MAKE me laugh, clown.
Tell me just how many gleeful moon
Barks it takes to dislodge the ever-
Hopeful beating pickle heart
From your swiss cheese holed
Make ME laugh, clown.
Grin yellow and kiss my sweatful
Make me LAUGH, clown.
In this cold bench, puke steps city
It’s better to drink your
Make me laugh, CLOWN.
We change jingling polka dotted jesters,
You and I, gray beards bobbing,
You and I, ashed bellies shaking,
You and I are all
I’m glad to be back in Chicago (I lived a year ago in New York with Jeff) but I wonder how much of the homey-ness we feel in a familiar place is caused not by the grand differences we think matter like architecture and social politics, but by tiny little differences that speak to our illogical bias.
Everyone knows the Chicago Hot Dog is superior, for example, but what really annoyed me about New York fast food was that the teller would always ask if my meal was “to stay or to go.” What? “Do you want that to stay?” To stay where? On the plate? The proper phrase is to ask if it’s “for here,” children. Where did these East Coast bumpkins go to school? Continue reading