Chicagoetry: Re*ac*tor

Re*ac*tor

My skull became a nuclear reactor,
where my mind

burned white.
Overwhelmed by a tsunami

of grievous

but universally human

circumstance,
making mince-meat of my
laughable surge walls,
core meltdown was suddenly

imminent. Like: minding my own
self-centered goddamn business
I stumbled upon leering death,

forced into a sense of compassion
for my own humanity

and that of others.

Thaaat's just great.

My flimsy back-up generators
signally failed.
My arrogance had designed them
as merely an ornamental flourish

to automated genius.
Genus: Narcissus.

Suddenly, my very being depended
upon my crew:
neglected, rejected, taken for granted,
invalidated, rendered virtually obsolete,

they saved my sorry-ass skull,
stringing together car batteries
to sustain life-support;
critically, a safety valve through which

to blow off bilge, bile and steam.
Elementary, but overlooked
in the arrogance
of conception.

I presumed my genius
would find an automatic groove,
that mere endurance rendered
my core invincible

until life had some other
fascinating ideas.

Finally my crew held me down,
shaved my head
and drilled a valve through
my Tungsten skull--
barnacled with pride--

to acknowledge and channel
ordinary human blues.

This explains the jaunty beret.

I thought life would level out
into a kind of automatic groove
but this does not happen this

DOES NOT HAPPEN.
Turns out, venting grief
and stoking joy

is a job for life.
I call it a plum
job:

it tastes good
to me it tastes good

to me.

It's a job
I know I'll keep it sure was

hard to find.

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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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More Tindall:

* Chicagoetry: The Book

* Ready To Rock: The Music

* Kindled Tindall: The Novel

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