  Well, here's that poem I said was on the way. It's a sestina. You can see the form--repetition of the words at the end of each line of the first stanza in the following stanzas, only in varying order. There you go. Poetry lesson from Julie, which I know everyone wanted. The poem is sort of indirectly related to the J.C. music scene, but more about myself--the only topic I can speak on with any authority.
I'm working on another one though, about the music more specifically. Ciao. Hope it's enjoyed. Traveling: A Sestina Despite the distance, I liked driving from Chicago to Johnson City, moving across the slick highway like a dry, lone soldier hoarding images of my own small town past in a suitcase, insanely composed, ready to hand them over to the bravest human properly attired; a man who carried his own pain like a torch shouting, Hey, fucking look at this!
-- yet hiding. I remember standing on a stool inside a music venue, hiding behind the noise of something too hip, carrying an entire city in my veins. You were the only soul who saw my twisted torch; it was really a stupid billboard; a drama given for some soldier who had not yet truly suffered.
I wasnt even yet a human who could name her pain. I was only carrying a suitcase of misplaced desire. Still, inside that weird vision, that suitcase of twisted knowledge, I guessed, and I touched you, hiding out loud. Within my imagination, you see, the word *human* wasnt skin and bone singing but more the language of a soldier whose mind is separated from the huge, billowing torch that whispers a specific, visceral song. I inhaled a glowing city and exhaled nothing. See?, I said. And - In the glowing city I can carry my dreams across the highway.
- or - a suitcase of understanding that remains private. - or - a huge torch I can fold into precise, measured portions and carefully hide in a high place. You laughed. I didnt realize that a human could think of that, you said, and sat like a true soldier. Now, when I consider certain melodies, I see outlines of soldiers propped on their elbows, legs crossed.
They see the pure city of desire, and exhale an empty canvas. Yet they say Human emotion is measurable. Hah. The vast importance of a suitcase of cheap memories doesnt go unnoticed. The need to hide persists. I can hear them. Poor thing. she still carries a torch that smells like yesterday. But they do not hear the soldier in my voice - the thing that molds then fills an enormous suitcase of memory. No matter. Like me, they too still carry a torch. 
