By Kevin Alan Lamb

In Chicago
In a winter storm, without being in it
In a windowsill watching the world around me
No angst or regret, I have navigated the road behind
With friends that I love, appreciate, and will never take for granted
The cold cannot permeate my soul, for it burns fervently
The darkness will not consume an ounce of my light
Three stories up I sit with peace in my fingertips, eyelids and heart
With blanket on my feet, music in my ears, and dreams behind my eyes my spirit wishes to dance with those who keep others in their thoughts, prayers, and actions
With words I search for my cadence in this thunderstorm that is free will
How I have always loved thunderstorms
At the ocean most of all
Where happiness is only poorly alluded and alliterated to
But tonight the frozen streets of the Windy City are my beach
Lake Michigan, my ocean
Winter endures like a furious female filled with hate for me in her heart
It swallows the weary and depressed, refusing to seize its flood of flakes and ice through the night
But even without spring in sight, the ferocious streets of Chicago are my sandy beach as I sip on my red wine and indulge in the rhythm, beat and harmony that infuse my diction with words free of friction and forge fine fiction of coastlines covered in feet of snow
And as the sound increases its pace, my hands and fingers free themselves from the restriction that is my pondering face, operated by my over thinking mind, escaping into spontaneous thought if only for a second and loose rhyme
Talk On Indolence shames me into a moment’s recollection of the previous mention of free thought and flow from the heart and not slowed by the silly antics of a wandering mind, just in time to make these keys click enough for an idea to stick that freedom in writing is a practice and not a standard
In this windowsill in the Chicago sky I gaze upon my sandy beach covered in coastlines of snow and I practice because it’s not the answers we seek that will free our hearts and minds rather the questions we ask that will escape the grind of rhyme and routine and a dependence on caffeine and repression of the passion that picks us up just in time for us to ration away the longings of the heart for those of the mind
So we hold one over the other, like purpose in life was condemned by its mother to suffer from chance and romance and the pure joy that is irrational dance and harmony in happenstance
Scrutinizing patterns in our thinking and feeling is a result of a glass ceiling not imposed by social injustice rather our personal inability to trust and need to rush grand and spectacular notions like dreams and love, and the impossible particulars of a God above
But all things spectacular and grand in design command that our urgency resign, patience beyond all possible conception and forecast, faith that if true, a fervent spirit is certain to last, lift and light the way for those unwilling to tango with the ineffable, with that which cannot be expressed in words, because only experience transcends the delirious from curious to believers
But seeing is not believing, it is succumbing to desperation and the need for finite and friction because without your certainties to cling onto you would float away from the sandy beach that is these frozen, wintry Chicago streets.

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