Places In Which I Dream

These moist lands, haze with forgetfulness. Daytime is like dusk, everyday slumbering grey with someone’s immediate drunkenness towards abandon. Where is my father? This is not his land. He was baked in his brown and dusty home of Okalahoma. His people cleared dried and caked sorrow from their mouths, to utter powerful and mysterious words that would release them from their captivity.
No, this must be my mother’s land, more like it, emerald isles, where, too, they drink to die, for a while. Is this the place I belong, on her side?

Port, land too lush with life, the seizing of a young man’s ideas. Me caught in a battle between the ocean and mountain. This is the land where the living come to be buried in a grey season for a thorough war of dreariness.
---
Portland, you green, lush whore, something to be recognized in my own bed! Quit me, or I you, before I take the living to my father’s land.

Portland

He is here, and it is raining. It is Portland. He begins sadly with his protrusile lips to tell me about his yesterday, (in the rain, it is the saddest time to tell a story of a life); on these moist days he will look at me, indicate the dark sky and say, “We need oxygen to breathe. But only when you think about it.”

I am in Kansas City

I am in Kansas City. Kansas City is a place. A long drawn-out kind of place with no purpose to me. It breeds a hatred of unrestrained ventures. This place! This place collapses my comforted spirit. I am no Lewis and Clark. I do not wish to find new corridors to new ideas. Give me my solitude, in a known idea, about a large and known city. Let me walk with a well rehearsed map, traversing its signs, along numbered streets, in search of a deeply referenced corner store, or dilapidated theatre, the stage collapsing under the weight of decade or more players. (I will have purpose then, touch a cleft here, a chip there, the known will be turned anew.) Let me visit these known places, huddled massively together, claustrophobically so. There, will raise in me a new spirit, seeking and touching things not known. I will be shocked into a sense of foreboding and immense pleasure—it will be undesirable among the adventurer, the visionary, as well as the go-between.

they talk of love . . .

They talk of love. They talk of death. To him, both are the same. Not as a suggestion—more like Sansara—for transformation, moving to the next level, or dying to a younger, more uncertain idea bred in his youth. She burns incense; it moves on air, for their souls' craving rumination. They make love in youth.
- - -
It is only the dead that seem exempt from love.

Just a thought.

There will be a day when we reminisce:
We were artists, wearing black
Creating originals, creating anew, even stylishly so.
We will pause for our probable glory
Between the licking of chicken juice from fingers; and think,
“We are the new Gogol and Satre!”
Then one of us will say something psuedo-profound,
Perhaps he will begin to choke and maybe die,
the other will be too afraid, too egocentric to give a pat on the back.
--Another pseudo-artist will be buried in an unpublished grave.

It was far more important to wear Banana Republic,
than to write about it.

Sometimes, there is Creation.

Sometimes, while he is still young, a boy moves away from himself. Sometimes a girl makes no sense to him. At others times she does. Usually it is when he is hard. He thinks about the first girl. He thinks about how, “I fit here, in her, and she moves, then I move. This is love.”
- - -
Sometimes, when he becomes older, the boy moves away from a God. Sometimes a woman makes no sense. At other times, she does. Usually it is when he is inside her, expansive, yet, comfortable; expansive like the universe or even certain planets, comfortable like a human under a warm blanket. He thinks about this woman, the first he has ever loved. He thinks about how, “I form a universe, with her, with me. And she loves, then I love; and this is Creation.”

He Dreams of Women Who Read Calvino. --Pt. II

Wake from your sleep, my wishful little Italian boy. -He does not want to give up the dream of love.
- - -
He reads. He dresses sharply. He crosses his legs to the right; he crosses his legs at the “right” angle. He sips his tea, not coffee. He reads Calvino, not Miller. He dreams that he is a “hypocrite.” “Opportunist?”
He is at work and thinks of the girl, on the train, who reads “Ti Con Zero.” He thinks of a different girl, on the elevator, holding “Primal Che du Dica,” to her longing, false, little heart. She is sleepy, dreaming of a man who reads Calvino. Which to choose? He is Italian, and this is not the Invisible City, in which she lives. This is Chicago. And how to choose?

She Dreams of Men Who Read Calvino. --Pt. I

This is about a girl, who reads Calvino, who dreams of her perfect man. How does she mourn at night? Does she rest uneasy, quietly deciding that she does indeed know him? No, she holds her yearnings in her soft delicate mouth. And upon wakening, she is held captive by the men, men, who like her, read Calvino. Her memories of loose dreams torture her through the day. --Maybe, he smiles at her on the Brown El’ while a copy of “Mr. Palomar” is held in his backpack. Perhaps he brushes, fragrantly, out of the elevator having just finished “Invisible Cities.”--
Each time she reaches, she prospers at knowing her man. Each time she declines, she submits to defeat. But each night, she lies down with solemnity, (For is solemnity not the way we humans worship or have our visions?), and she sobs at knowing his presence, she sobs to grasp his unknowable face.
- - -
It is disbelief that keeps us here on this wanting earth and not living our waking dreams.
- - -
We touch and we see faces. Belief is not enough. We are enamored by our features—our lips rather to kiss than speak. Our minds rather to forge the city than to explore, to seek a man, at a café, gently reading Calvino, sitting politely and somewhat apologetic. He is waiting for the girl with the solemn dreams to speak to him.

Blue Baby (a novel excerpt)

God created life.
---
I wished I had been born blue. Not blue, as in heartrending or permeating sadness, for I know that was already the case, just as I know any fact of life: this world can be a constant wheezing breath, a minute by minute movement, carrying on in an airy dance of elation toward our death. No, I’m talking the medical term, as in blue baby, as in born not breathing. Medically speaking, “blue babies” are born with a heart defect that causes the veins to pool the blood, which gives the appearance of blue skin instead of the pink skin of a healthy baby. This is how I wished my life had started, for I imagine after my miracle resuscitation there would’ve been a new appreciation of life for my infant self. This would not be merely because I was born blue, as in sad; rather, because this moment in my parent’s life would have been blessed in festive feelings -a sort of wild gesture to God. There would have been great exclamation, the kind of exclamations that are revealed in the Old Testament.
---
That would have been nice.

there is something exact . . .

There is something exact in a moment before a wreck. Across the street, the way the paint on the shutters of a house peel away, much like the way you are peeled away from under a dashboard. Conceivably, you notice the concrete staircase, how it is crooked, cracked, crumbling; as you are yourself, lying there, a cracked and collapsed soul in a confused car. And you want to laugh; because it is all so very fantastic that you could find yourself, lying in abandoned pain, and notice the neglect of someone’s house, yet not your own “dwelling.” This is called disorder —the sad disrepair of your own judgment.

it starts with life and moves to memory

It starts with a life and moves to memory. The hollow point in your stomach is too much to relive with different expectations. The surgery of the mind is that kind of surgery; it ends in false memories, it ends when you find yourself on the floor, in your underwear, in a blank space called your mind. There, in your most vulnerable state is your father staring at you as you plea for a distant memory. (He seemed fine before he became your father, maybe far-flung and invincible, unlike you.) And then you settle. You settle too much, like sediment settles when the ocean draws back --drawn down in bubbles until your recollections are too deep to fathom. This all seems contrary to you now, as if, when you were a small child you considered golden thoughts in a golden future. Were these thoughts away from your father, possibly with a friend, somewherere in secret? Were they near him, maybe lying on his chest, listening to his strong heart? It is hard to believe that you could be here, now, alone and naked, and soft in the tummy in this blank space without father. --The tragedy of this world is that I lie down in forgetful sadness

The Scientist

This early morning, he sits in his favorite blue high-backed chair in his study reading The Astronomy and Astrophysics Review, Physics Today, and because he likes it, Nature. This, he does over decaf coffee, because the doctor told him he can't have caffeine anymore. He resigned himself to this fact just recently on his sixty-third birthday. He thinks of many things, but what he wanted to know this morning was if there was a connection to his slowed paced thoughts, a sort of pattern to his life. Life had been so long.
He ascends the stairs. He thinks of all the things that must be asked, that must be answered. What of the cosmos that create life? What of this evolution from the Big Bang? Does it lead him to this morning, where his bones pop, crack, and loosen as he climbs the stair? What of the meanings of his life: Nebula, Quasar, Red shift, Umbra. No, it was none of these; rather, just an Inferior planet, such as he feels now. Yes, how many times had he felt as if a shadow, voided, withheld from that great source of light.
He is halfway up the long flight when he stops by a window which reflects his white and black peppered hair, his bright eyes and reserved face. How many years had he built this austere face for scientific reviews, peer debates, and lectures. As he thinks this, stars are pointing their numbered wonderment behind his magnificent brain.
"Do I believe in God?" He likes to question himself on this. He secretly believes that it is his scientific duty to do so. He must ask it out loud in order to complete the debate that lay on the stairs ahead. He hopes it will light the fire of a star that is the size of a mustard seed deep down in his humanity. He waits, as many times before, with an awkward silence that has not faded in all his years. This always gives him confidence in the suggestion that God might not exist; however, like other times before, he is prepared to meet the issue ahead.
He begins the climb once more, the one that he has made for the last 25 years, in which there is a long contemplation, in which there begins an argument over general creation, and ends with an argument over the significance of his singular life. There is always one victor, where, when he is at the top of the stair, there is an agreement. He frowns from years of skepticism and thinks there will always be an agreement, that there has to be an agreement, for he is a conciliatory man.
At the top, he pauses again, and puts a hand in his pajama pockets and touches the small glassy rock that his wife had given them when they were young. She had carved the word Tenderness on one side and harmony on the other. She told him that it signified their unity, and went on to explain how it had probably come from a Binary star. This, in turn, solidified her theory their love was like two stars in one. He remembers, at the time, that he did not have the heart to tell her that it was impossible that the rock came from a Binary star, instead, that it was simply a terrestrial bound one. He didn't understand the words, but the gesture spoke to him and he asked her to marry him a year later. She said yes, and he felt for the first time the unique pleasure of having a definite answer to a question. Without calculation no less!
This morning though, he still struggled with the words on the rock; yet, he speculated he felt more close to the proposition of them twenty five years later, still holding out hope that he could impress on her that he was deeply, madly in love with her.
Once, after their first child was born, he came close to expressing his absolute adoration to her, but his excitement at the possibility of doing so turned his hard sought words into boring constellations that were nothing near what the worst poet could've done. She smiled as she had always, with a sort of delight that offered him sincere acknowledgement of his brilliance. That smile never ceased to melt him into her--much like a binary star, he thought. He held and kissed his first child and felt a great stirring of all the massive stars. Years later, after the second child was born, he stood before his wife in the delivery room with a poster picture of a Globular Cluster, which he hoped would convey their consecrated eternity together. She smiled her smile. There was another fantastic shift in the universe, he was sure.
He stands before the bedroom door and thinks all the beautiful things he would like to express to her today. Like always, he knows that it will be impossible. How does one express an unwavering awe of his wife, the most illuminating star? He walks through to witness, what has never tired or bored him in all his life, the stunning site of his wife's small body in serene sleep. He goes through his scientific method, as always. He situates himself there and conjectures the Axial Inclination of her heavenly body to her own location on the bed. He calculates the Density of her ring finger, with and without the band of gold around it, and feels more comfortable with a scientific number with the band on. He speculates her Apparent Magnitude and determines that her magnitude is very low, for she is the brightest that he has ever witnessed. Then, he goes a step further in order to define his love of her with a precise number, an absolute love. He can't be certain of the number, but it helps him to express as he only knows how. He will tell her later this morning. She will smile and he will feel right with the cosmos.
Quietly, as she sleeps, he promises as he has for all their marriage, a good life. And yet, in their remaining years he finds himself promising more and more extraordinary things still.
The lamp he has switched on has caused her to move from its source. He smiles a faint smile of approval, for it is in his training to do so when things turn out the same results, especially after twenty five years. He gently lies on the bed, and eases onto his side. He props his head on his pillow looking at her at eye level. If he could have done this when studying Cepheid stars! He looks at her with renewed wonderment and remembers once viewing the Earthshine, the faint glow of the moon when the side facing Earth is dark, and he feels a hushed theory beginning to form complex formulas in his head. He stops it in order to assess her majesty.
She has pulled the sheets closer to her chin, and mumbles about him coming to bed. Her snore lowers sweeter to a different frequency of vibration, much like the pulsating stars that he had calculated for so long.
"It is morning. It is time to wake, love."
"Yes." He had heard this same answer all his bright, celestial life with her.
She opens her eyes and looks at him. He looks into her eyes for a long time--still intense, but soft with age. They remind him of the Milky Way, no an Elliptical galaxy, no better still, a Flare star.
--No, he thinks. Her eyes remind him of a nothing else. There is no calculation, nor could ever be. She is of the breadth that only one possible thing in all its grandeur could ever compare: Herself.
How the cosmos in all its radiance and complexity had come so far, from the quiet negated time that had been created by God, and kept fully embraced in a protective manner; and how abiding by its occasion, traveled perpetually through space to the further expansion of this woman. This puzzlement of a star that lay before him, that wanted to burst with super-nova joy at being combined with him, had finally come to rest in this moment, in this very minute complex of a moment in his wife's face. He thought, how beautiful all this is which could be answered with a simple yes.

Cold Approaching

The boy and girl will be in a department store looking for winter hats for the boy’s head. They will be looking around, they will be holding hands, which neither one will want to let go of to pick up the items that catch their eyes. Both will be happy to be there, together, looking at things they cannot afford. The girl will wish for him to try on all kinds of headgear: cowboy hats, berets, fedoras; anything that might be goofy and delight her. She will want this because she is clever and thinks it will be amusing to have him try on different funny hats. She will desire this because she thinks he does not laugh enough. The boy, however, knows that winter is already upon him, so he is determined to find something warm.
“C’mon. Seriously, I need to find something that is high-quality,” he will always say. This will be her cue to put down the ridiculous hat and quit playing around.
They will talk about marriage when they shop.
“Okay. What about over here?” She will point at some sober stocking caps.
“Yeah,” he will say as he moves, pleased, toward the pointed items.
Trying them on, none will fit. He will complain about the green being to green, or the yellow being too bright. Others will be too big, made for people with hair –too small, made for the children of people with hair. “Why can’t they just have a black one?”
She will joke about his lack of hair, but he will not find this witty, although he usually does on other occasions. She will patiently watch as he tries on different hats, giving honest feedback and knowing it is not helping. He will become angrier, say things like: damn hat, piece of shit material, and what the fuck is the use. She will wince with each and every obvious word. She will not know what to do. She will move towards the back of the store, while looking over her shoulder for approval. She will justify his words as if not such bad words, then she will motion him over to the thick warm faux-fur Russian hats. She will giggle, quietly waiting for his agreement before reaching full laughter. It is funny to him, so he will decide to laugh. She will laugh harder.
They will talk about how fun marriage will be, and then they will hug and feel good.
“Try it on,” she will say.
“Naw.” He will feel stupid.
“C’mon.” She will nudge him, smiling.
“Naw, they look silly.”
“Ah, give her a try.” She will say jokingly, like she wants him to test drive it. She will put it on his head, feeling like a mother with a child in winter.
“Fuck. Just give it here!”
She will wince. He will feel self-conscious and turn to walk away. He will move around the store and speak pleasantly to the salespeople and other customers, striking up friendly conversations. Every once in a while he will look back across the store to make sure she is safe. She will always be standing there, so he will continue to speak in friendly tones to strangers until he calms down. He will go over how he reacted; thinking that maybe he should be sillier, and he will realize that he loves her.
She will stand there holding the ridiculous hat, tears outlining her eyes. She will keep her head slightly tilted forward so the customers and employees will not see her tears. She will eventually, after the shock of his words, pretend to study the price tags of items she does not care about. She will think that he should lighten up, or perhaps she doesn’t know how to be serious. Then she will think, seriously, it is getting cold and he doesn’t have any hair. She will feel bad about all the stupid jokes she has made and wished she hadn’t. She will know she loves him and doesn’t want to lose him.
They will both move towards each other. They will shop and think about marriage, hoping that the other might move closer for forgiveness. They will look at gloves, scarves, and all the things they do not care about in order to move closer to where the other stands. Somehow, they will arrive at the faux-fur bomber hats on the top display shelf at the back of the store.
“What do you think of these?” She will point, wanting to smile, but waiting for him to acknowledge the hat.
“I don’t know…” He will want to crack a joke, but will anxiously add, “What do you think?” He will pick up the hat and put it sensitively on to his flushed head. He will hope it shows his sense of humor. She will smile. He will feel better.
“Well it’s a hat.” She will resist the urge to break into laughter.
“Feels small.” He will begin laughing. She will begin laughing.
They will hug each other while laughing.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry, too.”
“Well let’s look at a bigger size.” She will move toward the shelf.
He will do some playful dance for her in the small hat, and thinking it isn’t funny, he will stop. He will feel awkward. She will not notice, because she will be fumbling through the hats looking at different sizes. She will be concentrating hard to find the perfect size for him. He will pull the hat as far down as possible on his reddened head. His face will feel squashed and twisted like a cartoon character. “Look.” He will laugh.
“Try this one.” She will say.
He will feel stupid. He will jerk the hat off and throw it on the shelf. He will snatch the hat from her and put it on too quickly. It will not sit right on his head, and he will not notice, “Well?”
She will sense his anger. She will not know why he is angry. She will make a joke and say something witty. She will want to make them happy.
“Seriously.” He will say.

In a distant restaurant

I look at him from across the table. His eyes bulge, his lips protrude—he is ugly. He blows smoke rings in my eyes—he is rude. Under the fairy-tale lights tonight, I’m lonely. I think he notices, so he speaks. He speaks thickly, stupidly—he is French.
I’m eating pastrami on rye. He eats a bowl of potato and leek soup, with French bread. He drinks wine—he is sophisticated. I think I can fly away. Flying away from all of this seems quite possible to me. And yet, I’m still here—the Frenchman, the wine, the smoke is all here invading my world.

i decide that i am a symbol

I awaken in the morning. I have a squirrel in my attic. She is noisy. She is a she, because she is swollen in the belly. She is small and gray. I watch her in the morning before I leave for work. She will come out slowly to eat acorns and such. I do not believe she will bite, so I leave pieces of apple for her. Also, there is a rabbit. I do not know if she is a she, or if he is a he. People call squirrels dirty scavengers. People call rabbits a nuisance. I believe both only do what they are required to do: to live and build their family. —My next-door neighbor is a banker. His name is John. It could be John, but is not John. It is probably Harold. He throws pebbles at the squirrel. He also throws twigs at the rabbit. I wonder if John is a tragic symbol. I drink my milk; I decide that John is, indeed, a symbol. I think I will write mean things about him.
- - -
I work downtown. There are no squirrels or rabbits in my building or on my block—perhaps there are some in the park, but I have never seen them. Today I walk by the park hoping to see a squirrel, perhaps a rabbit, maybe offer them a small piece of my sandwich. But I only see a homeless family. Around me, on the sidewalk, I hear lots of people say dirty words about the family. They say, “These homeless families are dirty scavengers.” Or they say, “This homeless family annoys us.” I look down, sadly, at my shiny shoes. I believe the homeless family only does what they are required to do: to live and feed their children.
- - -
The squirrel that lives in my attic is tiny and gray, swollen with offspring. The rabbit that lives in my yard has big dark brown eyes and white little paws.
- - -
There lives a family with a little boy in the park.
- - -
I eat my sandwich. I decide that I am also a symbol. I think I will not write mean things about John.

It is not sweet. It is forgetfulness.

It is not sweet: The way a cripple lady sits in a green plastic lawn chair at the corner of Jackson and Dearborne. She sells chunks of chocolate to her Chicagoan children for 25 cents. I smile at her plight and she smiles back; gives me a warm hand-held chocolate for free. This reminds me of my mother—how, too, her children ignored her when they grew up, moved away--forgetting her by growing old themselves, dressing fancy and accepting long titles--The slow long forgetfulness of long titles . . .

Dear Mother,
I am pleased with you.
You taught me to die to bitterness—
To die to know
what we can never know.
To die to show
we are aware of beauty.
And in that awareness
distance ourselves not from joy,
but to have quiet hands,
and exist responsive.

Your son (Associate Director of Marketing/Policy Writer),
L.

the many varieties of apples

Apples can range in color from red to green.—My roommate brought home apples, “compliments of the Lyric Opera." He went on to say, “these apples were part of a photo-shoot. These apples were given to opera customers.”
These apples were green—like money. How nice.
---
A bank teller and a young woman get on the El; they face each other, standing. They talk, quietly. He is wearing a ring. She is not. Her two cold cheeks are like pink crab apples. His are red with passion.
---
A homeless man watches, excitedly. He is happy, because he is eating an apple. This apple is red and yellow. Red and yellow is the color of a house on fire.
---
I only eat Gala apples in the summer. How nice.

devotion: a recipe

This is delicate. Be gentle, and
this will be truth.
Combine two parts—
they make a whole. Add warmth,
think of a lover.
Add salt: salt cleanses wounds,
salt adds flavor.
---
Enjoy. Repeat.

Hungry for Fruit

I’m riding the Brown El to work. It is 7:00am--too early for a hungry writer--a sort of trance experience for me. There is a girl eating a banana. She slowly pulls down each section of yellow skin, revealing the fruit. She does this with purpose; eyes forward out the window, chewing slowly, dreamily, like a cow chewing on cud--I wish I were a cow chewing on cud. The girl catches me staring; she eyes me sideways, much like a cow. But, she is no cow. She is a girl, embarrassed. And, I am a boy, hungry. I want to stand up, scream at her, "I'm hungry, Goddamn it! Hungry like a cow chewing on a banana!"--Maybe that cow is in a safe and green field. I look out the window. This is not sexual. This is not weird. This is disconnection--one of many mornings.

Boil to rubber consistency--be thankful.

Nothing would be more tiresome than eating and drinking if God had not made them a pleasure as well as a necessity.
~Voltaire

I used to be an effective shopper.
---
This morning I went to Jewel for a suspiciously "low priced" selection and for their self-ascribed "making your life easier." Yeah, right. Let's write a book about this. "The poetry of Jewel: making life easier."--This was the oddest grocery experience I’ve ever had. First, mixed good news: I filled out one of their preferred cards, and I got a coupon for a free bag of President’s Choice chocolate chip cookies (they also sell small appliaces and linen). Now, I’m really trying to eat healthy, well, as healthy as a poor person can eat in this country. By the way, there’s a reason ham hocks, fatback, butter and PC cookies are cheap; makes you fat and gives you a coronary--the industry’s commitment to killing hungry writers. I'm not too pretty weight wise, so I really thought I would tear up this coupon, thus, proving to others and myself I’m a wise man who takes his newfound “poor writer/starvation diet” very seriously. I didn’t! Moreover, I tore into that delicious hydrogenated sugary goodness the moment I walked in the door to my new home here in Chicago.
Very thin, healthy, older roommate: "Hmm."
Me: "Honeymoon's over. Ya' got a fat starving artist living with ya'. Not glamourous, huh?"
Shame. Deep, deep shame . . . but hey, some damn good cookies none-the-less!
---
I can’t find a thing in the store. Nothing grouped in a familiar fashion. The meats, oh the meats! Everywhere. How am I supposed to compare prices of similar meat products across the store from each other? I tell you how: by trotting back and forth--across the store--with a gallon of milk crushing my Jewel faux-wheat wheat bread, a Tombstone Pizza, (3@ $10.00 . . . I could only afford one and I still bought the wrong kind), and five cans of imitation Jewel-delicious tomato soup, (2@ .59), in a flimsy plastic carryall. I’m a strong young man, but quite frankly, the gallon and a couple of so ounces of soup were too much, so I gave up and grabbbed the sorriest three-piece chicken breast for the lowest price . . . I head for check-out . . . .
---
I will boil them, Gulag-style, to a rubbery consistency and they will make three bland dinners. I will add salt. I will be thankful.

Hunger-part II: Breakfast with Dostoevsky

"Love and eggs are best when they are fresh."
~Russian proverb

Speaking of eggs: I had one cage-free, (vegetarian fed), over medium, a half piece of whole grain wheat bread and one piece of turkey bacon--Reading Notes from Underground; The Double (Penguin Classics) for my next play--I’m heading out to the library to get more books. Remember, I’m poor and can’t afford to even choose between the used bookstore and food anymore. Now, I get to use loans from the government . . . kind of like a good socialist system. Books on loan. Brilliant. Once a long time ago I could buy my books, so that I could build a library; however, since moving to Chicago I sold my car and all of the books, save a few reference, and now I’m free of owning anything. Just pay for the roof over head, food, and my good Jesuit education. Now, if said government can feed, house, and allow me a free education and health care –well, that would be utopia right? No, it would be the Netherlands.

Hunger-part I: What I have in the 'Fridge

I have three eggs, three slices of bread, two (almost bad) celery stalks, a little bit of turkey (half sandwich's worth) and two slices of Swiss cheese. Also, one half glass of milk, two small leafs of romaine, and some very bad Smuckers natural peanut butter, (bought the creamy stuff on accident. ) "Bad boy, Bad boy . . . always get the Chunky peanut butter." Any suggestion on how to make this last the week?

I've been in Chicago for two weeks now. I love the city; it's vibrant and the people seem to be friendly. This blog will deal with random food fantasy. Possible meal ideas. Mainly my writings, which may involve food depravation on a daily basis. Certainly, there will be some hunger.

I have a play out for consideration at a local theatre. They need my $5 processing fee, but hopefully they can wait till the end of the month when I get paid. A fiver will buy me a pack of bologna, at minimum. Basically, it's poetry.