The river used to flow east toward the lake but now reverses west to tribulate the murky prairie. Bridges cantilever up for masts       to pass and Wacker runs from sun to sun and pole to pole in tiers.  On Ides or Paddy's Day the city dyes the river lurid as a moat.   The Tribune errs the news but banks the Cubs and Poetry's well-heeled though Marshall's Field is fallowing.  The older swells sag guts; the younger brandish tapered shoulders, malls or yawls.      The modish women shop or come and go to cultivate oregano while prop appraisals sky and thugs demise like shares of Arthur Andersen. The clubs, of course, are private. Steppenwolf still spittles in your face but Second City iterates a syndrome and the polis chants DaBullsDaBearsDaCoachDaChoke. Capone's caput.  MJ takes a hike and Ditka's limpid. Bellow dies and Winfrey diets.  Hands in policies and pocket stash, Hizzoner Richie M. digs Meggs and trees.  No one's truly burly surly or unruly. Buddhists boogey.  No one's Board of Trade or Nafta: no more blues or US Made.  Da fix is in and no one's broke, no lie, no joke, it all relies on when to itch and how to scratch and where and whose: Y'all hear wha'm sayin? Swim'r sink, mo'fuh.  Da river's green'n risin.

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