By J.J. Tindall
MICHIGAN CITY BLUES
“In Chicago you become a connoisseur of the near nothing.” – Saul Bellow, Humboldt’s Gift
Seven Choruses
1
I can see clearly
Now, clear
As the spring sky,
That I will work
Until the day
I die.
Opaque as god,
Oblique as love,
Death shall be
My condo
In Miami
Or my cottage
In Michigan City.
Sure as I sit
On the shore of this lake
I’ll never be able
To retire.
Sooner walk
Across the water
To Michigan City,
Which isn’t even
In goddam
Michigan.
2
Staring mildly into
This old sea
(Lake of Light)
I feel the
Horizontal gravity
Sucking out pain
And letting wisdom
Breathe.
I could slip
Under the quilt
Of these tides,
Rest my head
Upon the sandy pillow,
And dream a tiny bliss
For I am liberated.
The future has drowned
In the sea
And I am free
To thrive
In the Always Now.
The Buddha
Would be proud.
3
When death becomes Miami
I brood upon Miami.
In the cauldron of half-sleep
A transfiguration takes place:
A cut-glass vase
Of gratitude and piety
Becomes a cauldron
Of black anxiety.
It hurts
To remember
The hurt
But to forget
Would truly
Be Hell.
Deep night terrors
Abound between sleep;
The same silence heals
In the warm light
Of this beach.
When death becomes Miami
What then of Miami Beach?
Heaven or Purgatory?
Limbo or finally
Nirvana?
I’ll worry of a premature
Or self-inflicted Miami,
Getting shot to Miami,
Bored to Miami,
Before I ever reach
Michigan City.
4
Life is an island
In an old sea
Of nothing,
A shady copse in
An invisible field.
I’ve studied the Masters,
Kow-towed to the Gurus,
Consulted the Specialists, but
I am now
A shade tree mechanic,
As they say,
Fixer of my own mind.
Mind, by God!
You may get ticked,
But I say the Soul
Is over-rated.
From here on in,
I tweak my own psyche,
I tend my own wounds,
I shape
My own shadow.
5
Scanning the grey horizon,
I find that tiny bliss,
Scarce as a black house.
Listening to the light,
Staring at the silence,
Serene as a cloud.
Numb to rudeness,
Startled by kindness.
My mind floats
With the shore birds:
Seagulls, geese,
Red-winged blackbirds,
Each becalmed by
The gargantuan birdbath.
Both the waves
And the breeze
Sing of these:
“Beg forgiveness,
Borrow time,
Steal away.”
6
Back West,
Back to the world,
Back through the labyrinth.
On across the Grid,
Between the faces
Marked with woe,
And the waning traces
Of childish hope,
Between the birdbaths
And bloodbaths.
Only a few thin letters
Between the birdbath
And the bloodbath,
Between the blizzard
And the salivating buzzard.
7
Though bliss is brief,
It must be this
We diligently seek.
Winter
Is no reason
Never to garden.
In life, no one
Has hurt me
More than me.
Had I forgiveness
To offer, I would
Forgive me.
I’m still
Thinking it over.
–
J.J. Tindall is the Beachwood’s poet-in-residence. He welcomes your comments. Chicagoetry is an exclusive Beachwood collection-in-progress.
–
More Tindall:
* Chicagoetry: The Book
* Ready To Rock: The Music
* Kindled Tindall: The Novel
* The Viral Video: The Match Game Dance
Posted on May 5, 2015