By J.J. Tindall
God Is Not A Goddam Real Estate Agent
We are all
children
of God. Earth
itself
is the Promised
Land.
Posted on January 15, 2008
Chicagoetry: The Five Ws
By J.J. Tindall
The Five Ws
Who is God?
What is life?
When does it start?!
Where is Heaven?
Why can’t I find it anywhere?
That’s
30.
Posted on January 10, 2008
Chicagoetry: Great Moments in Rock Dancing, Number One
By J.J. Tindall
Great Moments in Rock Dancing, Number One
Sure they would die
in a plane crash, merely because
I had a
ticket,
The Stones took over
Soldier Field,
July 8, 1978.
Mick? Hardly.
Posted on January 9, 2008
Chicagoetry: Feed My Steel Bird
By J.J. Tindall
Feed My Steel Bird
I and I, bent on justice,
Have you in
Mind.
Heart flattened by a wind
Lorry.
I and I bide like a hawk on a
Spire.
Sinner, sucker, self-serving
motherfucker: stay out of the park. I and I wait patiently atop the spire of
New
Pru.
Posted on January 4, 2008
Chicagoetry: Column
By J.J. Tindall
Column
My mom was a Newsbabe. She
wrote a column for the
Naperville Sun.
She started
as a general
assignment
reporter and
photographer.
It was the
Seventies.
Posted on January 3, 2008
Chicagoetry: The Heart Is A Lonely Fucker
By J.J. Tindall
The Heart Is A Lonely Fucker
Like a Prairie Falcon landing on my breast,
the God inside me clenches, and your face comes
to me.
You have landed, again a waking dream. As in a dream,
setting constantly transmogrifies, details, red-tails fly
at whim.
Posted on November 24, 2007
Chicagoetry: The Conquest Of Shit Creek
By J.J. Tindall
The Conquest of Shit Creek
Black Hawk said “Fuck
This, I want
My land
Back.” Beaubien
Thought he’d
Pulled a fast
One, got the Heathens
Drunk, got ’em to sign away
Posted on November 8, 2007
Chicagoetry: Men Made Out Of Birds
By J.J. Tindall
Men Made Out Of Birds
Behold the Birdman: dove feathers, black eyes, wine-red tail.
Belligerent as the garish sun, Jove-bound to make war.
His cold, dove blood hums. Then, dove-white, lightning strikes.
Blonde smoke billows, black doves dive, then die.
The flock of his body flings mercilessly, hissing.
What pain is his mother? What rain fangs the bleak eyes?
This is the rain that flecks black eyes: the last lust of American Mars.
Thus solitary, and like a widow thus. Cold, light blood. Red stars, plum stars.
Old, cold light. The black blinking sky: cacophony of war widows.
War: rain burns and blood reigns. He taught a tree to see and it learned.
This is the pain that mothers lust. He set a bee free and it burned.
Posted on November 7, 2007
Chicagoetry: Mission From Jah
By J.J. Tindall
Mission From Jah
I and I
Are on a mission
From
Jah. Mission Control says
Maketh a
Joyful
Posted on November 6, 2007
Chicagoetry: Make It You
By J.J. Tindall
Make It You
When you see it, you see it.
You always know. Stop hurting.
Try to stop hurting
people. Try to stop
hurting.
Chilly, silent conflagration: Grant Park, Chicago, October.
Auburn, rose, pumpkin, melon, burgundy, the moon
and sun both rise above the same deceptively placid
Posted on November 5, 2007