| It seems to happen often that I receive a phone call to request music for a friend’s funeral. This is my role in my circle, my holy manacle, When it happens I run through a list in my head the time before that, it was Des’ree, Sweet Honey in the Rock, ZapMama; Sometimes I reach for the guitar, thinking that maybe this time imagining that all at once I will know When I go, don’t make anyone choose songs for my funeral. Set them in a tambourine, take turns pounding it, set me rattling against that skin. |
Author Archives: Tony Brown
About Tony Brown
Music For Funerals (old poem revisited)
Me For President (Platform)
I would make a good President
because I would have to be dragged
kicking and screaming to the job
because I am relatively free of the mental defect
that would make me think I could do the job
and that makes me more qualified
than those who usually try and do it
I would make a good President
of these Disunited States
because of all the hot bones in my closet
I’ve been everything at one point or another
and everyone could find in me something to hate
or use to declare me unfit for the office
I would make a good President
because my father’s an Apache right off the rez
and my mother’s an Italian immigrant
(don’t worry, she got here legally —
not so sure about my dad)
I’ve got the whole American Dream covered
in one package, baby —
was here, came here
colonized, colonizer
I’d make a good President
because I have inhaled
snorted popped booted swallowed
all the good national drugs —
money fame and casual cruelty
to my fellow Americans
and while I’m on the wagon now
I still know my way around
a finger flipped in traffic
whether domestic or foreign
(I know my enemies can change
on a dime into allies and back again
from years of merging onto freeways)
I’d make a great President
because I’ve got the allegedly necessary genitalia
for the job
I don’t look biracial
so I can be slotted without too much fuss
and I know how to wink and nudge
and slap a back when a back needs slapping
I’m not running
if nominated will not run
if elected will not serve
but boy howdy I’d be good at it
and man oh man you’ll be kicking yourself
next time the vote comes around
that I wasn’t in the race
in fact
I’m thinking of changing my name
to
None Of The Above
just to test the waters
How To Interpret Current Events: A Lesson Plan
Start with a Tunisian fruit vendor
who sets himself on fire. Add
an entire region which subsequently demands
that he shall not have burned for nothing.
Multiply by the shifting
of tectonic plates, factor in
water, water everywhere, some of it
carrying fire deep into Japan.
Determine
your valuation of the variable stories
of body counts, scenarios,
what the army wants, what the reactors
will do, what (if anything)
has actually happened
in these places you’ve never seen —
then,
subtract your attention.
Get up.
Go to the sink. Pour yourself
a plastic glass of water. Get
a snack of winter grapes
from the fridge. Sit back down
on the sofa
and turn the TV off,
sip the water,
eat the grapes
one at a time.
Show your work. Struggle
to swallow. Remind yourself
you survived a bad winter
and you’re working again.
Damn the oil companies
and the nuclear industry.
Resolve to call your representative,
to send money
to Egypt.
After an hour,
turn the TV back on.
Find a way
to take your mind off things.
Tags: poems, poetry, current-events
Moanfully
A moanfully long
time for this to go on.
In the crickets’ legs,
grieving.
What a bright star —
no, that’s a can full of people
getting away. If I could fly
I’d fly to them and knock
on the windows. Wow,
they’d say. What was that?
The grass hasn’t started growing
today, it awaits the sun —
signal to get moving toward
my eventual mowing. (There it is again,
a death reference.) God, I’m
boring myself. Dating myself.
I’d never go out with me, who
am I kidding? All this mope
and dim longing; all the snow
melting away, and all I see
is the trash underneath. Spring’s
the hang-up season. No reason
to weep, but weeping
is what works. Ask the crickets,
who must be from Rome
and must be fireproof to have made
this a life’s work. Must be
an alien song. This doesn’t sound
like my planet, much as that
wasn’t my wishing star.
Colors/Conflict
Red comes first, heat
among the rods and cones.
Then black, to hide
the humanity of the Other.
Yellow’s the final hue,
the cry of the flash as it
comes home. We’ve got
red stripes, black ops,
yellow ribbons —
why does it feel like
we’re out of order?
Blue, blue water,
drenching fire; white, the
blank peace after. Much
of the flag remaining
unused. What do we see
when it waves? We’re
the big bull. Movement
and charge.
I sit with my hand on my eyes.
Press hard on the sockets, bring up
red, call up black;
no yellow, no blue, no white.
Not now. Only
the blind palette of hatred.
Only the colors of not feeling
the result. It’s
exactly enough, like
a damned orgasm.
Clown Therapy
Clown says,
“C’mon, it’s all copasetic.”
Says,
“If you dare claim you are afraid of me
you can kiss my bagged-out ass.
Both our hearts are costumed;
my pulse is as naked underneath
as yours.”
Clown,
dress-up id,
says,
“Let’s get in that car with
my bosom friends. I’m
looking forward
to getting to know you.”
Open your eyes once inside.
You’re not laughing,
exactly; there’s not enough
room for that. But
you’re not crying exactly,
either.
All these shoes,
for one thing,
seem to have
improved your mood.
Clown says,
“This is called
getting over it,”
and you honk
your surprised assent.
Quirks
King Phillip had a quirk:
he didn’t think much of
the bloody English. Out of
their concern for him,
the bloody English cut off his head
and put it on a stick so they
could peer into it from below
and see what was what.
Sitting Bull had one too,
a quirk that made him unhappy
about being kept in a tent. He wanted
to get out and dance.
Deeply worried about such longings,
his captors shot him down
to save him from himself.
Geronimo, that old smush-faced killer,
fell off the horse drunk and died
of his own accord while living
far from home — but that
was his quirk, that alcohol;
no one else to blame for that.
I’m sorry that the only tongue I have
with which to speak of these things
is English; I find it hard to count that single word
of Spanish as a saving grace.
Call it my quirk: I walk around all day
with a little head of rage
because you probably wouldn’t get this
if instead I’d been honest
and spoken of Metacomet, Tȟatȟáŋka Íyotake,
and Gothalay. Call it my quirk
that even now, I’m not certain that you will.
Don’t kill me
for feeling a little angry about that.
The Kaboodle
Sometimes I plods. Sometimes I stops.
I’m a piece of gods. I’m walking. I’m drops.
I lose a little ground again.
Fall, impounded, anywhen.
See the bloods? Mine, I thinks.
A stone that floats until I sinks.
I’m not that mad, just split kaboodle
without a kit. My bad; I’m doodle
on a napkin all greases and stain.
It’s where I wrap a little brain.
Sharp, isn’t it? I scissor though
and maybe shed a scrap down low.
Bursty me, shell of once upon.
I’m never dim enough to not be on.
Sometimes I plods and then I stops.
Enough this train of sticky plops;
let me be, you big reply.
I’ll smile and weave a bit of die.
Want To Animal
Want to become an animal
but don’t want to spend a lot of money
Want to armor my back and thighs
like a dragon might be so armored
but do it on a budget
and not permanently
Want to sing in the morning
and charm somebody’s pants right off
like some warbler or finch (I can’t name birds
on sight but I like the sound of those names)
but I can’t afford the singing lessons
and I’m not made for flight
Instead of being a man
who has to take everything so seriously
ravenous yet considerate of all consequences
to the seventh generation
careful of feelings today
Want instead to be an animal
but gently, as if
animal were a costume
to be put on and off
Release my familiar
to the end of its leash
and no farther
Being a man is so antique
For The Burn
anything worth doing can be set on fire
there are entire scenic drives that might be improved / with a match
that looks like a bridge / burn it
it might be a sand castle / burn it / how? / use plenty of fuel
it might be fireproof / burn it / mock it until it kindles
it might be invincible / flatter it / see it burn from within
say, is that narrative / or lyric / surreal / photoreal / protest / pratfall / love?
if it will burn / it is all of those / and it will burn
see the edges already curling?
for the burn / you should swallow a candle
for the burn / you may thread sparklers in your eyebrows
for the burn / fall into the firepit as the licking heat strains for you
why make it so hard to be consumed?
burn it and yourself
ash is a truth / all things end
immortality is relative to the height of the fire / to the strength of the fire / to the sturdiness of the fuel
Swagger Triptych
1.
Rocked back on my heels
by the impact
of a dark wet morning
full of challenging songs
and knotted thoughts:
do I remember
how to use the word
“contentment”
in a sentence?
The only thing I’m sure of
is that it has nothing in common with
“swagger.” Swagger’s
how you get by
when you aren’t sure,
and I’m sure.
2.
During World War II,
there was a fad among US Army junior officers
for the carrying of swagger sticks:
short batons tucked under the arm
as a symbol of power and command. Lieutenants
and captains competed with them;
they were elaborate, carved from ebony,
chased in gold and silver…
A general saw this trend
and issued the following order:
“Regarding the use of swagger sticks:
if you need one,
carry one.”
They disappeared overnight.
3.
I step into the rain
with a bowed head
and a slow walk.
My knee’s offering
a forecast for the day:
you’re not going to get
where you’re going
as fast as you want,
but you’ll get there.
How the rain always falls
is straight down. Falls
from on high and ends up
soaking away into the ground,
where it will do its best work.
I don’t need to swagger
and curve my steps
to the swaying of my ego.
Swagger’s for the uncertain.
I’m
not.
Family Estrangement Blues
What do you say
to the arm you lost
when it comes crawling back?
Go on, look behind you. It’s sneaking
up on you, one finger length at a time.
Do you sniff back shamed tears
while looking into your former palm?
Do you ask why it took so long for the arm
to return? Do you not inquire
too closely, and simply embrace it
with its former partner and your replacement
machine?
You’d better start thinking of your answers:
a real man knows how to bluff his past
when it comes back demanding its place
in his world. You know better than to say,
“I got used to living without you
and got myself a better hold on things
without you.” You know better
than to brazen it out with the prosthetic
hanging on your shoulder.
You ought to know better than to break it
like that, after it’s come so far
seeking a home. Show it a little love:
at the least,
cry a little into its open hand
and pretend you miss it.
Mine
His memory is all in the nose.
Frankincense and bitter herbs
in a censer.
Fumblings
in the rectory.
Passing the church,
lifts off the gas
for a second. Then
guns it, foot down
almost through the floor.
Rolls up the window.
He won’t hold his nose
to genuflect.
Still stinks here;
reeks of blood,
of
copper and iron
like a mine, a tunnel,
a cave-in.
Hard Knocks
enrollment in this school
is involuntary
hours: after sunset
to before trash picking dawn
test question:
always answer no first then yes
graduation: tell me what’s open
this late
which car windows
yield
which back doors swing in
silently
which crawl spaces are accessible
without tearing latticework
a sad education
sleeping safe will not teach you
but you’ll know
this city
Inertia
This late snowfall
an afterthought,
though the calendar
still insists otherwise.
Inside me now a refusal
to clear the walk
knowing the temperature
will rise tomorrow.
Is this hope? Been
so long, I’m uncertain.
It may be instead
surrender, white flag
waved in the white face
of more on top of so much.
Story of my life,
lately, this unwillingness
to negotiate with
relentless
and impersonal events;
I don’t want anything
to happen —
at least, nothing
this cold.
Dark Matter 