The sun’s hot. Too hot.
The water’s wet but it’s getting scarce
and the dirt’s becoming precious around our feet.
We look at our kids and say,
don’t get cocky about the pursuit of happiness
being easy. Get a job and keep looking.
Pass a test and get a job and keep looking. Kick a ball
and pass a test and keep looking. Do it all —
go to school kick a ball pass a test get a job
kick a tire
and a man
and a woman
and a queer hide
and a brown hide
and don’t forget that Jesus, he kicked a lot of ass,
so I’ve heard, so we’ve all been told.
Keep looking, kick something that’s already down
and it’ll almost feel like you stumbled over happiness
in the dry weeds that are taking back our lawns.
Keep at it. It has to be here. Someone must have it and
it’s ours, damn it. We’ve got the paper
that says so. We’ve got the muscle. Dislocated
as the bones may be under our good skin,
we’ve still got the muscle and the guns. Rubble
piling up? That’s just good cover
for a sniper. Don’t get comfortable, kid.
You want it you have to hunt it.
You’re going to have to take aim
at the fucks who stole it.
Go get ’em, kid.
Go get ’em.
Author Archives: Tony Brown
About Tony Brown
Pursuit Of
Mixed
Sometimes,
I am ashamed
of my face,
of what it does not look like.
I am ashamed of the way
light bends across it
and of how it glows less bronze
than it might have
if certain twists of gene and fate
had gone another way.
I had former family and former friends
who often said, “you’re lucky
you’re like this, like this, how
can you not like this?” They speak
of privileges and passing and
presentation — how easy, they say,
how much easier;
some say the presentation
is all that counts.
All the while I am beyond mere
sadness, beyond shame.
It’s not those things
I’m feeling.
I can’t tell you
what I’m feeling.
I can’t say the words
because this nation
and this era
disallow those words.
I can’t say I am different
and feel different and
am not allowed to say
how this is different;
instead I am said to be
and told to feel
lucky or false
or lucky and false.
What I truly want
is a face with which
to face the issues. To face
my issues. A face to match the face
I daily face inside,
a face I can turn to
and ask about
why I feel so ashamed, and then
to ask directions toward
the country where I
can feel good.
362 Miles
Woke up to sun
and no smoke.
Birds prattling on,
two daffodils finally up and shining
from our front walk mulch.
Nice place, this. Nice place.
No smoke
for miles around. No fire
not currently under control.
This is not to say that
there’s nothing smoldering here,
or that we’re not so far from Baltimore
that we know nothing of burning
or why things burn.
It’s just that right now
this is a nice place,
and if we do smell smoke
it’s got to be from 362 miles away,
carried on a strong wind
from a place where
birds bloom
and flowers chirp, where everything’s
a little backwards.
If we do smell smoke here —
do we smell smoke here?
No, can’t be. We keep sniffing,
must just be
power of suggestion; well, maybe
a little something there, a little
something on that wind.
Shadow
Beneath
this longing
for good old
familiar
Order
runs an ancient spring of
Shadow
that is now
seeping up
into our homes and
streets
Is becoming Flood
Is drowning Order
Someday it will become
sweet water again
in full sunlight
Will drench and nourish
something New
but only after this
when it sinks back into
its own heart-bed
Till then
expect this match of
Order against Shadow
to pull some down
wash much away
kill and kill and kill
as Order struggles
to hold
its crumbling ground
before it
flails and falls away
at last
Scrolling Down
Originally posted 6/27/2009.
A bird with three wings
has been found in Suffolk.
Infants are born singing
in Sao Paulo.
A ghost, seen by thousands
who identify as that of a long dead rock star,
hovers just above the rush hour traffic
on the ring road around Atlanta.
In broad daylight, in Singapore,
a figure walks the streets laughing
and strumming a lute.
In Baltimore, green turns overnight
to red.
The severed arm of a Jamaican wrestler
miraculously regenerates.
A Swiss man lost for five days underwater
is found alive and breathing through a straw.
Slingshots have replaced cell phones
as the new status symbol for Japanese youth.
A Karachi flower market reopens for business with a new look
after a car previously pollinated with C-4 bears fruit.
In Kentucky, authorities report
a young boy has killed his entire family
because they were demons.
The death
of a middle aged shepherd in Andorra
is linked to
a traditional curse of the Roma.
Paris is now the world capital of sleeping sickness.
The news takes the world by surprise.
Connecting dots
on screens filled
with nothing but dots
becomes a worldwide craze
and competitive sport.
Winners will be chosen at a date to be announced.
When They Did Not Break Us
Originally posted 7/29/2013; originally titled “When He Broke Us.”
when they first came
they called us
both resource and nuisance
land and labor bank
in the way
ultimately good for nothing
said it was high time to break us
they set to it
our mystery belonging broke
our fluency in stone’s tongue broke
our river dreaming broke
our river beds opened
and drained themselves down
to now mute bones
we ended almost
when we couldn’t speak to each other
our children were taken from us
they returned much later looking more like Him
and had no tongue to use with us
who were we then without them?
we searched
scrapped and fought
found our old words
or made new ones
mined old life from new seams
now they’ve begun to crack
shame lines crazing faces
tried to wear our clothes
they fell off
tried to steal our names
we called them back to us
we put them back on
somewhat the worse for wear
but unbroken
when we spoke those names out loud
for the first time in a long time
in long songs full of drum and tears
the stones cried welcome back
and welcome home
and welcome once again
Rubble
The dialogue between those two
was hard to describe
except to say
there was a lot of noise
that carried just a little signal
both intended and unintended
in a bed where each of them
waited cordially, aggressively,
for the next opportunity
to make some noise.
It reminded me of how
I once was in a house
with walls made
of broken glass
set in rough concrete
so light came through
from outdoors.
From inside it looked
like this conversation sounded:
gems from a distance,
trash close up. I could not
leave that house soon enough,
though I longed and chafed
to be gone, just as
I could not get away
from that conversation.
Prisoner of the moment, I had to
stay and hear it all, wondering
how it could go on and on
without one saying to the other,
let’s get out of here.
Let’s not talk for a while. Let’s agree
to take this somewhere else.
Let’s agree to shut up and step outside
into unstained full sunlight
and see what it looks like from there.
By the way,
when I finally escaped
from that house, I found
that from the outside
it just looked like rubble.
Profanity
in this place long ago
lived people who carved
nine thousand names
for their god
into this temple.
every seed they planted they saw
as a spark of green prayer
that would rise
as it sprouted and grew,
perfuming the eyes of heaven
like sweet smoke.
they could hear and see
voices and vision in the earth itself
back then
and now you’re trampling that,
tourist.
don’t claim it doesn’t matter
simply because those
who made this place
and worshipped here
are gone.
tell the truth about it:
if all were still thriving,
you still would not care because
you don’t care.
you don’t care about
what is sacred because
you think of
your god
like something from a comic book:
merely a possibility.
you don’t care
because back home,
your god has no face
in your soil.
This Container
This container
full of chunks of rust
which may have been
tools once, artifacts of
energy and striving
that have become indistinct
remnants, memorials
to former utility:
today, open.
Emptying.
Sun on its interior now;
warm, still,
empty. Maybe comfort
will come with time
but for now,
empty.
Advice: On Maintaining A Daily Writing Practice
Originally posted 4/17/2012.
your favorite writers
always tell you
to write
to keep writing
your favorite writers
are going to tell you to write all the time
because they claim they did and you
(following along in their wake
like sweet little sleep deprived interns
in the Hospital Of Broken Hearts)
ought to damn well do the same
your favorite writers
are going to tell you to write every day
tell you to churn thirty poems in thirty days
or a novel in a month
because that’s how it works
when the Fire is on them
that’s how they get to be favorite writers
the poor slobs
that’s how they get to be famous
one month of crazy at a time
maybe for a few months at a time
and voila
the New Hotness doth arrive
your favorite writers will tell you
all sorts of things
to disguise the fact that they don’t have a clue
as to how this works
they agitate for cause and effect
because not to is to suggest
a case for werewolves vampires
ghosts and zombies
not as literary devices and archetypes
but as the horrid afterbirth
of their own failed work
listen:
if your gut tells you the best thing for your writing
is to take a month off
square your taxes
screw your neighbor hugely for hours at a time
walk your mother in the park
watch a lot of television
and drink
you owe it to yourself to try that
because when I look at my favorite writers
I see more of that
than the cold and sober work they prescribe
for all the whippersnappers and upstarts
formulas are for chemists and physicists
writers suck at those things mostly
write when you want
how you want
where you want
and for God’s sake
take a shower
eat a sandwich
and try to get some sleep
Falling Off A Chair
I was born
sitting at a table
I knew was not
my true place.
I learned to speak, then to
speak poems,
and the first time
I made a promise
to use all that
on behalf of One True Voice
I felt myself ascending
to the moment of balance
when you tip a chair back
on two legs and it doesn’t quite
fall but you’re hanging there
waiting. The first time
I was able to deliver
upon such a promise,
I felt myself falling
and though I knew
the end would cause pain
and blood would be shed
it was alright
because I also knew
it would not kill me
and after that I would never
have to sit at that table again.
Machismo
Whenever that type of wrong
can happen, it seems to happen.
Bombs or words or bodily
weaponry, whatever’s at hand
gets used when molecular,
falsified, ingrained pride
surges up and kills
any care within. Then
blooms a corpse-floral
fever, more often than
occasionally, more obviously
than rarely, more normal
than exotic. It stinks
a cancered manhood song. It stinks
a dangled sadness and falling rage
that too often is used and then given
a pass to unpunished commonplace.
To draw it down is a job
and a calling. To draw it down
is to slice it free of its tethered feeds
and let it sink wildly, flailing its power
at first, then slipping into something
more feeble, then becoming still.
It is unknown yet what comes after that.
After Fire, Flood, And Love
Originally posted 3/10/2012.
After
fire there’s ash. Warmth
underneath, pale wisp-paper
above, easily dispersed, easily blown around.
After
flood comes muck. Damp
goes all the way through.
Deep and sucking, holds fast.
After
love — what?
What should we call that hot bog
that draws us down and won’t let us go?
After
love — let’s not call it.
Let’s not even name it. Let’s say:
first fire and flood, then ash and mud;
then, after love, nothing.
Nothing comes after love.
Burying The Needle In Massachusetts
Originally posted 2/21/2009.
twenty five, coked out, driving away from my life
with my skewed eyes stuck on the needle
buried at 120 on state road 140 — the snakepath
from the cape to the stubby hills north of Worcester
south of the basalt shadows of New Hampshire
that are full of whatever Lovecraft adored
I strand the Firebird on a leafmold bank
and get out
there’s a puritan darkness under the trees
that still hasn’t lifted
the inbred imp in charge of hating difference
still sits on the bones of the old farm walls
once you get past the liberal mask
and the self-congratulation inside 128
where the Cabots and the Lodges used to play at benevolence
this state’s as redneck as any media slander against the South
there’s a quote from 2 Jeremiah
hanging outside the house across from where I’ve landed
“…your own sword hath devoured your prophets,
like a destroying lion”
some lay ministry of warning
carved with a router into brown stained wood
just like all the
bed and breakfast signs around here
this state looks pretty as hell
in October from inside a minivan
or even from inside a muscle car
at 120 miles an hour
people come and gawk from buses
stay over, buy trinkets and maple sap
go back home to sigh and say
“we love New England in the fall”
but now it’s high summer
and all those not-yet-red leaves
are barely rustling under the moonless sky
shading God and his devil and ancient blood in the soil
where the colonists beheaded algonquin children
brown people still keep to themselves in fear
and when a boy grows up looking like he wants to break away
or maybe wants to deny how good and right the kingdom is
when he gets to a certain age they start to whisper
he’s gonna end up bad
he’s not gonna make it
often he falls from the prophecies
sometimes he gets older
and can’t escape the feeling that he’s lived too long
goes looking for the sword in the trees
offers himself to lions long after he should have settled down
calling out I’m your boy, simba
your snowfaced speeding bullet
stumbling into your face full of misery
give me your sharp tooth and set me free
not too far from where I’ve stalled
is redemption rock
the natives once gave a hostage back there
and got themselves killed for their trouble
who am I tonight?
hostage or hostage taker?
colonist or colonized?
prophecy or prophet?
I bleed at the very thought of me
I bet Lovecraft is thinking
of changing his name from beyond the grave
because I love him
I’m on the side of the road
the car’s idling rough
I kneel in the gravel on the pavement’s fringe
listen as hard as I can for the lion’s roar
bury a needle deep in these woods
and the local ghosts will use it to sew your shroud
you’ll join them in being
just another sword to wave at unbelievers
now I don’t wanna wreck this car
but if there was any light out here tonight
maybe I’d take the snakepath of least resistance
and plant it on a tree
but turning my head back toward where I started
reminds me that every vehicle has a steering wheel
the way out might be in no place you ever imagined
and what the hell — I’ve got a fast car
so I get back in and turn around
thought I saw a sign somewhere back there
for a highway going somewhere not here
somewhere not in massachusetts
I’m gonna bury that needle once again
send horror ravening back into its den
let the rpm scream and turn the high beams on
drive as fast as I can toward bright lights big city anywhere but here
I’ll be up for a while yet and
there’s always two directions
to any road so let’s pick one and ride
let’s see what this baby can do
Crime Scene With Mayo
I’m hungry
and the cat
wants something
both of us can enjoy.
I’m about ready.
Let’s share across the species,
shall we? I’ll open a can of tuna
and she can lick the sides
when I’m done.
Never mind dolphins,
sea turtles, anything else caught
among the tuna haul: the cat and I
are dining together tonight
as only we unnaturally can
in a house miles and miles
from the sea,
her waiting impatiently
for my casual appetite
to lead her into
anti-ecological temptation
and I can’t help feeling guilty
for turning her into
an unwitting accomplice
to the murder of the world.
