One liner Chicago Memories (this may not actually be a poem....I am not really sure)

Pigeon shit collecting everywhere
the urge to punt pigeons off the L-train platforms.
the sound of the subway door opening and closing.
the smell of urine on lower walker street.
street hustlers and the creative stories they spin to
convince you to give them a few coins.
homeless people bent in sleep on the subways chairs.
the lonely sound of street performers at the under ground
stops of the red line and the blue line.
horn happy drivers.
shady pizza joints and even shadier owners.
24 hour hummus stops like going back to Palestine
or so said my friend Haneen.
the masturbating menace from the university library.
men perusing Mexican meat markets.
men perusing you like a meat market.
Van Gogh’s haystack series at the art institute.
The hidden face on the blue canvas of Picaso’s “Old Guitarist”.
the way light hits the sky line at dusk.
Arabian techno music and clouds of smoke at Samah.
Lumpy couches and lost coffee houses.
the changing lights on the tribune building.
Poochy the lesbian homeless baller
that spent half of our conversation hitting on me rather than talking.
Making pancakes at midnight
and excuses to avoid homework.
Sushi chefs with Guatemalan accents.
crack nail sushi shop owners.
The smell of fresh baked sugar cookies
and French vanilla coffee at my café.
The echo of the middle G note on the grand piano in the empty chapel.
the north branch river.
Coco Bongo/ the most orgasmic pancakes in the world.
the counterfeit happiness sold on Michigan Avenue.
Slow strolls down State street.
the orange and red Chicago theater sign.
student seats at the Chicago Symphony Orchestra.
Sweaty bodies, mojitos and real salsa music.
Long conversations about social justice.
feeling small in such a big city.
the places you don’t go.
naked dance parties
and forgetting to close the venetian blinds.
“yelling” at room mates in languages
you both don’t actually know.
the strange smells rising from sewer grates giving
you license to pass gas whenever you want to
without being noticed.

For murray

Putting all talk
of destinations aside;
having no map
does not mean you are lost...

Just because it feels darker
than we remember in bible stories
does not mean
you are blind.

questions may seem closer
than the familiar voices of God.
each one another hash mark
on an empty chalk board
as stars on a horizon

do not let the horizon
distract from one foot
in front of the other

you will write and find no words
as if praying to only paper
mere whispers of fire fly wings

prayers at times more like
suicide notes
love at times more like
dry heaving on truth you wish
you could swallow

I promise God is still there
hiding in the atoms
between breathing in and breathing out

Your heart will keep beating
perpetual
like the sound of stilettos
in an empty hall

I promise you are not alone
between wanting to live and wanting to die

Saying your human
may seem more like making
excuses for fuck ups

I promise that life still holds forgiveness
between mistakes and mistakes

What is empty and silent like
lost echoes in your rib cage
could disguise itself as an ending
but it is only space for a new beginning.