BreakCanon
02-26-09, 02:29 AM
America was not born in
New York, Boston, or Jamestown.
Tobacco and cotton did not
enhance the coffers of
Irish, Jewish, Italian, Greek, Hispanic and Black
broad shoulders caught up
in the swirl of real life tie-dye
before the hippies tripped on the notion.
Thick as thieves they say,
smokestacks in the distance
speaking wonders of progress
while the market harkened
back to an era of haggling
and face to face cultural pollination.
An urban Mecca for the masses
of industrial peasants trying
to make the dream a reality
despite classism
racism
ethnocentrism
any -cism in the book.
And they all sang the blues.
Mississippi lemons made lemonade
and a ruckus struck at noon
before there was a single jukebox
to help convey the news.
In typical windy city fashion
acoustic was not enough.
It had to be louder, faster,
fantastic, FUN
enough to carry itself
from sea to shining sea and beyond.
The legends spoke in repetitive rhythm,
a universal cacophony coloring
the age old story of catharsis
transcending what your ears tell you to hear.
The world was touched, heart in hand
paying tribute to the muses among man.
The smokestacks won in the end.
Airborne cancer ate away their lungs
as much as the cigars and cigarettes
literally flooding the aura with
a far more insignificant blue.
A chosen few were lucky enough
to have their faces stamped onto a dusty album
in the back of a dying enthusiasts collection.
I-Tunes has forgotten even them.
Mt. Olympus today?
Parking lots, condominiums,
college, and drudges diluting
a sacred site where America found
her own distinct voice.
Most only recall you as a particular style of sausage.
The rest of us will shout the holy Psalm:
My sweet home, Chicago...
New York, Boston, or Jamestown.
Tobacco and cotton did not
enhance the coffers of
Irish, Jewish, Italian, Greek, Hispanic and Black
broad shoulders caught up
in the swirl of real life tie-dye
before the hippies tripped on the notion.
Thick as thieves they say,
smokestacks in the distance
speaking wonders of progress
while the market harkened
back to an era of haggling
and face to face cultural pollination.
An urban Mecca for the masses
of industrial peasants trying
to make the dream a reality
despite classism
racism
ethnocentrism
any -cism in the book.
And they all sang the blues.
Mississippi lemons made lemonade
and a ruckus struck at noon
before there was a single jukebox
to help convey the news.
In typical windy city fashion
acoustic was not enough.
It had to be louder, faster,
fantastic, FUN
enough to carry itself
from sea to shining sea and beyond.
The legends spoke in repetitive rhythm,
a universal cacophony coloring
the age old story of catharsis
transcending what your ears tell you to hear.
The world was touched, heart in hand
paying tribute to the muses among man.
The smokestacks won in the end.
Airborne cancer ate away their lungs
as much as the cigars and cigarettes
literally flooding the aura with
a far more insignificant blue.
A chosen few were lucky enough
to have their faces stamped onto a dusty album
in the back of a dying enthusiasts collection.
I-Tunes has forgotten even them.
Mt. Olympus today?
Parking lots, condominiums,
college, and drudges diluting
a sacred site where America found
her own distinct voice.
Most only recall you as a particular style of sausage.
The rest of us will shout the holy Psalm:
My sweet home, Chicago...