Daily Archives: April 9, 2016

dear me, mr brown

dear me, mr brown,
how is it that 

you are that stupid 

this game of “being”
you thought you’d win, somehow? nope.
you’re feeling the big nope now,
of course — 

you won nothing.  
you win nothing.
no one does; 
that’s the beauty of it, but

somewhere in your reptile brain
you bought what they sell about changing 
the world through poems — no.

it was never supposed to be about anything 
but good work. never supposed to be anything 
but art valuable for being itself — 

if any change was to occur
as a result it would be
in the poet — in you.

you knew this years ago
but have pretended to forget. faking for survival,
you forged God’s signature on a few poems
and called them “the truth as delivered –” 

please. dear me, mr brown — 
have you read your poems? 
have you changed at all 
by reading them, by writing them?
has anyone or anything? 

dear me, mr brown,
admit it —
you’re one of the bad guys.
always have been.
admit it —
you’re one of the sinners

spitting on the sand
outside the church, and though
you’d love to go in and feel the love
there’s a joy in spitting on the earth
before the church you can’t shake —

you know they won’t let you back in — 

you’re feeling that big nope now,
mr brown, dear me;

that game of being
you thought you’d win,
the one where everything worked out
and there was a horizon and you
could see it and knew one day you’d learn
to ride
and you would ride into it flinging 
magnificent words, a Magnificat, a 
Hallelujah chorus on the wind —

dear me, mr brown,
you stupid glory hound.
face it: your work
was a modest ripple at best,
and now what?

what does a dead man do now
when he doesn’t believe in the horizon
and can’t help but smell the decay 
and knows it for his own
and his hands are rotting off 
and his lungs can’t push a breath 
and he’s the big nope himself — 

dear me, mr brown,
you’re the big nope,

the dead poet
with no society to hold you.

no one at all, in fact,
will touch you

ever again.


Gone On A Gust

Let me make certain
that I have wrung
from my self
every possible drop
before I dry up
and blow away.

I’ll be only
a small cloud,
a dust devil
on the sidewalk,
if I do it right.

My worst fear is 
that when I pass
I shall pass
as a tornado
with its attendant pain
and wreckage.

Not that such damage
would be unexpected
considering what I’ve
left behind in life
so far

but one should 
after a certain age strive
to leave less mess,
to ghost the party
having become
a grateful husk

which, when
the time comes,
falls apart
in a sweet smoke. Let me be
gone on a gust.

Let any legacy of mine
not be based in how I pass.
Let it show in what I left
that was not me and my
attendant troubles,
but was the work of spiting

and triumphing over those;
but as for this person — no.  
Let me be forgotten — my atoms,
my soil, my funks and wars
and storms. Let me pass
without notice

into that
good, good night.


Note from the musical side of this project…

The Duende Project (the band in which I do poetry and a little guitar while three really great musicians make it all sound good) just released a free download of the poem “Falconers,” a tribute to librarians everywhere — you can read more about it at the site.  Available for free or pay what you want right now.

All of our other work is there too — buy single tracks from any of our five albums, or grab the whole discography as a download for one discounted price.

thanks in advance, 
T

Falconers

NOTE:  If you are having trouble listening to or downloading anything, could you let me know?  There MAY be an issue outside the USA but I’m having trouble pinpointing it.  Thanks.