Chapter 1: Socialism

She told me that she knew a guy once

who lived in an apartment overlooking

the south side, between branches

of Black River.  "The view of filthy

sunsets and poor kids walking to school

drove him to socialism."  She said it

as if a great evil had befallen him,

like alcoholism or madness. In her mind,

his compassion for the poor

was something of a tragedy.

Prologue

I have tried to tell you
something about ourselves
these past years, something
about this place,
its proximity to Black River
yet our inability to articulate
or even fully understand
its spiritual importance
in relation to our own.

I used to watch the river
through barren winter trees
out my childhood windows.

It is everywhere here.

I Could Go On Forever

I sat in my car this morning

as it rained like hell, and said to myself,

this can't go on forever.

I thought about how my statement

could apply to many things like unemployment,

war, optimism, or a toothache,

but that I had only meant the downpour.

I switched off my radio, and listened to a song

that couldn't go on forever.

Having learned that Lou Reed died...

I listen to Satellite of Love

a few times on the way to work,

as I pay close attention to my breathing

like I always do when someone dies,

as if I can simply will myself

to continue when the time comes.

There's a photo of Lou Reed with Warhol 

arm in arm that comes to mind and

I think about Jim's paintings, and how

I forgot to tell him that I dug the one

of Nicholson, and believe it's important

that he keep creating in this way.

I remember listening to Wild Side and

Rock 'n' Roll on Cleveland radio

in a baby blue Nova driving north

on Lake Avenue going to Lorain.

It was a clear day, and I watched 

store fronts and churches on broken

concrete slide into the past outside

a rear window.  I was a kid.  It felt good.

We're not kids anymore, but it's cool.

There's still all this music, and art, and I

still love a drive up Lake Avenue, listening

to Lou, and seeing what you're up to...

Iguazu Falls

                                      for Mandy

Rain over my gutters

demands a proper name

like Iguazu or Angel,

suddenly insistent,

angry even, as our

conversations sometimes

when the world becomes

too much, and its people

too terrible, or selfish so

our emotion becomes

too much water

for the downspout.

Caught in the act.

Courage

The first sip of beer 

is an odd loaf of bread

which, over time,

comes to rest

somewhere 

in the middle of my head, 

warm, calm 

and courageous.