only polish bakery

still on the block.

i step off the train, wobble

knee-deep in the soup of Indian

summer. all the bars pump well

liquor onto Division. ukrainian ones

shutter by the week. cocktail lounges

ready for takeover.

she’s Puerto Rican & still lives

in Humboldt though there too

forces assemble to make families flee.

the whole city sold again

ad nauseam. a mausoleum.

she labors: lattes with soy.

white yarn bow-tied around

tiny boxes of cookies, jelly

-filled kolachkes that today

are bags of blood.

i walk past the haunted bar

someone was decapitated in

just sitting there sipping a high life

a head removed from its body.

the whole neighborhood fills with ghosts.

late summer massacre

murder capital. i have double vision

& deja vu. i have

a pocket filled with coin

a country’s dead currency

she no longer accepts.

the sweet between us

tastes like metal.

there’s blood in my mouth

when i speak.

we’re looking for work.

looking to move out

our parent’s crib, to afford

some affordable housing;

a 3 bedroom with 5 people.

something to imagine a life

of our own making.

we’re 18 & 22

living for the first time

with roommates

not our blood.

we’re from the neighborhood

& the one over. this one’s over.

our parents split & moved

to the burbs. our auntie lives

out west.

we work at the new restaurant

your boss just ate at.

we sold his kids weed out back.

we boost & rack & claim our sister’s

kid on our income tax.

we live with our producer, our girl’s

girl, a giant loft of squatters, our shit

in a bag.

we got the gall to think there’s something

different than life intended. we’re tired

of working at the bank or grocer or business

our parents moved here for.

we drink what the elders left:

7&7s, gin & tonics, old turkey in old hats.

we’re new birds trying to fly.

we drop shit like pigeons damn near daily:

styles, projects, habits, visions of what it is

& what it will be.

we’re making it up.

we mash up

records & tongues.

we mess up

daily.

we step on e

w/speed

to meet molly.

we out here

stylin, glammed up

rough necked. tims

& roller skates.

we house.

we rave.

we spend whole afternoons

blunted watching cartoons

for aesthetic clues.

we know the names of everyone

who works the corner / store.

we’re here to stay

until the landlord says:

everything must go

Haymarket Books is a radical, independent, nonprofit book publisher based in Chicago. Our mission is to publish books that contribute to struggles for social and economic justice. We strive to make our books a vibrant and organic part of social movements and the education and development of a critical, engaged, international left.

We take inspiration and courage from our namesakes, the Haymarket martyrs, who gave their lives fighting for a better world. Their 1886 struggle for the eight-hour day—which gave us May Day, the international workers’ holiday—reminds workers around the world that ordinary people can organize and struggle for their own liberation. These struggles continue today across the globe—struggles against oppression, exploitation, poverty, and war.

Since our founding in 2001, Haymarket Books has published more than five hundred titles. Radically independent, we seek to drive a wedge into the risk-averse world of corporate book publishing. Our authors include Noam Chomsky, Arundhati Roy, Rebecca Solnit, Angela Y. Davis, Howard Zinn, Amy Goodman, Wallace Shawn, Mike Davis, Winona LaDuke, Ilan Pappé, Richard Wolff, Dave Zirin, Keeanga-Yamahtta Taylor, Nick Turse, Dahr Jamail, David Barsamian, Elizabeth Laird, Amira Hass, Mark Steel, Avi Lewis, Naomi Klein, and Neil Davidson. We are also the trade publishers of the acclaimed Historical Materialism Book Series and of Dispatch Books.