Chicago

I.
I do not miss the winters,  
the bitter wind burning numb.  
 
I do not miss the zombies,  
who tremble to the flows in their veins,  
 
or looking the other way  
and someone freezes to death  
on a cold sidewalk  
 
beneath sterile glass towers  
that do not hear me when I yell:  
 
That I am a poet!  
That I am an anarchist!  
That this city will walk all over us!  
 
II.
And still, this city is home.  
A place to run from, to run to  
after every failure and heartbreak.  
 
There is beauty in the grime:  
the rumbling L tracks  
the broken traffic lights  
the sharp tongues of the working class,  
 
the blood  
the sweat  
the dysfunction,  
 
a pace too quick to count,  
gears twisted into dada machines  
to form concrete soups.  
 
It is up all night in open revolt  
and 6:00 A.M. coffees, watching  
zombies(well-dressed) walk in  
for their morning pick-up.  
 
It is the breath  
of the underbelly's red pulsing beat.  
A universe within a universe-  
 
with words and thoughts  
shot into atmospheres  
with complete disregard.  
 
Proof that we can defy  
the world will stand still  
the leviathon will become  
non-existent.