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.
March 23, 2010

Cutting The Grub

By Tony Brown

“Death,”
said the grub,
“is always deserved
because it is the only thing
other than birth
that each living thing
is always owed
strictly by virtue
of having been born –”

but because I did not speak grub
in those days,
I took far too much satisfaction
from cutting the thing in half
with a trowel as I dug
the new bed
for the flowering onions. 

Had I known
of The Serene Acceptance,
I would have refrained from the act,
for it would not have been fun
if I had known there no resistance
there.

How do I know this, you ask?

Because it is a good day to die,
I think, this understanding
came to me unbidden,
if you can believe that,
or even hear it.

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March 23, 2010

Music Education

By Tony Brown

When I want to remember,
I listen to rock and roll.

When I want to learn,
I listen to hip-hop.

When I want to be exploded,
I listen to jazz.

It does not matter what I listen to
when I want to party.

When I want to be heard,
I play a guitar or a poem.

When I want to be,
when I want to just sit on the point of me,

there is only the red cedar flute
my father gave me, tied with leather, oiled and dark.

I am imperfect as player
but whole when I play it, and alone, always alone.

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March 23, 2010

The Muck

By Tony Brown

Remember the first time
we were together?  I talked
a lot, an hour straight at least,
not to hear myself talk,
but because I hadn’t had
an audience like you in years
who seemed to want to listen.

I told you everything
about the killings, the trees,
the good strong knife,
the blood on my sleeve,
how I’d cried nonetheless and how friends
I still won’t name helped me
get away. 

I went deeper,
talked about how
I liked it as much as I hated it,
how it somehow felt like nothing at all,
how my night vision sharpened
as the first full spurt
splashed out. 

Then I went all the way in

and said that now, years later,
I didn’t feel any great remorse
but a warm satisfaction
at having survived
and at having learned early
what small fear death held
for me.

I felt safe so I told you everything,
said to you:

I am sharing this out of love,
out of a genuine sense of love,
I’m willing to let you
into the muck where I’ve lived.

When you were very still after I had spoken,

I assumed too much
and chose to believe that you understood now
the knife I always carried, how callous and open
I seemed at certain moments, how guarded
I was at others, and that your trembling
in my presence
was a sign of your fear for me,

but then I had the crisis moment —
saw how your shaking was precipitated
only by my words and your fear of them
coming together in friction —

I grew angry and said

I shared this out of love,
out of a genuine sense of love.
I have been willing to let you
into the muck where I’ve lived,
and this is how it falls out?

Then I flipped the knife open and said

I do this out of love, out of a genuine
sense of love, not for you but for myself,
and while you are not in danger now
I certainly am dangerous,
and I live dangerously,
and if you are to understand me at all
you should see me like this
and know me for what I am —
open, but not insane,
not by half,
considering the muck where I live.

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March 22, 2010

Total Recall

By Tony Brown

Reposted from a few years ago, by request.

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

TOTAL RECALL

1. (in an office at work)

“they hate white guys like us.”

“i’m not white.”

“what do you mean?”

“my father’s Mescalero.”

“oh, that doesn’t count.”

2. (in a bar)

“you’re a conquered people
and you’re just going to have
to get used to that.”

3. (at my nonni’s house)

“your father steals from me
every time he’s in my house.”

“no, he didn’t, nonni.”

“he does. he stole a knife. he stole money.
i no understand why
your mother want to be
with those Indian peoples.
it’s good you look like her father.”

4. (my father’s way of saying how bad pain was)

“i’ve got a headache
that would kill a white man.”

5. (at school)

“your dad brought two colored kids
home for the weekend to stay over?”
“yes.”
“did they smell funny? do Indians
get along with them? i didn’t know that.”

6. (at the office)

“oh, i love Indians! Indians
are so beautiful — i love their feathers
and the way they dance. do you dance?
do you have feathers?”

7. (at school)

“hey brown, how come your sister
looks like a chink
and you look like a wop?”

8. (driving with my dad)

“i’m never gonna marry
a white girl.”

“son, your mother’s white.
it doesn’t matter sometimes.
marry who you love.”

9. (outside a club)

“don’t you really hate seeing these kids
running around with mohawks
when they’re not even Indian?”

10. (in a coffee shop)

“take your glasses off.
oh, yeah, i can see it now.”

11. (at work)

“now that your hair is long,
i can really see it.”

12. (too many times to choose)

“now that i know, of course,
it’s obvious.”

13. (at school)

“i’m really surprised
that you have to shave.
does your father have to shave?”

14. (during a performance review)

“aren’t you a little old
for this? i mean, aren’t you supposed
to have gotten over this, had a vision quest
or something when you were young?”

15. (too many times, too many bars)

“should you be drinking this much,
i mean, you know, fire water and all that?”

16. (at work)

“when your mother makes lasagna,
does she use buffalo in the sauce?”

17. (third week, introduction to anthropology, freshman year)

“so, you’re Italian and you’re Indian?
god, you must have a temper.”

18. (junior year, private school)

“jesus, put away the knife! what are you — crazy?
it’s just a word.  I mean, you are a half-breed,right?
that’s what you are, right?
i’m sorry, jesus, i’m sorry, i didn’t know,
how’m i supposed to know that?
you’re fucking crazy!”

19. (being interviewed for someone’s grad thesis on people who grew up in interracial households)

“so, how do you describe yourself?”

‘i don’t, i guess. not really. not anymore.
i guess ‘poet’ works as well as anything.”

“which side do you get that from?”

20. (first time in Italy)

“my mom’s family’s from around naples.”
“but this isn’t Napoli. why you come here?”
“because i’ve always wanted to see Venice.”
“you should see Napoli. you should see.”
“next time, maybe.”
“yes, next time. something there for you, maybe.
maybe home.”
“yes, maybe.”

21. ( first time on the rez)

“i’m looking for records, anything.
my father was born here, was sent to a residential school
and joined the army after,
he lost touch with every one, never came back.”

“there are no records, though. everything was lost in a fire back in ’67. i’m sorry. you’ll have to do some work to prove it, if you’re interested in being enrolled –”

“no, that’s not it. i just wanted —
something.
anything.”

“well…welcome home?”

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March 21, 2010

Braiding

By Tony Brown

here’s to
the big debates
of my past.

I’ve answered most questions
for myself
through myself
and the words of others.

my own words
are reserved now
for braiding the hair

on the heads of
these children
I am bringing forth
and the ropes I’ll need

to trim the sails
and steer them toward
a safe landfall.

anything else
is a waste of time
I don’t have.

so silent now,
the old man by the shore.
but happy to be more than unaware
of the smoke from the burning towns

behind him, inland.
one learns, over time,
when to turn the hose loose

and learn another craft,
when to allow others to rebuild,
when he is not needed.

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March 20, 2010

Repeat

By Tony Brown

Do it.
Shoot yourself
in a place where it will be bloody
and fatal.
Shoot yourself in something like a church.
In a manner designed to stink up the place.
With your foot in your mouth.
With a bullet that fits between your toes
after it’s traveled through your teeth.
Do it.
Tell everyone you’re going to.
Surrender the life you’ve succeeded with
and focus on the failures, they’re heavier
and are more coherent.
Explain it in a note that seems pathetic
even before you’re done.
Decide to say nothing but make sure
you announce the lack of announcement.
Spit the poison you’ve chosen into a face
that meant nothing once, still means nothing
at all, you tell yourself.
Do it.
Suicide the daylight poem
that is you
and maintain the night time novel
that is you.
Disallow the comment period
like some sleazy politician.
You are a sleazy politician, you know.
You never knew that.  You knew that
the whole time.
Vigorous, dumbfounded regularly,
you were always a bored benchwarmer
with a fine sense of imbalance.
Blame it all on your bipolar disorder
then blame none of it on your bipolar disorder.
Try to explain how many times a day
you have thought about it since you were a kid
and let them yawn.  Yawn right back.
Baboon them with a threat display
that will end in an attack.
This time, you really mean it.
Putz, footnote, prove it to them.
Do it.
Do it.
Make it happen, you procrastinator.
Just because you like putting things off
doesn’t mean
you won’t have to follow through
sometime. Do it
do it do it.  This time
the voices aren’t just babbling,
they have a point.

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March 18, 2010

What Old Man Kenny Told Me

By Tony Brown

“You know,
every line on my face
is a dry riverbed of hate.

I hated myself,
others, life and death,
money, problems, solutions.

I lifted my eyes unto the Whatchamacallit
and asked for it all to be taken away
and nothing changed.  So I hated

the Great Answerer for not
answering me.  There were moments
where that hatred

took me over, and the displeasure
of the Lord washed down my cheeks
and washed me out.  Now, I live

like a hobo in the landscape
I have despised, trying to drag
a living from it that doesn’t hurt,

and I am lost, the arroyos
of my skin are dry and lead back
to the heights that have been arid

for many years, and I wish I knew
how to love, how to fill and flood them
until my whole face seemed as smooth

as the surface of a lake, still and calm
in the light of day, reflecting back
love I never allowed myself.”

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March 18, 2010

Our Colorful Characters: A Bedtime Story

By Tony Brown

Once upon a time
there was a man who sat all day
on the corner of Belmont Street
and the crosstown highway.  He
was named Nathan and had no legs.

People used to smile at Nathan
as they made the turn from the exit ramp
by his corner and he waved at every car.
Then, after a while,
he wasn’t there. 

Once upon a time
there was a man named the Whistler
who walked all around town
and into the surrounding suburbs.
When you drove by him and honked

he’d whistle back, the loudest whistle
anyone had ever heard, and never
the same whistle twice.  Never stuck his hands
in his mouth either, never broke stride,
and then he vanished.

Once upon a time
there was a very old woman in Main South
who always dressed in white and always wore
thick white makeup on her face.
Everyone thought she was a hooker

but she used to minister to the working girls
instead, giving them food and money
when they needed it, first aid when they
needed it as they seemed to so often,
and then she disappeared.

Once upon a time
we used to know all our vagabonds.
We figured they had homes somewhere
and came out to keep the city colorful.
Now we see so many

it’s harder to keep track of them.
They wear signs that say “Homeless Vet”
or “God Bless You,” but we don’t know their stories
or rather we don’t make them up
the way we used to make up stories

about Nathan and The Whistler
and the White Lady, stories
we assumed had a beginning
that started with “Once upon a time,”
included the phrase

“there but for the grace of God,”
and we didn’t bother to create much more
background or development
for any of them, preferring to simply say,
“and they lived happily ever after.”

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March 18, 2010

Smart Old World

By Tony Brown

Smart old world
we have here, that invented
obsolesence, aging,
erosion, and death
to keep itself from getting bored.

Selfish old world
that came up with
mitosis and meiosis,
cell division and birth,
just to shake things up.

Strange old world
that melds the two things
regularly, so that one leads
into the other.  Think of
the mantis with his missing head

in the mouth of his mate
as she begins to gestate,
or your neighbor’s sorrow
as he laughs at the antics of the child
whose mother, his wife, died to produce.

Stoic world,
coated in a thin skim of our poison,
is biding its time.  You think
a world like this won’t survive us?
It barely notices us, pal.

When this world’s had its fill
of us it’ll throw us off like a
past season coat.  It will rub
minerals together and try something
new.  We’re just toys, not even pets,

but an enzyme inside us tells us otherwise,
screams, “I’m special! I’m here!” Well,
trickster world gave us that too.  We make do
acting like the world is in us and
we’re indispensable. Can you hear the laughter?

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March 17, 2010

The Hearts

By Tony Brown

one of my favorite hearts
just fell out of my arm
onto the filthy floor
and when I retrieved it
another toppled from the top
of my head, two more
slipped
from their perches on my shoulders
and there I was scrambling, on my knees
snatching them up before they were past
the five second rule and no longer
fit for consumption.  only the original one,
number one out of fifty-five or so,
stayed tethered inside me
though it did flop a bit and bang against
the sternum as I fumbled about.  why
do I need all these hearts, I rage,
it’s not like I need them to beat for me,
I’ve only fashioned them for the pleasure
of calling them mine, use them to hold
overgrown emotions as if they were vases
full of blooms soon to be dead.  I toss them
aside, put them in the closet though I know
I’ll pull them out again, as they are mine
and never belonged to anyone else,
merely splits from the first, the one I use
to push a pulse around, the one heart
I protect against all comers, these supplements
were only there for protection, little urns
still holding the things I refuse to allow entrance
into me, compartments for those memories
that made and still make them race and pound until
they fall from me and gather
the indelible dirt from the ground on which I barely
can walk anymore.

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March 16, 2010

Who wants Duende to come visit?

By Tony Brown

Here is Duende’s — and my — current gig schedule on the Reverbnation site.

We’re looking for gigs, actively, in the relatively local area…say, New England, New York, New Jersey, etc. Got new material…can’t tour extensively at the moment, but would love to get out and play…check out tracks and let us know if you’d like to book us.


We promise to be good.


Thanks!

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March 16, 2010

The Pursuit Of Happiness

By Tony Brown

All I was ever guaranteed
was a right to the pursuit
of happiness, not to
its capture.  Not one thing
has ever been sure in life —
there’s no right to see
the aurora borealis, the
emerald flash, the Grand Canyon.
Billions have died without ever seeing
these things, without knowing love,
children, freedom from want,
care, disease, war, famine and
bad weather.  Those things are mine
to face as well; I have no more right
to anything more than to be able to strive
for a chance at these things.

So when those rare moments come
of sun on my neck and a good message
from a friend, a word in the right space,
a robin refusing to move aside for my car,
a yellow tip on a daffodil spike,

I imagine myself a hunter
who will eat well tonight,
a seer thrown back into reverie
at a curtain of purple sheer before the stars,
a godly man sleeping soundly
with his family, sure of the morning.
I become a peasant who never expected
any of this, one of billions who have lived and died
since someone first scratched a bison prayer
into a rock wall, thinking of tomorrow
as if it could indeed
be different from yesterday and today;

whoever is modern cannot be more
than an ancient being
when seized by the ecstasy of a second
filled with a promise exceeded,
a pursuit completed for now
to be resumed in the seconds to follow.

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March 16, 2010

Tired

By Tony Brown

Tired
is Butterfly
on the broken
chrysalis.  Meteor
smoldering into
our sky. Tiger
crouching by the remote
irrigation ditch
at dawn.

Tired is the flat wheel
on the new car, the
white noise
of the ventilator,
the pump house wheezing
by the flood.

Tired, I am tired
as material sundered,
air riven, water
summoning its strength
to break through
an easy weakness
and flow freely again.

Tired as a mourner
on the coffin, closing
his eyes and recalling
walks, runs, late night
conversations.  Closing his eyes
while still in contact
with the source of his fatigue
and missing the butterfly,
the shooting star,
the tiger choosing another target.

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March 16, 2010

Stairway To Fela

By Tony Brown

I heard “Stairway To Heaven” on the car radio tonight, for the first time in a long time.

I have heard “Stairway To Heaven”perhaps three hundred times in my life,
having been born at the right time to have been inundated with it constantly
on the radio stations of my childhood. I do not own a copy of it for that reason,
I’ve never needed one if I wanted to hear it,  all I have to do is think about it
and every note is immediately present in my head as it was written and played,
as it was in the beginning, is now, and forever shall be, world without end…

in a bag on my couch is a gift from a friend, a CD by Fela Kuti I have not yet heard.

I have heard much of Fela in my life, but never on the radio that I recall
except for the occasional show I’ve caught from the left of the dial
on community stations or public radio or lately on specialty Internet streams
devoted to the propagation of things not heard by many of us who have drowned
for years in the same old songs or new carbons of the same old songs.  I have not heard
Fela Kuti three hundred times in my life, and I do not blame “Stairway To Heaven” for that,
it is what it is, and what it is is ubiquitous and perhaps as good as anything Fela wrote
but until now I’ve never had the chance to decide for myself.

Fela Kuti first began recording in the late 1960s, much as did Led Zeppelin.

What would be different if I’d heard Fela in my youth as much as I’ve heard “Stairway To Heaven?”
I’ll never know.  I do know I’ll have to work hard and incessantly now to embed anything by Fela Kuti
in quite the same way as “Stairway To Heaven” has been embedded.  I assume it will be worth the effort
from what I’ve heard of Fela so far, but I cannot help thinking that I may have been robbed
of something.  Years have gone by with me hearing snatches of “Stairway” at odd moments and thinking
that I really didn’t like the song, but much like “Yankee Doodle” it’s one of those things that sits in me
as soundtrack or background, informing me, insinuating itself into the meaning of dates and places
that might have felt different with Afrobeat in its place.  And in that alternate world of multiple possibilities,
who knows where I’d be?  What arpeggios might I have learned to play upon my guitar
if “Stairway” hadn’t been the first thing to rise in my fingers when a resemblance to it was detected
in some random sequence I’d noodled forth?

I say now that if there had been a universe where a Fela Kuti song could have been heard
as often as “Stairway To Heaven” by suburban American teenagers,
I would have been willing to see what glittered there,
what I’d have learned, what music I might have made,
where I would have ended up.
Would I have said it then?  Who knows? But I never got the chance to say it
and listening again to “Stairway” in my head I can say I am angry unto death with this unchosen path

and I don’t know if
there’s still time to change the road we’re on.

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March 15, 2010

Slinky World

By Tony Brown

Once pushed
from the top of the stairs
it is supposed to swing itself
end over end
to the bottom,
but how many times does it instead
come to a quivering stop
only partway down?

Do this often enough
and you will become frustrated
and scorn its alleged magic;

sit instead with it in your hands
and bounce it back and forth,
stretch it out, fan the coils
like a deck of undealable cards;

eventually discard it
or give it away
or sell it to some sucker at a yard sale.

But you always buy
another one,
usually at a yard sale,
certain that this time
will hold the charm —
you,
a middle aged man
who will never learn.

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