ode to chicago made castaways

when the train stops you think of brian in kamikaze blue, or rick, a long and angular much more graceful than everything packed up outside in glass built squares. dawn with her c.v. walking a non-shaky hollow muscular all the way from milwaukee avenue to mission street. tracy, another wondergurl with her amelie wondercurl, a serious stare until a smile unkinks the kinks (heh, he said kink). on my jacket racecar’s hair speaks palindromes like stars. “I’m trying to say what I’m trying to say”. back two weeks on a chrome corner of valencia and 16th I ask mike at one in the morning “do you want some company”. he answers “if you want to”. which is just right and I’d fuck up anyone who argued with me cause I’d trust mike to kill the power if someone gave him the authority. then it moves, east taking me miles, miles that believe that wanting changes everything, miles move like knitting needles, a parallel coastal examination is the most I’ll get from him, but from afar I always get the feeling that chuck watches over all of them, which makes me want to ask who’s watching over him. audiotrack no. 2, no artist, no title. and then every once in a while, when I’ve been locked inside my stolen bones too long, the sun in my office will come in behind me and there’s kristine all green eyes and young trying to figure if she just wants it to be. later, now, a halogen yellow next to nothing for no seeming reason which is the here we have here, with butch turning to sundance and saying “who are those guys” and prince asking “if I was your girlfriend…”, I think then, given my own question I’d ask chicago—do you remember the 20th century?