Chicagoland [a poem]

updated 9.30.25

 

SUNO: https://suno.com/s/bsOAFv6hJQFtLKdz

 

YOUTUBE: https://youtu.be/tWys_AY34w4 

Chicagoland
summers blister under nails,
winters bite through bone,
autumn wrenches out the eyes,
springtime
            springtime
                        springtime brings the trout back home.
Eli Louie
has a job on East
            Huron Street opening doors
for privileged guests
            in shiny shoes and sparkling dresses.

Calls himself by his whole name,
            says, “That’s what my heroes did.”
Nat
King
Cole
Pours into the lobby full
            of deaf trout in springtime coats.
 Tilts his dusty, 
black, 
thrift-store
hat 
when he holds open doors;
      winks if you look him in the
                 eye, instead of the little
                             holes in the cuff of his moldy jacket.
 



Usually
            No one looks at him at all.
                                         up
The Tourists look up
                             up
and the trout 
scouting for stars and cars and new jackets
stare right through you.
Hypnotized by the walls of glass
                                                       kissing God above the sun.
Zora, Zora -
            Eli Louie shouts my name
from across some busy street.
            I am watching skinny girls
                         take pictures of stilettos
                                     when they should be eating peaches
                                                                in the light of spring.
Eli Louie  
                                                                              He’s always blowing his horn.
           Throwing music into the crowds.
    Waiting
                                            Waiting
                               Waiting for some kind trout:                                                                                                  
            A benevolent
benefactor who will
pave his dreams with gold                    



                                                           Buckingham Fountain
                                  is where I write                                 about the sun and the
           cellphones buzzing                                                                in the park as Eli Louie
asks for change out of an old saxophone case that can sing the blues for him when he needs a break.



Zora, Zora –
             He was out fishing
             for a warm lunch when
             he caught the ear of
             some mysterious prince who
                                                            claims our time has come.
Eli Louie
            was offered a record deal
            by a stranger on the street
            and I told him to take it
            that “we all deserve our dreams.”

            And so it was he
                        who inspired me
                                    to submit my scribbles
                                                to the Times and Tribune.

            But when they wrote back with checks
            Eli Louie wept 
in his
                                              old,
 empty, 
saxophone case
                                                                                               and when the Prince never came back
Eli Louie tried to ruin 
everything 
for me.

To this day I don’t blame him
for putting me down
just when the soup got thicker
and the beds got softer and
            the springtime bloomed in the park.
But I wasn’t going to
let him take my life
just as it was starting up
no matter how down he was.
Eli Louie
            had a nice funeral
            for a man who tried to kill
            his wife. Or so I heard from
            a south side jail cell.

The Times and Tribune
                                        don’t write checks anymore
                                                                                    since my incarceration
in Chicagoland

              summers still blister,

and the winters bite through my bones,

                                                                            autumn wrenches out my heart,
but in
springtime
springtime
springtime I leave the trout alone.

 

 

 

 

Chicagoland

Chicagoland

summers blister under  nails,

winters bite through bone,

autumn wrenches out the eyes,

springtime

            springtime

                        springtime brings the trout back home.

Eli Louis

has a job on East

            Huron Street opening doors

for privileged guests

            in black shoes and red dresses.

Calls himself by his whole name,

            says, “That’s what my heroes did.”

Nat

King

Cole

Pours into the lobby full

            of deaf trout in springtime coats.

 Tilts his dusty, black, thrift-store

hat when he holds open doors;

      winks if you look him in the

                 eye, instead of the little

.                             holes in the cuff of his shirt.

Usually

            No one looks at him at all.

                                         up

The Tourists look up

                             up

and the trout stare right through you.

Jaded by the walls of glass

                                                       kissing God above the sun.

Zora, Zora -

            Eli Louis shouts my name

from across some busy street.

            I am watching skinny girls

                         take pictures of stilettos

                                     when they should be eating peaches

                                                                in the light of spring.

Eli Louis  

                                                                              He’s always blowing his horn.

           Throwing music into the crowds.

    Waiting

                                            Waiting

                               Waiting for some kind trout:                                                                                                  

            A benevolent

benefactor who will

pave (his) dreams with gold                    

Buckingham Fountain

                                  is where I write                                 about the sun and the

           cellphones buzzing                                                                   in the park as Eli Louis

asks for change out of an old saxophone case that can sing the blues for him when he gets tired.

Zora, Zora –

             He was out fishing

             for a warm lunch when

             he caught the ear of

             some mysterious prince who

                                                            claims (our) time has come.

Eli Louis

            was offered a record deal

            by a stranger on the street

            and I told him to take it

            that “we all deserve our dreams.”

            And so it was he

                        who inspired me

                                    to submit my scribbles

                                                to the Times and the Tribune.

            But when they wrote back with checks

            Eli Louis wept in his

                                              old, empty, saxophone case

                                                                                               and the Prince never came back.

To this day I don’t blame him

for putting me down

just when the soup got thicker

and the beds got softer and

            the springtime bloomed in the park.

But I wasn’t going to

let him take my life

just as it was starting up

no matter how down he was.

Eli Louis

            had a nice funeral

            for a man who tried to kill

            his wife. Or so I heard from

            a south side jail cell.

The Times and Tribune

                                        don’t write checks anymore

                                                                                    since my incarceration.

In Chicagoland

              summers still blister,

and the winters bite through my bones,

                                                                            autumn wrenches out my heart,

but in

springtime

springtime

springtime I leave the trout alone.

                              

                                                                                                                                               

            

Poetic Explanation for Chicagoland

This story has many elements that I thought might need more explanation.  “Chicagoland” is a poem which retells the story of “The Fisherman and his Wife” in modern day Chicago. The old man and woman of the fairy tale have been turned into Eli Louis and Zora, two artistically talented and homeless citizens of The Windy City who are in their early thirties. In my version, the trout are actually the wealthy who dominate a famous shopping street called The Magnificent Mile – literally a mile of road dedicated to capitalism. Eli goes “fishing” for them in the spring when many of them are tourists, still able to feel awe for the city. He thinks he “catches” one who says he is a prince (the golden fish), but in the end betrays him. Eli’s problem is that he keeps waiting for success to happen to him; meanwhile Zora actively sets out to fulfill her dreams and get off the street and out of poverty.

The poem is told through Zora, who is named after Zora Neale Hurston. As such she represents and references feminist and coming-of-age elements of the book Their Eyes Were Watching God.  Even though she is the main character, she uses her voice, at first, to talk about Eli Louis, the street musician and hotel employee who, in the end, cannot accept it when Zora finds success before him. It’s also significant that in real life Zora Neale Hurston ended up being alone and buried in an unmarked grave in Florida.

The syllables and line arrangement are symbolic of the improvisational style of Jazz as well as “blue notes” which holds a Mecca in Chicago. Blue notes are the sliding musicality found in Blues and Jazz music, created when African slaves came to America and had to sing in church. Blue notes were created when the slaves tried to find the correct note to sing, because the scales of the western European music and the western African music are different.  It was the mixture of these five and seven note scales that created the foundation of Blues and therefore Jazz, and so that’s how many syllables the major lines contain. Heading “topics” contain four syllables.

I wanted to give a feminist spin to what I saw as a very sexist story. The original story is only about greed on a very basic level. More so, it is about the “terror” of women’s ambition and the shame of any “spineless” man who would listen to her. By incorporating religious images, the old fairy tale adds another element of destiny and predetermination and “natural order” as well. I wanted to show how both genders are more alike than they are different, both have the right to dream, and the right to defend that dream – while also equally capable of darkness.