Apes-Ma, Apes-Ma
Remember when you were young Apes-Ma?
And you used to break out of your cage?
Well you know that you’re not
Strong enough to do that anymore now
And Apes-Ma… The little girl that
Named you years ago died now
And you’re older Apes-Ma
Remember when she named you
And it was in the paper Apes-Ma?
Apes-Ma, Apes-Ma
You’re eating too much
And going to the bathroom too much Apes-Ma
And Apes-Ma, your cage isn’t getting any bigger Apes-Ma
Author Archives: Tony Brown
About Tony Brown
Ladies and gentlemen, for no real reason…Captain Beefheart.
cross posted from nov3rdclub
I posted this at the Nov. 3rd club community a day or so ago, in response to a prompt from Victor about a poem “in the moment”.
in this moment
i am trying to remember everything i know
about new orleans
and i realize i don’t know much
beyond storyville and the second line
dirty dozen and dr. john
tipitina’s and preservation hall
i know i never got there
i know i never will get there
at least not to the city
it used to be
so many cities these days smell
like their own brand of ghost
i walked past the world trade center a while ago
and that smelled dry and crusty
i bet bagdhad smells about the same
so what would you call the smell of new orleans?
in this moment
i imagine
it smells like rotting stories
untold: the men and women
who propped up the pretty legend
are drowned or scattered and we
will not know their names again
and that is how it has always smelled, i bet:
abandoned, funky, with a song in its heart:
house party on the edge of decay
all those tombs under water to stay
all those parasols and all that rain
(laissez les bon temps roulez)
someone fish the bodies out
since no one built the levees up
since no one let the money flow
(laissez les bon temps roulez)
someone tell the dying men
to sit up on their roofs again
and wave white flags at the camera lens
(laissez les bon temps roulez)
and someone tell the government
that those hands smell like an accident
if you can call it that — can you call it that?
(laissez les bon temps roulez)
like i said
i don’t know very much about new orleans
but i know enough to know
a murder when i see one
NEXT WEDNESDAY!!!!
In place of the regularly scheduled SPEAK reading, SPEAK and The Center For Peaceful Living present, live in Uxbridge MA:
BUDDY WAKEFIELD!!!
2 Time Individual World Poetry Slam Champ
Poetic and performance genius, and all around lunatic (but a nice one)
NEXT WEDNESDAY, Sept. 14, at 7:30 at
(drumroll, please)
The Uxbridge High School Auditorium, Capron St., Uxbridge, MA.
There will be a five dollar cover, but hey, you know he’s worth it.
ASIDE:
This is the high school drgeorge and I graduated from. Having someone like Buddy there is a gas to both of us, and it would mean a lot to me to have you show up. I know he’s everywhere that week, but this is part of an ongoing effort to bring big city art to a small town.
Please come. When have you ever had enough Buddy, anyway?
blister
a spark fell onto the back of the hand
and from where the skin lifted up
(like a parachute, like a dome)
over the matchhead burn
there rose a need to touch
the yielding bubble over and over again
(tenderly, knowing how fragile it might be)
with the hope of understanding it,
in the hope of learning from it
how to examine those hurts
that might not blister as this one did, learn
to allow them to settle on their own instead of always
needing to open them so their foul oil could flow from within
onto the previous stains, making them ever darker;
a blister gives a chance to practice, and
we always make time for practice, even though
we always end up peeling back the slack skin and letting
a drop of fluid fall, one tear, onto the scars
we swore we would never worry again.
i’ve got blisters on my fingers
does anybody remember laughter?
BY THE WAY: Anybody recognize these, and the source for each? They are all spoken word bits from classic rock songs.
Well, three of them are from classic rock — the other one is from a song that is a classic.
i should just break down and admit
that the reason i’m not dead yet is a profound fear of having no audience on the other side.
something all poets should recall from time to time:
even your silence is a kind of prayer.
— Apache proverb
he announces
that he prefers bourbon
to a kiss
says he’s sure he’s had his last kiss
and the sting of whiskey is better
than a bruised lip
besides
“whiskey” sounds almost like a kiss
if you say it fast
if you kiss fast and do not let it linger
the way a bourbon lingers
you can fool yourself for a long time
he confides to the bartender
who is trying to pull away
that he does miss
a first kiss — can’t recall
what it’s like to kiss someone
the first time
the way he can’t recall
his first whiskey
but he keeps trying
and drink up he says
to the rest of the bar
drink up
someone should give me a kiss
for old time’s sake
someone should kiss me
for all the booze i’ve bought here
for all these years
drink up and i’ll tell you another one
the sex pistols are the font of all wisdom.
I
I
I
I
I
ever get the feeling that you’ve been cheated?
I
I
I
I
I
(one line that amounted to nothing)
I
I
I
I
I
I still want to be anarchy
I
I
I
I
I
I’ll do it my way
