Author Archives: Tony Brown

About Tony Brown

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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.

Stagger Lee

Originally posted 12/17/2010.

From the St. Louis Globe-Democrat, Dec. 26th, 1895:

William Lyons, 25, a levee hand, was shot in the abdomen yesterday evening at 10 o’clock in the saloon of Bill Curtis, at Eleventh and Morgan Streets, by Lee Sheldon, a carriage driver.

“Lyons and Sheldon were friends and were talking together. Both parties, it seems, had been drinking and were feeling in exuberant spirits. The discussion drifted to politics, and an argument was started, the conclusion of which was that Lyons snatched Sheldon’s hat from his head. The latter indignantly demanded its return.

“Lyons refused, and Sheldon withdrew his revolver and shot Lyons in the abdomen. When his victim fell to the floor Sheldon took his hat from the hand of the wounded man and coolly walked away….

“Lee Sheldon is also known as ‘Stag’ Lee.”

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

1.

My childhood neighbor
was a fine painter
who painted nothing
but landscapes and barrooms.
In every landscape there was a stream,
in every barroom there was a hat,
in every painting there was a figure
with its back turned,
facing a corner
or a hanging tree.

One night he got drunk,
started screaming about the President,
and shot all his canvases
with a 12-gauge.

Somehow,
no cop gunned him down, 
and he was singing “Stagger Lee”
when they shoved him hard 
into the cruiser.

2.

On Christmas Night, 1895, in a St. Louis bar,
Billy Lyons and Stag Lee
were arguing over politics.
Billy fell gut shot by Stag,
eventually died, and
they put themselves on the hit parade
forever.

There was rumor back then that Stag
was a sheriff’s bastard son
and no one dared touch him.
It was a fact that he was a Black man
but a myth that he got away with murder —

he went to jail
but didn’t swing,
didn’t die for it before arrest,
or before a judge could have his say.

3.

The moon was yellow,
the leaves came tumbling down.

I remember hearing
my neighbor call out,
Sheriff,
you son of a bitch,
keep your hands off
my damn hat,”

and thought I saw
a lean ghost in the shadows
making sure
the man was safe before

he coolly walked away
humming that sacred song.

 


Half, Awake

Originally posted on 7/19/2009.

A man with long hair and memory
is trying to break into my house
to rob or smudge me
while I am sleeping.

I hear him trying the locks and murmuring to himself.
It’s not a language I understand but I recognize it
as what I hear whenever I contemplate
nature versus nurture.

Louisville Slugger behind the door,
Bowie knife in the nightstand drawer.
One move, and I can pull that knife.

Two steps, and I can have that bat in my hand.

Two more and I can be
waiting behind the cabinet
where he won’t see me
as he enters,

but I’m still lying here
with choices hovering above me.
I can easily snatch the right one
out of the dawn at any time…

Grandfather, Stranger, whichever you are —
please come in. I’ve got coffee and tobacco
to scent the morning. For today, anyway,
we don’t need to bring the war into this.


A Bad Idea

Originally posted 8/8/2013.

A Bad Idea hugs my neck with icy meat paws,
smears me with an evil kiss
from a greasepaint devil’s face;

takes me out, gets me drunk 
and lets me slip, in disguise and unnoticed,
to the floor of a convenient dive.

If this wasn’t all mostly metaphor
I’d have handled it badly years ago
and wound up

without an eye, thumb, or testicle
but I’m intact enough that when he’s around
I forget all my years of sense.

Mr. Bad Idea, you think we’d be past this.  
You’d think we would be so intimately acquainted by now
that we’d be on more normal terms — 

I’d merely entertain you now and then
and hold you at bay the rest of the time — 
old wolverine, badger full of flammable cotton!  

How you do tear your way in
where you’re least wanted
when you’re most needed,

nestling into the dark crook
of my throat, giving me something
to talk about.

Everyone else, you’re on notice:
if you see me acting out, 
bloated with a Bad Idea,
be a friend: step aside and take notes

from a safe distance. No telling
what might be coming;
might be lots to tell
after it’s gone.


Ideation

Yesterday was one of those days: blue,
cold, regrettable through
and through, and I wanted 
to die.

The day before too: it smelled
awful and left a stain. There were
arguments and I wanted
to die.

Today’s better.  The sun
was high and I worked hard and well.
The wind didn’t hurt my face.
I wanted to die.

You think it’s ridiculous.
You think it means nothing,
that up and down living is normal.
For me, so is wanting to die.

Every day it comes to mind:
I want to die.  Every day good or bad
it comes to mind at some point,
unbidden, unbound to circumstance:

I want to die, I want to die, I want
to die.  I don’t; I keep living though
I want to die. It’s abstract and unreal
until it lands and digs claws in: 

I want to die.  Let me not admit
to the stumbling of my tongue as I say it — 
I am not stumbling with it, I am saying it clean
knowing it will discomfort you, knowing

you will not understand how it is, that I want
what I want and will nonetheless not bend to taking it
regardless of how strong the wanting becomes,
but I will not lie: every day I am struck by this urge

to die.  It keeps me limber, it keeps me 
on my toes, it makes me yearn and seek
a smile whenever it rises within, I have learned
to hold it off and push it aside and live — 

but sometimes,
sometimes, you know,
I am so,
so tired.


Sovereign Animals

A world full of 

sovereign animals
so tired of us
using them,

so tired of us
making them into symbols,
giving them our emotions,
making them into
shadow humans. They’re
so tired of us. Hell,
I’m

so tired of us,

tired of not being
my own sovereign animal,

so tired of the urge to paint
my meaning onto Others
without their permission.

I struggle with knowing
every avenue that begins within
and can be traveled
into the farthest distance
needs no hawk
soaring on ahead,
can be followed 
without my needing 
the soundtrack
of a lion’s heart.
I was so comfortable
on the mattress of metaphor
and now I have to wake up
and go alone,
companion-free,

into the freshly silent night.


Rime of The Ancient

Originally posted 3/7/2013.

My arm, darker
than candle tip,
cooling like
dead wick.

My arm,
stark twig,
holds nothing,
is just pointing.

My arm tells the story:
over there’s where
I was going, where I still
need to go,

but I’ve been standing here 
for a very long time now
and I do not think I am meant to be
triumphant in my return.

I think I am instead meant to be
the One Who Does Not Arrive,
the One who tells his story
to the traveler who has made it 
this far.  The old one 

without so much
as a symbol
to fall back on,
stock still in desolation

until his arm drops,
at last, in surrender.


Microaggressions

Street scene:

my eyes unmet,
their hands drifting

onto wallets, their bags 
pulled in tight to
their guarded bodies.

Office observed:

stumble, whisper,
awkward pause,
sudden stop,
change in subject,
question without thought,
thought without question.

Media, in media res:

what does a story say
about what a blog says
about what a blog says
about what was said
about what was said
about what was said
about how they died?

Surrounded,
sundered,
smothered, 
simmering, 
smoldering — 

Now this? No.
Not here, I beg,
not with you too —
not you too;
do you understand

that I am far beyond ready
to burn my home? That
if I have to ignite
the here and now
to reach the future,

I will?


Old Hippies

Originally posted on 10/31/2011.

Sparse-framed, reticent, particular;
the old hippies come into town
on odd weeks
for what they cannot grow
or raise.  

I hear they’ve got a sod roof on their house.
Life off the grid, under ground:
a few acres,
a 1978 Ford pickup.

A friend sneers at them,
calls them un-American.

Here on the grid we’ve got
fear, troubles,
the grinding grind.  We all 
talk too much, some 
in jeers:

Hey, hippie,
go hug a tree.  Go
bathe in the snow.
Get a job.  

Sparse,
quiet, 
don’t associate with us
unless they have to.
Un-American bastards.

Hey, hippies —

get in the trough with us
and bring some eggs
or weed when you come —
bring something else
to eat, something

we don’t have.


Punk Rock Song #2

Originally posted 9/30/2010.

someone on the cover of a showbiz magazine
saying really really stupid things she really really means
calls herself a grizzly bear and dresses like a queen

why are we so happy

abercrombie model into fratboy rapist shit
a head that’s barely bigger than a fucking cherry pit
his brain rolls round inside it and there’s lots of room to fit

why are we so happy

it seems that the dumber they come
the wider we grin
it seems that the louder they talk
the bigger the pain

senator ridiculous opens up his mouth
water turns to burning oil and rivers all dry out
put money in his pocket to buy a lot of clout

why are we so happy

it seems that the poison we take
keeps us amused
it seems that the poison we make
is never refused

abercrombie model and a frozen lizard queen
always keep us laughing we don’t question what it means
senator ridiculous ghost rides a limousine

why are we so happy

 


On A Killing: May 1, 2011

Originally posted 5/2/2011.

I’m not embarrassed to say
that I can acknowledge
the hyena in me and say
with only a little shame
that I’m glad he’s dead.

I’m not embarrassed to say
you embarrass me
by choosing from among
so few sides
when there are so many
to choose from
when looking at this.

I’m looking at you
with your flag and your beer
and your three-letter chant
and your brave,
brave sneer.

I’m looking at you
with your Truth fliers
and your semi-conscious racist
undertone:

no way those brown bastards could have done that to us.

I’m looking at you
reciting the ritual retelling
from the teleprompter
to make sure
we feel enough fear
to fall into joy
upon clinical description
of the wet work involved.

I’m looking at you
beat down by deceit
for so many years
you won’t believe a thing
till you can personally stick
your oft-betrayed fingers
in the bullet holes
and now you won’t get the chance
so you won’t believe anything, 
anything at all.

I look at myself in a long tall mirror,
wondering if I
look much as I did
ten years ago.  I can’t imagine
I do.  I have taken in all 
that’s being said, and
it feels like shrapnel
remodeling me.

And then, because I must,
I’m finally looking at him —
thinking of how it must have been;
surprised at first,
then not at all,
then blind and deaf and
dead.  See his skin 
scraped for samples,  
see the corpse
slipped into a body bag,
see it all slide into the sea,
his body breaking surface
and sinking into a singularity
that will suck us in
for a long time yet.

I don’t know if I can ever
disbelieve in karma,
but I try. Am I supposed
to forgive? They say it’s 
healthy and healing. I try to forgive,
but I don’t know how — 

it comes out every time
as the scream
of a hyena.


Flying

It doesn’t matter
how illogically you fly
in your daydreams.
You’re not a bird.
Never were.
Fly however you want,
floating, soaring,
vertical, flat out
like a superhero.
You don’t need to
fly like a bird — 

fly like a jellyfish,
a stove, a wrinkled shirt
on a hurricane, 
like stone or 
immorality. 

It doesn’t matter
if you do or do not
fly, except to you,
as the universe
will be perfect
with you grounded
or airborne or swimming,
standing absolutely
mountain-still or
vanishing into wind
or the stray thought
of flight
in someone else’s mind — 

your lover’s mind,
a dying mind,
or one itself mystified into flight
by the view it sees
in the moment
it is born.  It’s not as if

your flying
is only meant
for you.


My Favorite American Indian Stories

Originally posted 7/24/2007.

There’s the one
about how 
once upon a time 

I saw a man at Acoma
replacing a pine post
and doing note-perfect
Monty Python routines
with a couple of his friends.

There’s the one that begins at a party 
where a friend of mine insisted
that once upon a time

Tonto
was in love with the Lone Ranger,
but every time he tried
to make a move
the big guy said something like
“hiyo, Silver,”
and eventually Tonto realized
he could do so much better
than a goody two shoes
into cosplay.

There’s the one about
a man who walks the high steel
for a paycheck
and doesn’t drink it away.

Did you hear the one about
the old guy who scared me
by looking like my father,
who tried to pay me four bucks
to drive him from Alamogordo 
to Mescalero
and who smiled and shook my hand
when I said I could not take
his money?

Let’s hear the one
about Robin Chatterbox
and how she became a doctor.
The one about the casino
that paid for a new school.
The one about how the TV show
pulled a shameful episode.
The one about the meth lab
prayed (and then chased) off the rez
by the old folks.

Note the overt absence of 
Coyote, Crow, and the Great Spirit.
Note that nowhere here does the moon
speak to the hunter

and that no one’s bones 
call out to the beloved 
left behind.

Some things are best kept 
in the family

but, for you,
in the spirit of
“multiculturalism,”
here’s one more:
once upon a time

someone left this fire for dead.

See the ashes starting to stir? 
Goddamn —

is that
some kind of bird?


Nostalgia Is The Opiate Of The Masses

Run home,
escape
from the slippery slopes of 
scarring work
and jostling street; come
into the shabby house

and stab the button on
the old kitchen boombox, bring up
the Chi-Lites, soothe
yourself on “Oh, Girl,”

get yourself in check
and bust open the last beer

to Busta Rhymes, power up with 
AC/DC, curse your exes
with George Strait…

if it gets you through the scant time
you’re not being offended and 
tortured, it has gotta be
enough.  

Close your eyes
for two minutes, it turns into
two hours — it’s not enough

but it’s gotta be enough.  

This is how
they want it, how they want you —

no matter if you are
joker, smoker, or toker; no worries
if you keep it at home —
come back to the office, humming
or not;

just make damn sure
you come back.


People Of The Stacks, The Racks, And The Checkout Aisles

They’re tilting,
tipping over because
one half of every one of them
is horror.
They’re lopsided
from carrying it.  

Immaculate beings
in split levels,
or lean and dirty ghosts
in a tent under cold stars; why wonder
if it’s nature or nurture driving them?  

What’s driving them
is nurture playing
in the snowfields
of nature’s mountains.
What’s driving them
is nature slipping a hand
into nurture’s back pocket
as they walk side by side.

Only one half of each is horror.
The other half is frozen joy. 

They look for thaw.
Limp toward clues to it. Call out:

Is there something to warm it with
on sale here?

What price the fire this time?

May there be credit
at terms easier
than what we know
we could be forced to sign.

May we straighten up.

May no one
laugh or shoot at us 
on our way
to straightened up.


A Good Night’s Sleep

Getting a good night’s sleep

means

going without
fretting about
or rationalizing
night sounds

for six hours
for once

means

six hours gladly
amnesiac about 
the words of
a devout Christian friend

who shook her head
and sadly agreed

that God’s plan
probably involves Him
apologizing
to you

means

ten good seconds
upon waking that 
try as you might
can’t be stretched into 
fifteen or
twenty

means

another day of taking 
what you get

means

another day
hoping for 

a good night’s sleep