Chicago -
By J.J. Tindall
Stingray
When I was a kid,
gloved in hubris,
cocooned by family,
I craved a stingray.
My simple, sturdy, standard
Schwinn paled
agin the gleam
and gloss of the more
stylish roadster.
Banana seat, extended
back-brace, high handlebars.
Well: I got the high handlebars.
Posted on December 5, 2011
By J.J. Tindall
Holiday
This insistent lathe of mind
concocts a life of sorts
from the howl and whirl
of the surging earth.
It hums on without our steering.
Queer. God: give it a rest.
Posted on November 21, 2011
By J.J. Tindall
A Wren in a Wreath
So: there’s this ghoul
in my soul,
a wren in my wreath.
In a heart full of holes
lurks a golem of grief.
Posted on October 25, 2011
By J.J. Tindall
DEAD DAISIES
I wish.
I wish my hair
was like the leaves
of a tree, wait,
like a copse
of oak and elm.
Posted on September 26, 2011
By J.J. Tindall
TEN YEARS GONE
Again: For CDR Dan F. Shanower, USN, who was my friend.
I.
You linger in my mind, an art-deco
showplace
built in 1921,
recently restored to its original
cathedral-like glory,
where Frank Sinatra
used to play
seven shows a day.
You permeate my grief, designed by
Skidmore, Owings & Merrill,
completed in 1973
and still
the tallest building in America.
They actually evacuated it
after you were killed
at the Pentagon.
Posted on September 9, 2011
By J.J. Tindall
The Drowning
I wish I could write a poem
as profound as a first drop of rain–
tiny gong–
in a short summer shower.
No thunder, just the polite applause
for humidity breaking. One drop,
as shadows melt,
which says quietly but authoritatively
“It is raining.”
It is raining.
Posted on July 26, 2011
By J.J. Tindall
Metamorphosis
Oh mother, my mouth is full of cars.
The green monk parakeet you bred and cherished
escaped the soft, slow cage in the cornfield
for the cold, gold glow
of the city.
From the feed corn to the crucible:
cat fights, pitbulls, loan sharks, stool pigeons,
barkers, batterers, park bench bivouacs,
city girls, hollow men, knife-sharp tippy-toes,
shrieking ambulances for which none give way,
elevated trains like incessant detonations,
alleys of mattresses and spent Glock cartridges,
barrooms of piss-ants, punch ups and puke . . .
Posted on July 8, 2011
By J.J. Tindall
Buzz
Like steel tadpoles
held aloft by buzzsaws,
two choppers converge
south of Union Station.
Buzzsaws drone, the wind
batoning crescendo
and diminuendo.
Like burnished buzzards
circling a ravaged gazelle,
drones of the kinetic gazette
hover, and arrest the gaze.
Posted on June 21, 2011
By J.J. Tindall
Maelstrom
Meet the new boss –
tongue of bricks –
sharpening his trowel
to tuckpoint the Shithouse
as the excruciating maelstrom
expands, like a universe.
Posted on May 31, 2011
By J.J. Tindall
A Suit of Jade
The moments of my greatness
have flickered and faded.
The oil of my ambition
has ossified to jade.
I sought a train home
from the garage of servitude
up from south State
to the mirage of solitude.
Posted on May 17, 2011
