Daily Archives: May 8, 2023

Patreon / Workshop information

This blog will always be free to read.

But if you like what I do here, you have a couple of options to support the Work. 

First off, I have a Patreon site where I host exclusive readings and offer eBooks, recordings, and videos of and about the Work. As little as $1 a month will get you there. Any amount is appreciated. 

https://www.patreon.com/TonyBrown

Second, I periodically run workshops for both Patrons and the general public. There were a lot of folks who wanted to attend my workshop on “Voice, Craft, and ‘the Line’ ” who couldn’t. I’ve decided to offer it again twice in August. Choose from:

Saturday, August 12, 1-3:30 PM EDT
Sunday, August 20, 4-6:30 PM EDT

Non Patrons — $35 via PayPal (tony.w.brown@gmail.com), Venmo (@Anthony-Brown-95), or CashApp ($DuendeProj).

Free to Patrons at the 10$/month tier or above who have been patrons at least two months prior (hence the very early announcement today).

I hope you’ll consider joining us for one or both. I’m working very hard to make my poetry a larger part of my life and a bigger part of my support income.  If you like what I do, these are ways to help make it all happen. 

 

Thanks,
Tony


He Was Alone When It Happened

It’s so hard,

he said and he
was right — look at him,
there is a visible toll
there, he doesn’t look
at all as he did
back when he made it look
easy;

still, 
it did not have
to be so. 

Old friend,
as softly as I can
I must say
that there were ways around this
you did not take,
and you know it.

He looks at me.
He thinks he is water worn
and not hammer broken,
pretending to be soft 
and edgeless as if he’d
never once flung himself
onto a stone floor
and cracked, never mind
doing that on the daily
for decades.

I used to know you,
I said. You look
so different now,
iteration of smoke
in a broken mirror. 

You need to tell the truth.
Just acknowledge that
you are your fault. 

It is so hard, 
he repeated, 
looking down.

So hard, he insisted,
his voice already darkening.

So hard, he whispered,
hoping I didn’t hear him, 
knowing I could never agree.