|Oct/Nov 2018 Poetry Special Feature|
Cruising on I-74 to Firefly Farms
Mercury brusquely was in retrograde in my rearview mirror,
while summer rains were just fucking with me.
I wondered if I was running out of Illinois soon.
I've always been a Chicagoan surrounded by this state,
a Nick Bottom off of Belmont Avenue,
with pockets full of demands no one takes seriously.
As the vertigo of the American road trip gyred in my head,
I realized this was a once and future glimpse of Liberty.
I wanted to get back to that purple butterfly bush and sleep above
that Plath quote I took and twisted as my mumbled mantra:
"There is no stopping the blood jet of my poetry."
And I got back to see that purple butterfly bush.
It's been years since I went back.
Mercury brusquely is in retrograde again.
I can't settle this or any of my Irish grudges.
But there is no stopping the blood jet of my poetry.