The Myspace page now has a new MP3 on it.
It’s a hotel room recording of “Punk.” I need a good live version of it, but this will hold y’all, I think. Enjoy.
Thus ends my marathon posting day. Beddy bye now…
Author Archives: Tony Brown
About Tony Brown
Walnut
I’ve spent all these years writing
and still haven’t found a good way
to work the word “walnut” into a poem.
Oh, I’ve written poems and had the word in place
but it never makes magic. I still try
but every poem with the word “walnut” in it
feels like the last one I wrote.
When I get on stage, I’m up there
saying “walnut” and it falls out of me
like a Christmas bow on New Year’s Day.
The people in front of me nod sagely
and tell me afterward how much they respect me,
but I still can’t work “walnut” into a poem
that will make me young in their eyes again.
I could say: I walk a walnut mile
every time I step into a poem,
I smell walnut on the butt of the pen,
I see walnut sides on my big guitar,
a walnut tree in the yard beyond my own,
but “walnut” as a conjure word
is beyond me.
Perhaps I should be glad
“walnut” resists my poetry, preferring not to be
a metaphor, preferring to be
a wood, a brain nut, a milk chocolate swirl
bent to an hourglass shape. Perhaps
I was never meant to make “walnut”
a magic word.
But I live in hope that someone’s
going to do it,
and that on that day,
I will die
exalting, a walnut stake
through my heart, my head
on a pillow of nutmeats,
brown leaves for a shroud,
my dry words blowing across the neighbor’s yard.
Boy, deja vu all over again
Some of you may recall that last year, just about this time, I ended up doing a meeting at the most overwhelming hotel/resort/convention center/monument to excess I’d ever been in.
Sumbitch, I’m there again.
http://www.gaylordhotels.com/gaylordtexan/facts/
Click around the site to truly appreciate the, um, grandeur.
the half breed speaks to his dying father
you never told me
how you met mom, why you married,
why you won’t tell me the date
you were married.
(oh, i think i can guess. but i’ll never
know for sure if you don’t say it.
and i don’t care, by the way. the way i see it
once you’re here, you’re here,
and it doesn’t matter much
what others call you because
you’re a bastard sometimes
no matter who you are most of the time.)
i grew up smart, and i was cool, i was everything
except what i wanted to be. i wanted
the stereotype — the feathers, the stern and stolid face.
then i gave up and tried to be you, and all i want now
is to know
at last
who you thought
i was.
what did you call me on the day I was born?
did you whisper
a potent name in my ear
that i never remembered, or that
you never said out loud again? should i be
thanking you or shaking you for the name? will it
kill me or make me feel better than i’ve ever felt?
did my fantasy have a root?
come on, dad. spit it out
if you know what my life
meant to you.
give me my footing before you go.
this week’s schedule
1. Leave for Dallas Tuesday @ noon.
2. Train in Dallas Wednesday and Thursday — replacing trainer whose father died
3. Dallas slam visit Wednesday night
4. Thursday PM fly to Denver — trainer replacement as above
5. Train in Denver Friday AM
6. Fly home Friday PM
Busy, but finally getting paid. 🙂
question
I haven’t done a Zero Point Zero column for a while, and am not sure if I will again — it doesn’t seem to me to add anything else to the Gotpoetry site beyond what Scott Woods, Victor Infante, and Deb Powers are bringing with their columns.
Do you think it’s worth it to bring it back? Be honest — I’m looking for real feedback here, not stroking.
Literary Theory
I think most of the poems I hear at open mics and slams can be summed up in three words: “Where’s the love?”
This goes for political poems, love poems, and pretty much anything else I can think of.
Any other candidates for a good three word literary theory?
Jim and Sondra Share A Moment (fragment)
he slides
down the hospital corridor
in foam rubber slippers
and drawstring pants because
they’ve taken his belt away.
he spies her, lying in the bed
with her mummy-swathed wrists,
and when their eyes touch
it’s meat on a griddle: sizzle
and black marks all over.
___________________________________________
It’s odd to me that the next piece of the Jim and Sondra poems should be the last one in the series as I’ve envisioned it, but perhaps I need to figure out the end before I fill in the middle. After all, the Jim Poems weren’t written in order either.
I’ve also decided to take the unusual step (for me) of sharing this fragment before the poem is substantially completed. Just an experiment. I have no idea if this is the beginning, the end, the middle, or whether or not this will even end up in the completed piece. It belongs here now, I guess.
Admission
I kinda hate Radiohead, with the exception of “Idiotheque.”
The older I get, the more my listening tastes devolve to:
— three chords and great lyrics whether acoustic or electric
— cool beats, preferably not electronic
— outrageous free jazz and other experimental music — again, not typically electronic
There are individual exceptions, of course.
Blanket
Onerous
as it may be to admit it,
I’ve got to allow
that inadequacy
has been my greatest strength.
It feels like everyone in the world
is better than me
at anything at which
I’m halfway good.
I wake up as a slouch
all the time, walk my sidewalk
with a dirty shuffle,
snicker when I should laugh
and sniffle when I should cry.
I think it’s because I’m old
and in the way. Overstayed
my welcome, became just good enough
to bother people without stirring them.
My pockets are lined with love notes
I never sent, full of bad grammar and diffidence.
Despite all that, I’ve got something in me
that likes this. I love biting on tinfoil.
I chew it up and spit it out and figure next time
I’ll swallow. All I’ve ever wanted is to be perfect,
and every failure has made me want it even more.
But here it is: the moment when I know
I’ll never be a star, never be a gadfly,
never be anything besides the old man
with bad hair and a decent vocabulary.
I used to trust my weaknesses to keep me strong
and wanting. I’ve got no reason
for that now. I’m winding my self up
in a torn blanket tonight, burning
the notebooks, falling asleep hoping I won’t
wake up — but I will, I’m sure.
Today so far in hugely trivial detail
— bed around 3 AM, helped by Rozarem and Ambien plus second Lithium dose
— wake up at 1:15 pm, said time helped by Rozarem and Ambien
— take Prozac, Lamictal, first Lithium dose
— eat something
— play guitar
— watch a little Law and Order
— work on a poem that’s probably a piece of shit
— check e-mails and answer a couple
— check Myspace and LJ
And that’s about it.
Ever wonder about the life of a part-time consultant/full time writer with mental illness? Ever wonder why I’m sometimes suicidal? There you go. Boredom is a dangerous thing.
Poem on Myspace!
I’ve just uploaded my first recording of a poem onto Myspace. Insomnia is occasionally productive.
I love Garageband! It makes it so easy to do this stuff, even with just the internal microphone on the laptop.
The poem is “DIY” which will be familiar to most of you who know my stuff. For the rest — enjoy or not as you will. At least you’ll get to hear my voice.
http://www.myspace.com/poetrybytonybrown
Next step: get one with me and Faro up there, and then a song.
I’m in Orlando, waiting for my 30 dollar crabcakes from room service. So glad I get reimbursed for this shit.
Even a burger is 15 bucks, and fries are another 4.50.
This better be served on a gold plate by Wayne Newton.
Trivial update + Bobby Gibbs at GotPoetry tonight.
Quick update before I bug out. ( I know I said I didn’t want to post daily trivia, but different people asked for different pieces of this info so this is an easy way to get it out.)
The new drug seems to have had some effect. I went to sleep quickly, although I woke up an hour later and took Ambien so it’s hard to tell. Will try to go without Ambien tonight in FL. Hope it works, as Ambien gives me a hangover. Phttttt.
My phone is intermittently fucked, so if you call and I don’t answer, that’s why.
Bobby Gibbs is the feature at GotPoetry tonight…John Powers will be hosting. GO!
Will be in Orlando tonight but no time to be social (sorry guys). Back home tomorrow night, then more work in Hartford on Friday. Yay!
C-YA.
Dark Matter 