Wilson Poem by Jimi Doyle

No street in the city
has a worse reputation than
Wilson

historical flop of the saddest ones

Native Americans re-planted
in dive bars drinking beer in cans
taciturn and stunned
bad moods
bad worlds
bad decades

History turned upside-down
foreclosed on

Wilson

an el stop to avoid
sweet Fullerton and brass Belmont below
handsome Evanston above
a street of dreams imploded
vague somatic concerns exploded
yeah, and filthy, too

Abandon hope all ye...

I walk down Wilson courageous as
St. Tarsisius
my wallet the chalice of Jesus
in the streets of pagan Rome

Mary Mitchell in the alley
once a luscious drop of dew
remembers still her first kiss
and forgets hard her last doorway
three thousands
times three thousands
becomes three billions
just mark the time

Octavio Sanchez worked hard
until his arms gave out
and he had to leave his mountains
never really learned Spanish, no English
and the tongue of his Mother Mountain
has never been heard
on Wilson

Here is Jenkins on a basement step
they killed him there
in dreams he was inside and warm
among family
on Wilson, his last meal was blood

Susie Sixkiller gave up
a long time ago
when punks murdered her Uncle Sunny
it stopped making sense
and now oblivion of nasty wine and cheap whisky

here is trash
here is death
here is Wilson

Well, that's the reputation, anyway