MUCH OBLIGED RESPONSIBILITY

WITH A RELUCTANT SIGH
AND A CHRONIC SMILE

PASSING JUDGMENT ON TEARS
AND WRAPPING PRESENTS WITH LOCK & BOLT

CHARGING A GLANCE
AND MANIFESTING A BEAT

TOTALS OF WEEKS OF WEAKNESS
AND DIGNITY THAT’S FUCKED

DOILY COASTERS HOLD STYLE
AND BOOTS SHINE WITH OIL

REALITY THAT SUCKS ITSELF
AND PIPES THAT BURN IT SLOW

FOG LIGHTS OF MALADJUSTED HIPSTERS
AND JACK RABBIT BUTTONS BRUISED

FUELED AGAIN BY DISASTER
AND ARMATURE CYCLES

FINAL THOUGHTS OF WHAT IF’S
AND MORAL ANIMAL OBLIGATIONS

HOMEWORK EXPOSED

I took it all home as the teacher told me too. I studied really hard. I went to take the test and I failed. I mentioned to her that I made note cards and everything. She showed no mercy and went on to lecture me. “No Excuses” she said.

I never made any excuses.
Period.
Exclamation point.
Comma.
Dot. Dot. Dot.

Porch...

I just had a flashback to the grey front porch of my childhood. I remember that even in the heat and humidity of the summertime I would always get a cool temperature from the wooden boards. I miss the feeling of paint chipping under my feet. I miss the smell of my mother’s well-tended garden. I never took it for granted, but I did not realize until now that I used to step out on that porch and inhale the deepest of breathes each time I’d leave the house, it was a certain comfort. There was an unmistakable likeness between everything and myself that made up the porch experience. I had a friendship with each object and each color. Each detail on the outside of my front yard was burnt into my soul. If I close my eyes right now I know exactly where my mind would take me.

There’s never enough rain, grass, or green here. The memories of “home” are not quite haunting, but a friendly reminder that it’s still there. You could consider this is a poetic continuation of my previous post. There's no porch here. Each place I've lived and learned to love had a porch or a wooden deck. Maybe it's the extension of nature's gift under my feet that creates such a personal connection. Provided by the earth and mixed with the care and design of human curiosity, that simple architecture softens me.

Someday I will have a porch again. A porch with a swing, the swing will be a necessity. Just beyond the boundaries of it's shape I'll make sure to have plenty of flowers and bleeding hearts to remind me of how much mine does. I'm taken away. Taken back to something more simplistic than my mind is able to create on it's own. Perch me in a chair, a rocking chair, with a slight breeze and the song of a spring bird. This is where my bones will rest.

Made of Midwest Ashes

Everyone always asks what my tattoo means on the inside of my right wrist. My tattoo humbly says "Made of Midwest Ashes". If they're lucky I'll tell them the long story, but the short version usually gets the gist across.

I was born and raised in Fort Wayne, Indiana. From 2 weeks old until 17 I called the house on 408 West Branning Avenue my home. For as long as I can remember I didn't want to be there. I knew I was meant to be near the ocean or off on some adventure in some place I'd never seen or heard of before. Corn fields, lakes, and daily comforts just were not enough for me. I may have driven my parents a little crazy from time to time, but eventually they didn't take offense to my passion to "Get Out".

In college I had an opportunity to travel to West Palm Beach Florida for a summer. I went to work on dive boats and charter boats. To cut this short, saving all of those wonderful ocean side stories for later, I'll simply tell you about the tattoo. I returned to Chicago, IL, where I was living at the time, with a whole new perspective. Florida was good to me and the people were most definitely kind and generous, but the communication was off. I couldn't put my finger on it, but when I returned to the Midwest I realized it was simply easier to speak to people again.

I embraced a new understanding of who I was, where I came from, why I acted the way I did, and, most importantly, why I would always be made of the Midwest. The ashes fell into place after a poem I wrote, about a year after my adventure to the shores of West Palm, and stuck like glue. To most people I run into they assume the word ashes are linked to death or some sort of tragic moment in my life. Ashes symbolizes my humility. The destruction of self into the earth and grown from the ashes back in Midwest soil.

Coming full circle with this tattoo,a moment, and story I embark on an attempt to describe my current struggle with yet another recent visit to the Midwest. On May 12th I journeyed home for a two-week visit. I hadn't been to Fort Wayne in a year. I later traveled to Saint Louis, MO where I have an extended family of friends that I had not had the privilege of seeing in over 3 years. My last stop was Chicago and an attempt to see so many people in so little time. This is what I like to call the "Midwest Tour".

Fort Wayne left me in limbo between melancholy and comfort-like jitters. The town was slow. The people walking around the town and the overall feeling of my hometown left me heartbroken. The businesses I loved growing up were closing and the houses, on my old block, were grown over with weeds. Paint was chipping from each house that my old friends used to live in and the new fence around the elementary school playground screamed KEEP OUT! The whole town felt like it was closed off from something and hibernating from fear. I left home with a feeling of fear for "The Fort". Jobs were scarce and the community was making it obvious.

As I drove off to Saint Louis I was greeted with rain. Nature's shower poured into the car windows with a sort of hush-like whisper to tell me that things were going to work out. By the time I arrived in Saint Louis I was excited, nervous, and pickled with tunes I'd sung with from the radio for the last six hours. Cornered by my emotions I was met by a dear friend and welcomed into his home to dry off.

Saint Louis was overdue for a visit. I tried very hard to soak in three years of answers to questions and tried to fill in gaps of time. However, Saint Louis had changed too. Parts of the city I was lucky enough to see,for the first time,or the sections I feel I've lived in myself through the years, had all changed for the better. The city seemed to stay in one place socially, but moved onto something bigger than it ever expected to. Between the booze and the social duties that I courageously endured was a new sense of self understanding, yet again.

I should pause to explain that between my travels to Europe about three years ago, and my marriage two years ago, I never really felt I had time to filter all of those events through. You could say that I was constantly moving both mentally and physically until the beginning of this year. Slowly I've been collecting my "things", objects, and material possessions from my life to make sense of it all. As a result of questions and grasping some sort of self awareness I took a leap into the past.


Saint Louis was good to me. The best of the best, as usual. My Saint Louis friends are life long and no matter the situation we'd all be there for each other the best we could. No high expectations, we just accept each other for what we know is really there. They reminded me of what home could, should, and will always be.

After a 6 hour bus ride to Chicago I stepped off the Mega Bus and onto the sidewalk across the street from Union Station. The smell of Chicago always pleases me. The people and strangers are comforting to me. I miss the act of people watching.

Chicago went by quickly with a lot of confusion, live music, friends, old memories, and fantastic food. I had distinct epiphany too, it was not welcoming anymore. I know that sounds contradictory to my last couple of thoughts, but I no longer felt like I'd left something behind that I shouldn't have. The city was like a good mother telling me that everything was okay at home and I could come back anytime, but that I'd have to realize soon enough that this was not home anymore. Chicago was not, is not, home.

I walked the streets of my old neighborhood and felt good times flood in like a soft blow to the gut. Slowly clenching my fist to my stomach I took a moment to breathe in the good ones and out with the bad. Over 5 years of "growing up". I don't consider myself "grown up", just for the record. It all went by too fast, or maybe just fast enough.

So after all that travel, the hugs, the meals, the familiar and yet far off surroundings I came HOME! I came home to my husband, my dog, my cat, and all of our kooky things. My home is with MY family now. I guess this is part of growing up then.

The moral of this little chapter is short and sweet; no matter where I go, or where we live, I will always be MADE OF MIDWEST ASHES.