Basically,
says my friend
I'm ashamed to be white.
I nod
I would be too.
We laugh
It's raining on the way
to the airport.
Common is on deck.
My friend shakes his shoulders
to the beat
and sighs.
It sounds resigning.

Portrait: Tascha

It's her palace and i'm her jester
most of the time
she is unimpressed
and indifferent
But there are brief
and shining examples
of a smirk
"I'm kind of a big deal," i tell her,
half serious---
half recounting a joke
And she laughs just like i knew she would
and then she goes back to her business

Show the jester out, please.
She is all about face-value
What can be touched
isn't always kosher.

Portrait: Noah

Caravaggio painted him
the Boy with Fruit
the graceful line from his
furrowed brow
to the tip of his nose
is where a brush dipped.
But between his lips---
that is where my tongue dips

The narrow
space between
our hearts
is turbulent,
that is, until
I run my fingers down the trail
of an ancient paint brush and stop
at the parting of his lips.

Portrait: Mel C.

One woman has never been so mysterious
to me.
The thoughts etched on her face
are barely visible to us,
but the simplicity shines brightly.
She balances well, not unlike a
Chinese acrobat with tea cups.
There is less bravado, yes,
but the grace and beauty can't
be ignored.
So solid. She will be an old woman
with granddaughters who ask questions:
"What do you call a small rabbit
with no sense of identity?"
With a straight face, much straighter
than I can muster,
She will reply honestly and in French.
The grandkids will squeal and ask for more cookies.
I, myself, would steal time to remain
one seat away, figuring the puzzle in her face.
Those invisible etched thoughts that
I think I can see.

Portrait: Archie Reid (As told by his granddaughter through a cosmic interview)

Sitting in an overstuffed leather chair
Mr. Reid is relaxed.
Loading a pipe with sweet tobacco.
You shouldn't smoke, I say
It'll kill you?
I nod. We have a good laugh
before it gets too bittersweet.

Do you remember me?
Of course I do.
Because I barely remember you,
I fill in the gaps right now.
That's okay. Want a puff of this pipe?
We listen to Beethoven
and that fills a gap.
We write poetry in silence
and that's not real.

Up here, I heard you like William Carlos Williams.
How did you know?
Willy told me. He's a braggart.
Can you tell him I like
his tribute to the common man?
Mm-hm.

Mom misses you.
I know.
I've glorified your past image.
I know.
You're a giant.
Nearly six five.
I don't know about that.

Let's listen to Copeland's
Fanfare for the Common Man.
Yes, let's.

Portrait: Rob C.

A Conrad. The first Hilton
was a Conrad, who was
obsessed with keeping the sheets clean.

He would want me to include
the phrase: "Various stages of
undress." I don't think it fits.
He would like it to fit only
because he's a last born dramatist.
Ugh.

He doesn't dig child-like wonderment
What the hell?
If given the choice, who wouldn't dig
it? A boy who didn't like Charlie Brown
A man who works too seriously when wants to.
But he laughs like that's all neither here
nor there.

Portrait: Nathan (some guy at the Target bus stop)

(This is an actually account of my conversation with a young man at the Target transfer stop in Normal, IL.)



He shouted at me and I didn't see him.
I did, I just looked down real quick
like I didn't.
I'm just sitting here on this bus stop bench
like some open prey down at the water hole
Here he comes.


I'm fucking starving! What are you reading?
The Race Myth.
Looks brand new. From the public library?
Yep.
I got no money. I'm hungry. I gotta get to a
car dealership.
Really?
Oh man, I'm hungry. Where is there a place
to eat?
There's a Hardies or a McDonalds up the street.
(laughs) You know I don't eat that stuff.
Actually, I don't know you from Adam.
What's your name?
Charish
Charish. Yeah. My name is Nathan.
Nathan? Nice to meet you.
What are you listening to?
Gnarls Barkley.
Yeah? Which song?
Crazy.
You would! (Pause. Would I? By this time, I had to laugh at that statement.
We've known each other for a whole three minutes and I wanted to mace him.)
Where are you from, Nathan?
Here.
Do you go to school?
I'm a senior at ISU. I'm fuckin' BORED. Bored as FUCK!
Got a job?
I got three!
You can't be too bored, huh?
Yeah. But I love what I do. It's rewarding!
(I didn't ask him about what he did.)
Where's the fucking bus when you need it? For chrissake! (to a passing woman in the distance) You are fucking HOT!. That dress is fucking HOT! I'm hungry as FUCK. What do you do, Charish?
I'm a student.
What year?
I'm a senior.
What's your thing?
My thing is English.
Do you speak any other languages?
No.
No hablas espanol?
Not enough to get by.
I speak Spanish and German. But I've never been to Spain
or Germany. I hope to remedy that.
Cool.
I've seen you around. You look familiar. That girl
was fucking hot. I'm just saying.
This looks like the bus coming.
Yeah it is. Let me read some of that book before it comes.
You know what? You probably wouldn't like it.
Maybe you're right.
Have a good day, Nathan.

Portrait: Tim

(Since none of these statements felt right crammed together into one poem, I decided it was best to put them into convenient shorts)



The most refreshing gift he can give us is his laughter.
The most sincere, most withheld gift a man on the move can give.



He carries no weight while he walks
and he walks a lot.



His serious, sometimes mischievous, but always engaging eyes wander like time wanders down a secluded hall.
They usually have a purpose.




Mild mannered men don’t usually start riots, but when they do,
they move like eerily quiet tempests.
The danger is palpable and succinct.




Me? No, you lie.
No one does and that’s a shock.
They are honest about him.
But modesty is beautiful.

Portrait: My Devil

"Sometimes, how something is done
makes up for what is done."
And sometimes that works in the
reverse. Should there ever be a
need for my assistance, I want you
to know that I'll be there, but my
terms will be laid out in full, just
as I expect to be paid: In full.

Sometimes there is something that
must be done and sometimes it
doesn't matter how it gets done.
Should you ever need me to be
the doer of that something,
I'll do it, just don't concern your-
self with the minor details of
how it was done.

Portrait: Jenna

“Oh Mother Millett, give me
A sign,” is her mantra.
But it’s damned hard to hear anything when
Papa Hemingway is in your face.
She’s got a swagger that rivals John
Wayne but she cries about her hairy
Legs. Oh kiddo, no one’s concerned
About your willowy legs or your love
For the girls.
She smiles slyly and says: “Cooool.”
But it might as well be awe and childlike
Wonder that makes her grin. I told her
Repeatedly to go Reckless into that Good
Night.
The Jewish girl’s eyes widen and tell
Me I’m crazy. Well
I’m in good company.
I’m over it, says she, the tall drink of water who
Thumbs her nose jewelry.
“I’m going to need the keys to your car,
Papa. I’ve got a tree farm to head to.”
Way to be Gentle, Miss Wayne.

Portrait: Evan

Tell ‘em how it be, C.
The man is black.
I’ve no problem saying such a thing.
Play me something funky and
He does. This kid never asks us for
Anything. Just to bend our ears---
I’ve heard his poetry and yes, we’re
Doing this now. He’s guilty about looking
And sounding like a homeless white man. Not
Homeless, but that hair. . . He’s got handsome
Brows and a silly grin. Poor kid.
He’s going to explode like a dream
Deferred.
Tell ‘em how it be, C.
This man is black and he’s proud.
Now play me something funky, E.

Portrait: Beatrice

All she does is smoke, eat pudding,
watch "Cops," and hang out with her
boyfriends
She’s going somewhere soon. There’s
a good chance of that.
“I’m off to the 7-11, want anything?”

Portrait: Self

She always wanted to do something
criminal and dynamic. Robbing a
convenient store was on top of that list.

With jerky in her pockets, she’d scream:
“Give me the f**king money, motherf**ker!”
That was something she wanted to say.

But she favored misdirection in life and
was never good at yelling at folks. Exclamation
points, however, she was not afraid to use.

She always wanted to go to places that were spacious
and smelled funny. Some place far off, a place
that required vaccinations and water purification tablets.

She wanted her luggage lost and to be kidnaped
by guerillas. Her family could make pleas on the
Today Show with Matt Lauer.

But familiarity has a strong hold on her and she
hated missing modes of transportation. However,
she was a pro at taking the bus to and fro.

She always wanted to talk to insane people, the
kind that she could dismiss when she was tired.
The sort that knew when Jesus would return

“Could you be a dear and tell me if that man with
the blue dog is still following me?” “Are you LBJ?”
“I’ve got mashed potatoes in my pocket, want some?”

But voyeurism is more appropriate. She wasn’t
allowed to talk to strangers. She would do them the
favor, however, of making them into haunting portraits.

Portrait: Danielle

I've never pictured her five steps from a one night stand.
She's more like three steps from a clandestine nirvana
that none of us know about.

I do know that in broad light, she attends dance parties
with bum writers who, sometimes get stoned when they
write stories.

She tells me: Write a poem about me; I'm a cowboy spirit,
you know." She's a gaucho all right, but not one from the
pampas. I tell her: "And I say you're a 2nd French girl."

I've seen her body levitate without warning.
I know that her brilliant and off putting feet move to
their own perverse beat.

Portrait: Vince

The boy (Vince) who grills my burgers
spits out ill rhymes over the onions
I tap my toes and feel the music
It is in my chest
It pounds like: yo. . . yo . . . yo. . .
Mos Definitely.

On t.v., young black warriors pound
the blacktop with expensive kicks
OOhhhh! They jeer with straight backs
and outstretched arms.

The boy (Vince) who grills my burgers
plates up. His narrow hips shake as
he wraps.
I bob my head and mimic the beat
of the m.c.
I wanna rock the mike like:
yo. . . yo . . .yo . . .
Mos Definitely.

Portrait: Abbie

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Portrait: Phil

Although nothing aside from the anniversary of his birth happens in the month of October, it remains his favorite month. He has pants specially made for dancing. Did his tailor tell him that while measuring his inseams? They are brown with houndstooth checkers. I told him how handsome he looks in green. He agrees. He is a nectarine or a strawberry, he's not sure which. His indecisiveness shows how much he knows. He is a kangaroo paw or a bluebell. Again, indecisive. He'd love to be a roaming philosopher. Wouldn't we all? He likes the hearts and minds of women, although I pegged him for a breast man.

Portrait: Jazzy Old Man

He’s really creepy but I want to take him home
Every time we meet, he greets me with a little dance
The kind of dance that reminds us that he’s not all that old
I wait for him to pull coins out of my ear but he just slaps my fanny
Jesus . . . he’s really creepy
Sometimes he tells me how music was and how it turned out to be
Back in the day jazz was boss
And it didn’t cost you nothin’ to say hello to someone on the street
When he’s done, he’ll shuffle away
When he shuffles away, I miss him
When I miss him, I await his next creepy return
The next little dance and the next slap on the my ass
Damn jazzy old man

Portrait: Leather Captain

He was Ahab in a leather jacket
Shit kicking boots and silver earring
His lofty stature; like an aging oak
This comely gent did not wish to dally

He waited to use the copy machine
But there was a line to stand behind
“Sir, there’s another copy machine to use,”
I said, in awe, as I stared up at him

He smiled an nodded acknowledgment
In a deep rumbled voice, he said, “Thank you.”
My face turned red for a man twice my age
He walked to the machine with a purpose

Assuredly, his copies were produced
I watched him leave without preamble.