You used to tell me everything,
Ask me all your questions.
You couldn't wait to show off
Your times tables. At age three.
Which you worked out for yourself.
What changed?
You used to climb into my lap
And rub the buzz-cut fuzz
On the back of my head.
You used to ask the barber
To cut your hair
So it was just like mine.
What changed?
You used to show me your stories,
Talk about your friends,
Tell me what was on your mind.
You used to let me point out
When you were straying
From the straight and narrow
In deed or in thought.
What changed?
You didn't used to keep to yourself,
Skulk around the house,
Stay in your room,
Use that gutter language.
I didn't used to need to drink,
Or use this belt on you.
This poem was written for Tina Woelke, a donor to the Chicago Writers Conference Kickstarter campaign. One of the reward perks available was an original poem composed by me on a topic of the donor's choosing. Tina chose "reading," and I debuted the poem at a special edition of Tuesday Funk on Friday, September 14, 2012.
The telegraph was not invented in 1836
but three thousand years before Christ,
when the first writer took up a pointed stick
and traced out on papyrus the careful,
casual chain of coded symbols that
transmitted meaning across time and space
directly into a brain equipped to decipher it.
The telephone was not invented in 1876
but over five thousand years ago
when the first writer took up a pointed stick
and scratched out the vibrations in clay
that tickle the tympanic membrane of the heart
with thoughts conceived in days older than dirt.
Telepathy was not invented in 2170
but forty thousand years before Christ
when, by the light of smoky torches,
the first writer poured out his heart
in ochre, hematite, and charcoal,
unable in any other way to express
the experience of stalking a god,
and slaying it with a pointed stick.
My apologies if you've already seen this. Months ago—way back in March, as a matter of fact—I conceived of a poem that would incorporate hiphop-style rhymes with science fiction storytelling and would be called (as I knew even then) "Grand Motherfucker." I would write the poem sometime over the spring or summer, then perform it at the September 4th science fiction edition of Tuesday Funk.
I made a few notes, but somehow I managed to not start working on the poem in earnest until late in the morning of, er, September 4th. I worked furiously for the next few hours, finally suturing up the last rhymes at around 5:30 pm. The show began at 7:30.
Better late than never! Here's how the poem went over last Tuesday night. Or perhaps how it went down. I hope you like it.
a bike towing a dog with its hindquarters on a cart
a totem pole
a line of hand-holding kindergartners being urged by their teacher in French to move quickly across the path
statues of chesspieces
volleyball players ripening like wheat in the sun
a golden retriever running full-tilt to the edge of the lakewall and leaping far out over the water
so many drinking fountains, but never when I want one
a red-winged blackbird blocking my access to its drinking fountain until I'm standing right there
a cellphone-talking hipster's Smart Water bottle and Starbucks coffee cup blocking my access to a drinking fountain until I'm standing right there
a sexy blonde runner next to me at the multi-spigot fountain moaning so loudly between slurps that I have to put it out of my mind and ride away thirsty
Navy Pier
an gray-haired man on a bike who knocks a younger cyclist into some tourists on that crowded bridge over the Chicago River and doesn't stop to apologize
the Field Museum
the Shedd Aquarium
the Adler Planetarium
a flying saucer parked atop Roman ruins, or rather Soldier Field
a guy who looks just like Starburns from "Community," down to the top hat, but with normal sideburns
an Orthodox woman walking with conviction in the 90-degree heat
geese that never flinch no matter how closely I pass them
a beached yacht rocking on the shore, emergency trucks all around
a Chicago Police boat searching the water
a man walking backward up a hill
a hundred feet of the pathway ahead covered in drifted sand
the Museum of Science and Industry
a broken fountain spraying water thirty feet
the turnaround at milepost 18
the same man an hour later, still walking backward
the Chicago skyline like a tiny sapphire city
my wife, her mouth stained orange from an impulsive snow cone
