Got to Beg Louder
Ya Got to Beg Louder Boy (In Chicago)
The City passes you by without saying hi
The City doesn’t care if you’re lonely or high
The City breathes with metallic lungs
And speaks in a rambling tongue
And coughs on the beat of his makeshift drum
Hallelujah man, would ya care for some gum
To hide the stench of the smoke from your apathy’s gun
The black man on the corner’s got a cross and a prayer
His sign says the Lord has let me live for 91 years
and You can learn too
Come drag your green shackles,
I’ll share ya some truth
Next door the wrinkled white woman is sellin Streetwise, Streetwise
The drunk on the bridge
Is sellin fake Louis Vuittons
To the wannabes headed for salons
Careful man, not to scuff your shoes
On the rust of the old man howlin Chicago blues
Smokestack ruins across the river
Meatpackin unions once was a giver
I hear the beat of the City street
Hot and dirty and sweaty feet
Pound and pound the skin of industrial war
It’s hard to tell the saint from the whore
Don’t try to adjust the contrast on your tv
That’s just the color of the City’s disparity
But it’s OK, when we call it diversity
Education and ignorance and colors and culture fuse
Watch out you don’t get lost in the haze of the hues
You’ve got to be a hustler in Chicago
Because humility’s a sin
You’ve got to be a man in Chicago
Because there’s no invitation for the feminine
You’ve got to be a soldier in Chicago
And join the chorus of the urban hymn
You’ve got to be cast iron in Chicago
And look at strangers with a grin
Down in the subway I read
The anger of the urban scrawl
Down on the south side I fear
The black urban brawl
Up on the North side I climb
The white suburban wall
Up the tall glass church I do
The corporate crawl
The latino and the black phds
Write the revolution of the minority
But their people are dyin in the dirt
and eatin’ their white shirts
But they are keepin warm wearin
Protest signs and ivory fur coats
I made friends with a lonely mother
Who wrote a letter to the University
That said, feminism has forgotten me
The dealer on the corner is sellin drugs
The nun in the pews is sellin hugs
The blacks will smoke the crack
The whites will sniff the powder
But only one will see the inside of Foucault’s Tower
Ya got to beg louder boy
For the change from the rich men you annoy
The cars arrive 8:45, Union Station time
Creative ants lined for the slaughter
Shuffle up cellar stairs to the morning rhyme
I killed a man in the subway
But the cops said he was in a coma anyway
Ill sing you no refrain because
Chaos in the City reigns
Liberal politicians don’t give a damn
They still wear nametags that say, “Hello, I’m The Man”
If the Mayor cares for the poor
Why doesn’t he talk to the beggars outside the store?
And the stoned mothers rappin at his door?
You’ve got to be bold Mr Daley
Instead of just signin your name all over the City
I wonder why the cops don’t call
Your Hancock graffiti
I talked to a Gold Coast Gal
Who spent 30 dollars a day on her purebread
But wouldn’t look at a street fixture who begged her “30 cents for some bread”
I wondered at
The weight of her heart on a doctor’s scale
God as the Sun sits overhead
Atop the glass mountains and the lead
But everyone walks past the Church without
Any faith or any doubt
And I join the expressionless faces of fury
And I join the expressionless faces of fury
And I join the expressionless faces of fury
In Chicago
Comment by JAL on 11 November 2008 at 12:09 am:
Don’t be dissing the Gold Coast, punk.
Comment by hood on 11 November 2008 at 10:46 am:
It’s funny because you grew up in Schaumburg.
Billy: the parody of self-actualization.
Comment by Brian Pierce on 11 November 2008 at 10:57 am:
Your connection to the urban poor is unbelievable.
That is to say: you are not credible.
Comment by Billy Joe Mills on 11 November 2008 at 11:22 am:
Brian and Hood,
I’m unsure of why a journalist would need to be a member of the group or event that he is reporting on. With the exception of Gonzo journalism and a few narrow exceptions, all journalism has an outsider reporting on someone who is a member of the group or event. This is no different.
I’m not claiming to own their perspective, only to observe it. The perspective of an outsider is different than that of an insider and thus can be valuable in how it differs from that of an insider reporting on his own group. Further, sometimes the insiders are not fortunate enough to have a voice and one is granted to them by someone more fortunate.
Billy
Comment by chris m on 11 November 2008 at 1:39 pm:
If we’re playing the “you can’t write about anything you don’t have any experience in” game, then I don’t think anyone writing this blog can write about anything other than their relatively white, suburban upbringings and their idealistic and strikingly boring forays through college and beyond. Yay diversity!
Comment by Tom on 11 November 2008 at 2:34 pm:
I like this a lot, Billy. Keep writing.
Comment by Lally on 11 November 2008 at 3:35 pm:
This isn’t about whether Billy is allowed to write about it, it’s about whether he is being myopic and/or poetically juvenile.
And I think he is, and it’s not because I grew up in Chicago. It’s because, LOOK AT IT! The facts about the horrid segregation and disparities in Chicago are all true and sad and horrible and yes, Billy’s ability to shake hands with poor black people and exist in the same square-mile radius as a drug dealer is all well and good, but Billy is the guy who looked me in the face and said that the city had DAMAGED me. DAMAGED. That people from the city are not normal. Because they are damaged. Because they are all fucked up and live together and absorb each other’s fucked-upness by being in contact.
You know what that means? That means this poem is about the sick, alienating degradation that happens when you live in the city. Well me, and all the poor black people that Billy pities, have an ounce of self respect. And our city is more than that. And Billy, with all due respect, is afraid of that place, as I am of his wonder bread naivete.
Comment by Billy Joe Mills on 11 November 2008 at 5:35 pm:
Lally,
With all due respect to your intelligence, I think you thoroughly misunderstood what I wrote.
I love Chicago and its people. I intend on living there. Chicago has many beautiful effects and features. It also has many alienating and disturbing and disquieting effects and features. The things you accused me of believing are a rather un-nuanced, George Bushian recounting of my thoughts I had about Chicago 4 years ago. Like everything in life, Chicago is beautiful and ugly. This poem focuses on the ugly because one major function of a writer is to criticize in the hopes of pushing people or ideas to evolve. I criticized everyone, including myself (”And I join the expressionless faces of fury”).
The poem/song has nothing to do with pity.
Comment by Billy Joe Mills on 12 November 2008 at 1:35 am:
To emphasize, Lally, I intend on living in Chicago for the vast majority of my remaining life and I hope to never again live in the suburbs of any city.
Comment by Lally Gartel on 12 November 2008 at 8:12 am:
<3
Comment by outsider on 12 November 2008 at 6:22 pm:
Lally, if Chicago didn’t damage you then what did?
Comment by Joshua on 12 November 2008 at 7:03 pm:
Outsider, that’s uncalled for.
Comment by Lally on 13 November 2008 at 10:49 am:
Immigrant parenting and not having a Y chromosome.
Comment by Marcey on 13 November 2008 at 2:27 pm:
“This poem focuses on the ugly because one major function of a writer is to criticize in the hopes of pushing people or ideas to evolve. ”
That is what I heard when I read the poem. This poem is art, gritty art, but art nonetheless. Keep up the good work, Billy.
Comment by sigh on 13 November 2008 at 5:51 pm:
you’re doing it wrong.