In the vast expanse of cages, Andres talks to the city.
He writes its ballistrades one thousand love-letters
And sends gifts to its rivets and girders
And demands the personification of the Chicago nightime skyline
From the lonesome banishment of helplessness.

It is in these hours where he sleeps too long or too little that he hugs
his pillows and blank walls
And talks to war.
He talks to the uniforms and inhumanity and has sly affairs with this
beautiful, organized violence.
He makes love to the mortars and the shrapnel, he beds them in the muddied trenches.

Further, it is in these blissful reveries that Andres avoids the expectations
And contends instead with the unlimited sexuality of humanity.
It is then that he confides in deep analysis of the carnal and indulges in the overexplained.
He gains pleasure through voyeurism and the grossly explicit,
Through inexperienced theories.

Finally, it is in these hypothesis that he is allowed into the arms of
unquestioned self-loathing,
And is engulfed into the shrapnel, the city, the sex,
And surrenders to meekness and stumbling word-play
And prefers the world simplified by inherent comprehension,
But is left wanting.

He is the intimidation of forced genius,
And the piteousness of lost and lonesome,
In one quiet blow.