By J.J. Tindall
DUDES
I dream about Scott Tuma*
every night, have for years.
Irrigation, with air.
Dudes: I need
a bike.
Dudes: Let’s smoke one.
Bunny was a poet named Langston.
He was huge, groovy, for real.
Riffed until the cows came tumbling, crumbling down.
HI BUNNY!
Tread: He intoned the narrative of the wall carving
at the DuSable Museum, late
’80s. Yep: the Republican 1980s, fellas.
Eisenhower, anyone?
I SHOOK JOHN ANDERSON’S HAND.
He was my MAN!
Then, Tread: he showed us their collection of venally
racist caricature literature
of this Mid-Century Amerigo, an impressive display of
graphic fiction, vile fucking Amerigan cartoons.
L’il Black Sambo in schwaggage. We were mortified.
Tread: THANKS!
Dudes: tighten it up a little.
Take five and count time, the times you were actually
fucking INSPIRED! Yeah, then it passed.
Examine your sins
and step up with a few, fresh
back-up plans. REHEARSE A FINER TOMORROW . . .
Trust me. Like, talk a walk, have a shave.
Aow, Wicker Park milieu?! Marvy!
Dudes!
“Chay-Chay: how ’bout a
Pabst?”
–
J. J. Tindall is the Beachwood’s poet-in-residence. He can reached at jjtindall@yahoo.com. Chicagoetry is an exclusive Beachwood collection-in-progress.
Posted on February 21, 2008