I love summer tourist season. Especially when it’s hot and muggy. The suburban vibrates through my grid like ancient black holes compose music for the universe. The husband and wife in matching Cubs gear or sacrifices to St. Louis. In the lobby of the Willis I watch the foreign families place orders. The men take care of the children, the women take care of themselves. The stateless hide here, the fallen, while on the skydeck you buy tickets and pretend to fall. When I leave the lobby I greet the smell of human sweat in the wedge of revolving door. I go around again, I do it all before, my contribution to our stench. On Michigan Avenue I am the gray urban man. Oohing and aahing the climate control on my way into your experience. I embrace my role as a Karen. Stop riding your Divvy on the sidewalk! I am the cop, the trembling Russian soldier, the notetaker, the lookout. In the median strips of Mag Mile the state troopers idle. They protect not you, not me, they protect Neimans and its mormon products. “If the message of western civilization is I am alone,” you won’t find any notifications here. One thing I love about originality is doing the same thing all over again. Like dropping a thirty dollar bill in the beggar’s cup. This man is older than my arrhythmia. Mein herz gets medicine but his is still beat. It doesn’t give me the blues so much as the strums.
The strums
The strums
The strums
I love summer tourist season. Especially when it’s hot and muggy. The suburban vibrates through my grid like ancient black holes compose music for the universe. The husband and wife in matching Cubs gear or sacrifices to St. Louis. In the lobby of the Willis I watch the foreign families place orders. The men take care of the children, the women take care of themselves. The stateless hide here, the fallen, while on the skydeck you buy tickets and pretend to fall. When I leave the lobby I greet the smell of human sweat in the wedge of revolving door. I go around again, I do it all before, my contribution to our stench. On Michigan Avenue I am the gray urban man. Oohing and aahing the climate control on my way into your experience. I embrace my role as a Karen. Stop riding your Divvy on the sidewalk! I am the cop, the trembling Russian soldier, the notetaker, the lookout. In the median strips of Mag Mile the state troopers idle. They protect not you, not me, they protect Neimans and its mormon products. “If the message of western civilization is I am alone,” you won’t find any notifications here. One thing I love about originality is doing the same thing all over again. Like dropping a thirty dollar bill in the beggar’s cup. This man is older than my arrhythmia. Mein herz gets medicine but his is still beat. It doesn’t give me the blues so much as the strums.