denise wrote:
the 80+ year old lady i sat next to at "the love for three oranges" told me this is one of her favorite quotes:

"We're born with our seeds of death and one traumatic event sets them in motion."

my red brick blood (version 2)
denise dee

I partition myself with my red brick blood
and factory lungs
the sound of a train whistle, hiss of a mill chute
my ideas of beauty may never rise above
a strong back, muscular thighs
a sense of connection with words, bodies, or eyes
my red brick blood and factory lungs
cranked out punk rock songs
as easy as kids
my grandpap slaughtered chickens
in his red brick basement
the cats got the heart
can I lose this image
no matter where I might roam?
city to city
I can’t shed my blood
ties to the blue collar people I grew up from
America might not find me beautiful
but somehow I think Chicago does
Nelson Algren said Chicago is like loving a beautiful woman with a broken nose
Oh my city of industry, of factory soot, of slaughter,
blood in the rivers, an awful stench
people on the make, corruption and politicians they say on the take
all set against an ever so beautiful lake
it’s big enough to fit any contradiction in
my grandma came here in the 1920 a maid
would I see her if I turned the corner
backwards in time
the old studdabubba
now girlish with a beauty not mine
she was a farm girl
her dress hiked up high bent over fields
they didn’t read books, they read magazines
the newspaper in Polish with
unpronounceable names
she told me
all you have is your word
watch what you say
my red brick blood with
words written in stone
a fortress in which I feel very alone

My body was carved up by a king and a queen
with a scalpel and magnifying glass and a right to rename
I knew them as Leo and Eleanor
or as Mom and Dad
Polish and Irish
sane and insane
meek and angry
strong and lame
these are labels but easy to say
an economical use of language
symbols and names
my body obviously polish with its strength and range
my face and it’s freckles went to Ireland
my dark hair could be either, but its early gray gave it away
one more for the Irish. hip hip hooray!
my tongue though sharp was won with a fight
silenced by the less spoken Polish
my heart it was easy it bled for my Dad
my brain divided sewn with needle and thread
that one will have to be dissected
after I’m dead