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.

This Is Just The Trailer

This is just the trailer.  Wait until you see the film.
 
— from a message delivered by the Mumbai terrorists to the Indian government, November, 2008

1.
classic film

love
rejection
redemption

define those things ever after
by referring to the movie

“it’s like when she
turned and walked away
and then he falls to his knees
in that movie…”

classic film

the trees are
perfectly shaped
there’s snow that doesn’t go gray
with road filth

“it’s so beautiful,
I feel like I’m in a movie…”

classic film

there are guns
and clearly horned enemies
to be slain

“it’s like in that movie
where the buildings exploded…”

in here there are answers
always

everything is enormous
and significant

details are just nails
holding banner importance fast

in here light is a dog
to be walked
leashed and guided
along scents
to known targets

from in here
come out and stare into living
seeing instead the light on the screen
twenty feet high

eating the apple that is offered there

learning everything
whether it’s true or not

2.
in the classic film
they walked from set to set
no trailers
no limos

walked outlaw
through shanty towns and elegance

extras earning their lines

they took direction well

“he told me I’d receive a reward,
be a big man, blah blah,
all that stuff…”

straight from the mouth of the extra
captured after
the walk though the city
the station
the hotels
the hospital
placing bombs in taxis
bullets and fire in guest rooms

the prisoner
sobbing
sold by his father to the terrorists
with the words
“look at these guys
they have money
a good life
your sisters can be married”
and his response
“fine
whatever”

blah blah blah

just a bit of business
between the good scenes

3.
“what did we ever do to them
that they hurt us so”

said a boy
thinking of how he’d sheltered beneath
his blood soaked mother and father
on the floor of Victoria Terminal
in the heart of Mumbai

how cold he had been
it felt so damp and cold

4.
the handler
for the Mumbai killers
told them where to strike
and rated their performance
based on what they saw
on the news

whenever a gunman
took an order
from his handler that day
he responded with
“god willing”

5.
when I saw the towers fall

when I saw the first plane
full of my friends
enter like a spoon into soft serve
or a hand into popcorn

it was like a movie
I’d seen a thousand times
in 3-D

they had shaken me
with surround sound
a thousand times before

but on the day
I went there
I was unprepared
to wonder
who this was
bitter and sweet
present inside my nose
right under my eyes

6.
now we watch them on predator screens
solarized and polarized to enhance a target
god willing

and they watch us on television screens
clipped and closed to interpretation
god willing

everyone
dying easily far away
god willing

7.
how it looks
is in the script
for a classic film

how it smells
is not

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Poem For Steve

The ex-skateboarder
is a current cook,
thinks about cooking
a lot, cooks all the time,
in fact cooked his way
all the way
from Rhode Island
to Virginia
by way of Michigan.

Sometimes
he stops thinking
about the lead line
for two minutes
and wishes for a night listening
to New Model Army
after eating something good
someone else had prepared
in the fifty-first state
of the union,
the one that only exists
as the hypothetical next stop
on his road.

This,
he thinks,
is a good grind,
today is a good day,
or at least
it’s as good as it gets.
I can live with that
even if now I have to walk
where I used to glide
until I get there…

and eats what he cooks
because he knows where he’s been,
anyway.

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How I Know I Am An American

1.
If i can pay a price
immediately
and receive
what I ask for,
I do.

If I can delay payment
and receive at once
what I ask for, I do.

If I can pay and then receive
at some near date,
I may;

if I can pay now
and not be assured
of delivery, ever,
and there are
long odds
against getting what I want,
I may not;

if I can pay now
and maybe my children
will get what I’ve paid for,
I will not.

2.
Form or function?
Form.

Black or White?
Neither.

Right or left, red or blue?
Some purple in between.

Excess or right fit?
Are they different?

Answer or question?

What?

Answer or question?

That it is possible here
to have one without the other
explains everything.

3.
Refrain from the song
I just heard
echoes for a while after hearing. 
Whether it is
Guthrie
or Scott Key
or KRS-One. Whether there’s a flute,
a bugle, or a cuatro in the melody.
Whether it is loud
or soft, or can be either.
Any lullaby encourages
sleep when it’s sung.

4.
I am proxy
no matter where I go.
I will bleed symbols
when stuck or shot
here or there, by someone
who denies or affirms me.
I lost the deed to me an age ago.

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The Johnny Jump Ups

Front yard covered in
Johnny–jump-ups, flowers
too small
for their name

which reminds me
of a crew of riff-raff soldiers
on a suicide mission
in a late 60s movie trailer:
“…they were expendable, they were
unpredictable, they got the job done
when no one else could…
THE JOHNNY JUMP UPS
!”…”
and then you’d get a list
that would certainly include
Alejandro Rey and Ernest Borgnine
and maybe Lee Marvin, and some young
macho male looking for a name for himself…

and the flowers,
small as mentioned, tiny even,
variegated and pansy-violet faced,
they’re forgotten entirely
in favor of the association with
something artificial.
All of the other flowers get the treatment too:
I’m sure the Daffodils
are a pop band, the Poppy
describes their music,
I see the Grass
and at once I’m reminded
that it’s April 22
and two days past 4-20…
and Earth Day, too…
I’ll bang my head against something
if I think about this long enough.
If I were to bang my head against something
it would be a wall, not a rock.
Not even a rock wall.
Something made of sheetrock,
paneled in faux wood grain, or covered in earth tone paint…

Anyway, in that movie there would be a scene
where a young woman, not an American,
asks one of the soldiers what he calls
the flower with the pansy face in his country. 
“My ma used ta call ’em Johnny-jump-ups,” he’d say.
“She used ta say they meant spring.  She loved ’em.
She died in the spring a coupla years ago…
seems like a long time ago, now.” 

A little later the same guy,
not James Coburn,
someone younger
but like James Coburn,
would hear the Germans coming,
and light a cigar.  Then a fuse,
lit from the cigar.  Then he’d fling
the dynamite.  Big explosion!

He’d come up shooting,
all Tommy gun and cigar,
take a bullet
and fall into the flowers,
close his grimy lids as he died
with them under his head
and all around his face.

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Out On The Town

two for one ridiculous

finger dancing rejected
diggers of energy in clubs
and cafes, they stroll the South Side
arm in arm, resting their hands
for the night ahead

lick a glass rim and hop to it

charging around the circuit
looking for pals and the unmet
possible pals of tomorrow morning

there is cocaine and rationalization
that this is how the heroes rolled
and one of the sumbitches
is crying for some paper reminder
he can’t create for his inebriation
tearing his garments in mourning

slinky doormen
keep out the impossible artists
no shirts without ironed collars

blue blind doctors of unspecified ambition
looking for pals and patients

two for one
take one, get the other

romantic night in memory
but tonight it’s already
blurred
blank and ready for scribbled cleansing
ego repair

they’ll leave out
the puke on their shoes

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Ironworks

Save your voice,
Tom Waits;
there’s not enough tender gravel
in the world.

Save your shades,
Bob Dylan;
what you see under the bare land
needs your filter.

Save your hat,
Leonard Cohen;
something unrusted might yet escape
through the top of your head.

Save your battered guitar,
Ellen McIlwaine;
something remains to be drawn
from the funk inside.

We sleep in the ore
you smelt for your needs.
You mine our beds
for your raw materials.
We sit at the forge’s door
and gasp at the heat.
You bring out the work
and we hustle to touch it, still warm
from the fire.

Save us, sidewalk
blacksmiths, alchemists
of dark iron.  We’re always
in need of a little steel
and your blacksmith’s marks
upon it.

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Ten Point Buck

A cross-fox
bears black bars
upon his shoulders
that demand attention.

One red squirrel
glimpsed at the park
means more
than all the gray ones.
Let a black one show up
and someone will call the news.

The white skunk
(not a scent of black
on him but for the eyes)
comes through the yard,
and it’s as if a yeti walks among
the trashcans and weeds.

When Maggie, the new girl,
raised her hands
on the first day of high school
and defiantly showed us
her twelve fingers,
we shuffled in our seats
and communally resolved at once
to shun her.

I am sure that in
the years since, at least one
of my classmates
has been deer hunting,
looking to to hang
a ten-point buck or better
on his wall.

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Regarding White Privilege

1.
Walk out your front door
and into the street.
Look up and there it is:
your sun, won
on the last hand last night; the jerk
told you it would be yours in the morning
as soon as he could get to the bank
and the safety deposit box;
now he’s gone and there it is
hanging over you, out of reach.

At least you know it’s yours
even though it’s beyond command;
you can always trust the word
of a fellow gambler, after all.

2.
This sun of yours
crosses over myth
as you watch.
Do you own the myth as well?

3.
A street’s only as good
as its sidewalks:
having a pair of solid paths to parallel the main line
is crucial.  Places
to walk safely, more slowly
than the primary traffic.
A curb against which
to butt tires,
or crush jaws.

4.
Take your rabid imagination
to the street, stare
at your possession
and decide to own everything
it illuminates as well…

5.
In fact, this sun
belongs to no one,
lights everyone’s road,
warms every face.

Your deed to it has only the weight
of a shared perception
that it’s a valid deed.

The paper burns when the rays pinpoint upon it.

6.
Night follows day.

You made no bet
regarding the moon.

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How To Overcome Writer’s Block

You have no excuse
and there’s no absent Muse
to blame for it.  It’s either work
or waiting in this, no in between
and when you invoke
the Muse like that it tells me
you don’t understand the work
or how blood must be spilled
in every place we make meat
from life, for life.  This is not to say
there are no walls between you
and what you desire, but there are sledgehammers
too and that’s how
the walls come down
and the calves get dead. If you’ll
just turn around and pick up a hammer
you’ll note it is heavy enough
to break what stands before you.
Are you enough? The old question,
oldest one, the one Cain asked
even before he stooped for his own
tool.  Think of that:
we revile his literal take now,
but his moment still offers a lesson
that something has to go if it’s between you
and your target God.  Pick up the hammer
and stop waiting, we’re all
hungry here, and the excuse
you’ve named the Muse?
When she gets here
footsore and dusty, she’ll be
hungry too.

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High Water Mark

Likely high water mark
and I’m bereft.
Who’s going to answer
for this success? 
I got here on a back or two
and it hurts
me.  Hurts
more because I’ve been
lazy getting up off the mountain
now that I’m up.
Who were they?
Damned,
I can’t remember.

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Lazy News

recent developments:
the sheets on the clothesline
speaking in soft thwaps

and weeds still pretty enough
to not annoy

old leaves now almost gone to soil

the first cigar in months feet stretched up on the stoop
no jacket

spent an hour thinking of this
not because of tension or struggle

but because it felt good

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Afternoon

Smoke,
a lullaby
in the air,

curls around
the covers
of the Duino Elegies.

Feet up, coffee at hand,
the angelic explanations
laid before me

and a good cigar —
no,
a great cigar burning.

Thus, clarity
carries on.
Always.

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The Accusation That Wakes You Before Dawn

Animals
struck by cars
come back to life
once you’ve passed their corpses.
One in seven million of them
is given the power of speech.

The accusation
that wakes you before dawn
comes from one of them. 
In the voice is a paw ticking off every time
you heard a thump below your wheels
and drove on with a shrug.

Under the heavy-armed trees
outside your window
is an army of the flattened,
the torn, the spilled and bloody.
You stand inside, half naked,
reliving moments
of rejection,
ignorance, and neglect
you’ve experienced.

The fur that suddenly emerges
from your chest and back
is sodden with blackened blood
and the tiny cells of brain and lung.

In the car that’s rushing toward you
are your father, your mother,
every easily forgotten lover,
every friend you don’t call anymore,
every colleague you’ve blindsided,
every server you’ve stiffed,
every aimless stab in every back
and every turn of the wheel
that took you over a body in the road.

Headlights ahead,
then it happens.
You in the blanket of silence.
You waiting for
a one in seven million chance
to give back.

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My Loyal Dog

My loyal dog,
the night, has no tail
to wag in welcome
when I approach.

You are laughing at me,
I can tell.  You say
the night’s not my dog
at all.  That dog belongs

to no one and you chide me
for presuming such a thing.
But you’re so wrong.  I’ve kept him
on a leash so long

he appears to be free,
but he’s my dog all right —
waits for me all day
until I come home and feed him.

Though there’s no tail on him,
I can tell my dog loves me.
How else to explain why I am licked
by darkness so often?

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Let Go

Let go, he tells himself.

You don’t count at all.
You haven’t for a while.
Words count (the speaking
of words is an action and counts
no matter the proverb).

A lot of good people
have been bastards,
he tells himself.  Let go
the ties and be.  Cut
words loose: write or say
four, pull back two. Do not
neglect the rage,
let go of it. Free it.

Qualification,
he tells himself, is pure
falsehood.
Justification contains
too many syllables
to waste. Let go, sharpen,
make a blunt object,
poison a well. 

Let go, he tells himself.
You’re too old not to.
It’s expected now,
your job practically.
Customize at your risk —
words don’t demand
anything beyond utterance.
They will fail you,
of course.  Let go,
fall as they may fall.
How far your fate is
from the top is
uncertain.  Let go.
Find out.

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