Last night it was warm enough to keep my bedroom window open. I could hear wind, far away traffic, and for a short time- the sprinkle of rain. There was something solid inside of me. A strength. A kind of peace. An identity. In my old house, I was able to hear the train at night. It was several miles away, but I could hear its low rumble winding through the night still. A calming low rumble like blood flowing through a vein. The sound would reverberate through the Deerfield sky. I think trains are one of the few industrial-era archetypes. If I knew what they symbolized in certain and concrete terms, I’m sure some of the romance would disappear, like when the lights go on in an intimate bar. When I think of trains, I’m left not with a definition, but rather a list of words and pictures… a kind of recipe for a familiar taste that cannot be named. slow… steady… powerful… mass… motion… progress…
Poetry on Parade
I’ve written poetry for years, but had never read it aloud before this weekend. On Friday, I had an event at Esquina Chicago to celebrate
December 17, 2023
