No one listens to poetry

In brief, mid-level Hell is being re-invented.

At the behest of those wiser & more tuned-in than myself, "The Fifth Circle" has been reborn. This matters litle to most people clicking up blogs on the Workd Wide. All I can say is my level of hell is being re-vamped; dictated more by the tongues of flames than anything. Since blogs all essentially are writing to the wide world, I'll finsh by presenting a letter written to a friend diagnosed with leukemia. I don't know what to sya other than what came out of me right after earning of his condition:

Kev,

I remember the roar at Wharton your last year on the court, a general, more coach than the suit on the bench. Coming out for a breather only a minute at a time. No sign of the smoke wrapped in a Phillies, burnt down outside the locker room, as the six thousand rivals began to arrive. Not even lack of oxygen benched your game.

Good morning captain. Crew-cuts & cocaine, backyard pick-up games under the motion lights, a garage full of smoke. The love of pure-bred rottweilers, thick as buffalos. The television pulled outside, played loud to reign in three summers straight with the last Chicago championships.

But there are champions to come. The Ill state welcomes many to its thrones. Fall roars south through the city & all the skyscraper lights welcome all challengers. We have together over a generation come to expect flight. Flight: nothing less. Now quick thunder stares down home, the title, both hands in the fire. The defiant hands.

May justice & the heavens fall before being lost to oxygen, a sneaker’s tread squealing on a hardwood court. I will not relent & remember, the impetus of genius is momentum (& luck). Ghosts hang in the rafters of Wharton Filed House without initiation. You’re still our point guard, still Stripey… You and Your MOTHER!!!

Your smoke still curls in our rafters, the mask & oxygen forgotten. A senior year of fire, arguing the lane with future professionals. You are still the general & we young bucks hot for a point guard autograph on weekly maroon & white programs—thousands waiting to storm the court & raise you above eye level.

Glory shall be revealed. You will triumph & expand into a poisonless desert. We will expand, will disperse like pollen in the desert, command a rainy season. You expand & disperse. Still you remain the point guard. The ghosts respect.

The triumphant path speeds, without shadows, thru the roar of a glass canyon. He is what he is because he is never where he is. You live in the high rise you survive in. Traffic backs up days while we roar in the middle of the Avenue. You’re invisible & everywhere. The smoke still wants autographs, builds high rises. We’re forgiven what we have stolen, hermano. Deserts endlessly expand & you are always the point.



More tomorow. More for poets looking to be heard. All thanks to Woody for challenging me. No more dying.



cola