The following can also be found in the book Chicago Stories 1997. Click here to learn more, and to download a free electronic copy.

For Patricia Barber

All the dykes line up in a circle around you
They put their asses on that barstool
and don't move
don't budge an
inch
until you are finished

They show up in droves, Patricia
They sit there and give you googly-eyes
They, dressed in your clunky black suits
They, dressed in your clunky black glasses
They, with your straight black haircut
like a pack of Mods
like a pack of Morrissey fans
not content to just listen to you
but wanting, needing, forcing to
dress like you
look like you
because it's not just music, Patricia
it's a lifestyle, Patricia

And the dykes, Patricia, the tough beautiful dykes
that sit at the curved bar
get fidgety when it's 11:03
and you still haven't started playing yet

And the dykes, Patricia, the wonderful dysfunctional dykes
that sit at the curved bar
get angry when you so much as dare
to whisper your drink order to your waitress
(a bourbon and coke, please)
they turn and glare at you
and let you know that yes,
they WILL come over and kick your fuckin' ass
if you don't shut the fuck up!

And how can I write a poem about music, Patricia?
Because it's kind of beside the point
If you had wanted to get your point across with words
then you would have written it down already

How do you describe chills that go down your spine?
How do you describe plucks on ivory executed in such a way,
such a rhythm,
such a pattern,
that it produces hot salt water running down my cheeks?
How do you describe sound that enters my ears
travels through my bones
settles in my soul
and never dissipates
but swells
and swells
and SWELLS
AND SWELLS
and gets lighter
the heavier it gets
until I am filled with helium
and floating two inches off my padded booth
my legs bouncing off the furniture

How do you describe this?
You don't.
Your music completely nullifies an entire subset of artistic expression,
the world of words I like to throw myself so much into --

"So what's Patricia Barber like?"
"Well, she's like... well... fuck, man... she's... and then... shit... you see, it's... FUCK, man! You just gotta... you just gotta go see her yourself."

The dykes, Patricia, the petite sing-song dykes
that crowd around you at the curved bar
They mimic the actions of fifteen year old boys
They dream of asking you to the prom
They dream of holding your sweaty hand in theirs
They dream of soft lips and perfume-laced pillows

You make lesbians dream of perfume-laced pillows!

And I don't know if you're a dyke, Patricia
It never occurred to me to ask
but if you're not a dyke, Patricia, you really should be
because even though it's self-incriminating
I can't stand the thought of sharing that with a man
I can't stand the thought of songs written
ideas formed
energy spent
heaven idealized
for the sake of one of me's

All the dykes, Patricia, all the bright, beautiful dykes
that sit at the curved bar
they love you, Patricia, they adore you,
they worship you
they are like an army
ready to go out and die for you

But I watch you play
I close my eyes and listen
and I wonder
if you realize
that all of us
in the back booths
are here too
and that
we are also
foot soldiers
in your army