By J.J. Tindall
PSYCHO KILLER
You start a conversation
With a storm,
Speaking in tongues
Sliced by blue lightning,
Brooding into the gale
As if it were interested in your views.
Thus a squall gets the news,
The Quaker Parrots of Washington Park
Suppress their parochial squawk,
Clinging tenaciously to the tree bark.
You’re talking a lot
Without truly elucidating your views
But somehow it sounds like music, music
That leers, music that chews,
Music that sways like a great oak
In a gale
Bejeweled with birds–tense, nervous–
Burying their tiny claws into its bark.
Lucidly you choose a new tack
In attempting to convince the downpour
Of your righteousness
(A thankless task) and
The lightning of your guile.
Chew on it awhile.
Like the first French ramblers
To land the south shore
Or the first monk parakeets
Of Washington Park lore,
You see the thunderhead
And wonder “Qu’est-ce que c’est?!”
“What is this?!”
It is Jupiter, Psycho Killer
Of the Sky,
Dispenser of death
In random fury.
What you said
That evening:
“It is nothing
Unless in me
Contained,”
But that’s all
Just self-love
In vain.
There is no answer
To the blue lightning
And no origin
To the Quaker Parrots.
They are facts on the ground
And in the sky;
There is no reply.
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J.J. Tindall is the Beachwood’s poet-in-residence. He welcomes your comments. Chicagoetry is an exclusive Beachwood collection-in-progress.
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More Tindall:
* Chicagoetry: The Book
* Ready To Rock: The Music
* Kindled Tindall: The Novel
* The Viral Video: The Match Game Dance
Posted on August 17, 2015