Chicago street drummers:

When a tree rocks in place,

While wind is being wind.

The corners tugged into branchlean like the cooljerk—

A group of us,

Huddled around the on-fire page

Melting the palmlines to stories,

A nature-backed grin keep telling

A group of us,

Tripping on the forced apart seams

Of concrete,

The graffiti is gone but we are still touching walls,

Quietly reading.

The sun in march starts
Getting a little warmer
And the hurt from the rough begins to grow
A little colder
Plastic circle for your next drink free
On me
The dark wood of some bars is comforting
When everything you know or knew
Is in the midst of changing and
The action seems to have missed this narrator
But it’s happening
Like electricity in the lines
And puddles becoming gone to the sky
You end up really living when you
Finally feel alive.

 If 3ams in cities walking home is really lonely
Maybe
The quiet is the loudest and that’s what makes it sting
When your move is all on gut
And the gravity stumbles there as well
When you start to envy all the dust on the lampshades
When the girl sitting next to you has never heard of vinyl
When the going gets tough and you don’t give a shit
When the budge an inch becomes all out run for miles
When the brain shakes hands with believing
And the words turn colors in your hands
Not enough water
Nobody says
Not enough soul