Chicagoetry: Gotham

GOTHAM

A city of dreams must exist in the night
in a dark glass dome under an inland sea.

We strain to sink
into our warm, soft tombs

to escape, to dream,
to heal the day's fresh wounds.

This deep, dark world is a
sprawling city, rain-soaked,

catacombed, shrouded in fog.
Antique neon, like close, blinking stars,

statues, spires and underground trains.
Fear and dread fuel the surging engines

grinding out the shadow play
in the cauldron of mind.

Fear and dread the oxygen,
light and shade the hydrogen.

Purple perfumes, frightful flowers, spirits
probably called loves and doves.

We melt into a dark, warm sea of ourselves
then wash up on pink and orange sands,

wide-eyes fluttering like close, blinking stars
at the daunting prospect of another day

in this cold, harsh, brittle world. Yes:
a bed of air, a pillow of light,

a city of dreams must exist in the night

(I walked across the sky
toward a black symphony.

then awoke to silence
in the pink and orange desert.

I drank the moon,
inhaled the sea

then awoke alone
to free the sky.

I drank the stillness,
thanked the pink

and orange desert,
I wept, I slept,

then, again,
awoke alone).

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J.J. Tindall is the Beachwood's poet-in-residence. He welcomes your comments. Chicagoetry is an exclusive Beachwood collection-in-progress.

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