while i am waiting, you could do me a favour

I want to know who you are. People talk about a voice calling in the wilderness. All through the Old Testament a voice, which is not the voice of God but which knows what is on God's mind is crying out. While I am waiting, you could do me a favour. Who are you?

"Short Talk On Who You Are," Anne Carson

[Chicago Avenue and Damen Avenue]

was you ever bit by a dead bee

I was, I was—by its posthumous chomp,
by its bad dab of venom, its joy-buzzer buzz.
If you’re ever shanked like the chump
that I was, by the posthumous chomp
of an expired wire, you’ll bellow out prompt
at the pitiless shiv when she does what she does.
Was you? I was. By its posthumous chomp,
by its bad dab of venom, its joy-buzzer buzz.

"Was you ever bit by a dead bee?", Hailey Leithauser

[Ukrainian Village]

writers who do not write

"I often wonder about the people who linger over trash baskets at the corners of the city's sidewalks. One sees them day and night, young and old, well dressed, in rags—often with shopping bags—picking over the trash. They pick out newspapers, envelopes. They discard things. I often wonder who they are and that they're after. I approach and cannot ask them. Anyway, they scurry off. Some times I think they are writers who do not write. That 'writers write' is meant to be self-evident. People like to say it. I find it is hardly ever true. Writers drink. Writers rant. Writers phone. Writers sleep. I have met very few writers who write at all."

"Speedboat," Renata Adler

[Damen Avenue below Division Street]

rainward

[Chicago Avenue looking toward Michigan Avenue]

angels depart

[North Avenue west of Western Avenue]