September 29, 2004

By Tony Brown

Since leaving home
is not the answer
unless the question is,
“Where did home go?” I’ve let

long nights of neon and
scrambled porn substitute for
a full life. I scream
at the window shades, then

I stick a knife into the couch pillows
in the spare room,
hoping one of them will bleed.
Anything to liven things up.

Yes, I’m drunk again. Yes,
I’m thinking again about which celebrities
I would hump, given the chance. Yes,
I am thinking of you again — unremarkable

you, unfamous you, you with the open
life and the minivan fantasies.
I want to spell you on a white page
until you come true again, until you

step into the room and offer me sheetcake,
ruby-faced dolls, the right to turn the
TV off forever. I cut myself and drop the red knife —
it’s nothing serious. Nothing I wouldn’t have lost anyway.

Close and lock the doors. Leave my shoes
by the stairs. Let the cats up from the basement,
watch them mouse about looking for you, poking at the blood,
looking at me for food, shelter, reassurance.

About Tony Brown

Unknown's avatar
A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown
This entry was posted on Wednesday, September 29th, 2004 at 2:22 pm and posted in uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.

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