I do not think I’ll be taking Ambien again…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Waking up talking —

EVERYTHING IS DISAPPEARING

re-
call

the morning glories
climbing the chain-link fence
and one tendril scaling the face
of the arborvitae in the neighbor’s yard

the monster heat of the bonfire
on Fourth of July
in the sandpit

what it was like to breathe and taste
before cigarettes

the leftover vinyl of artie shaw
discovered in best friend’s barn
scratched to fusstone but still
revelatory

orchards in abandoned farms
gone back to poplar and scrub ferns
timid among the rotten fruit

lying awake at night
with nothing but dark and not
caring that there was no sound

EVERYTHING IS DISAPPEARING —

names and dimlit backyards
names on shallowcarved school desks
names and names and blame and fervent
hope of notice and friendship

stumbling fingers on the first joint
rolled with single wide papers
praying it wouldn’t fall apart before
the watchful gods of freakdom

re-
call

birds and cars and barking sandstone
far from famous bands gone to accountancy and parenthood
slinky patch jeans and embroidered Big Daddy Roth army coats

the first switchblade
hash pipe
condom stolen from the drawer before
the first
kiss

recall hopeful waking up talking
blue in the face from Fresca and vodka

re-
call
sweating in the middle of a broke-ass broken sleep

waking up tonight talking VERY LOUD
EVERYTHING IS DISAPPEARING
everything inside is solving itself for zero
cutting larger and deeper holes in this being
with its comfortable shoes and sensible coat
with skin and graying hair gone to pot
battling hydra refusing suddenly to grow back

everything
yes
everything

— T Brown, 5/23/07

After the Syracuse reading, Jane and crew run a workshop. We were unable to attend (got home at 4AM) but I did take on the challenge…

Challenge: First word of first line “Glass”
Last word of poem “Marshmallow”

Syracuse to Worcester, May 21-22, 2006

1.
Glass Head Tony one hour from Syracuse — half-full, half-empty? I lean forward and back and the contents
slop all over the car. Damn near empty now, and four hours to go.

2.
Sunspots or the mountains keep breaking the satellite’s warm hold on the radio, so I’ve got fragments of Satriani and Shankar all over the car now, sloshing on the floor boards. What will happen when I draw it all back up tomorrow in full daylight?

3.
“You stoned, son?” “Nah, officer-sister, I’m just wet with a road buzz and I’m two miles from home with a car full of sleep and unloved music. Cut me a break, let me get there, and I promise I’ll never drive happy again.”

4.
The sides of the dry glass on my head reflects the best thing ever I could see now as it starts to dawn outside — the pillow, that welcome marshmallow.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

the unappealing character
smokes as he walks away
from the wasted son he’s brought here;
he saunters off to start a new life.

i can be anything now,
he tells himself. he pats his chest
to be sure he has enough cigarettes
for the journey.

meanwhile, the boy assembles his tools.
what will he be when he adjusts
to the scentless air?
he tells himself it doesn’t matter,

that this is his father’s life and he needn’t
live it if he doesn’t understand it,
but he knows he’s going to try.
he knows he’s honor-bound to it.

the smoking man is long gone
when the boy sits down on the curb and imagines
the smell of marlboros on the breeze.
it’ll be dark a long time. it’ll be good to have a compass like that.

Turn away from it all —
the television, the race, the war,
the idiocy of leaders, the sweetness
of sex, the blue gloss of the false tongue.

Decide that only you know what to do next.

Take a gun to the walls of the city,
or climb a tower to spot your target with a razor in your teeth.
Staighten your hair and remember your true name,
the one that you were given at birth
by the grandmother you never knew, the one
whispered to you when you were five hours old.

Stare down at the people, the ants and ant-cars, booths
of shopping mothers, arguing merchants, cash tendered
for tender moments, small gifts bought on impulse
to soothe tension among children.

If there’s an instance of death you can feel —
recalling the wake where a body no longer
heated the air around it, the smiles of the unfamiliar
relatives — hold that moment close. Pretend it’s happening
all over again, right now.

Steel yourself. Draw a bead
on the underlife.

Isn’t this enough? The knowledge of
what you think is in your power?
Your urge to kill and drop yourself
after the killing, the desire to fall
all burning and thunderbolt upon the masses —
why? No one will care tomorrow
that you were the angel of justice.
They’ll call you crazy and revile you.
All that down below is what you are, too;
they think of this moment on the tower
from time to time themselves, you know.
Everyone wants to play God. Witness
the television’s frantic screeching, the racial jockeying,
the war begun and ended,
the sex coerced or desired,
the children conceived and abandoned.
Offer a person ten minutes to talk
and they’ll fix the world for you. Offer ten dollars
to a homeless man and watch how both of you
stand a little taller, feel a little better than the other guy.

Nothing you do here makes you better than the other guy.

When you give up the fantasy, toss the gun
over the wall, drop the razor into the AC duct,
and come down, you’re not changed.
They still seem like ants, but so much larger,
and those extra legs you seem to have grown
are just a measure of how strong you think you are.