Four hits yesterday, three hits today.
I have no confidence in my non-poetic work.

thanks,
T

I am listening to old Americana
and I’m getting so sleepy
I am letting the mice have their way
with the words and the images
of them getting so smart
they think the words mean nothing
They wander among the words
as if they can stand easy among them
As if they are unfamiliar with likelihood
As if they are used to getting caught
It is a shrug to them
The banjo circles among them
The slide guitar moseys up to them
and if there is a bass guitar commanding them
it will slap them down flat soon enough

I am listening to old Americana
from back when to hear it was to admit
you didn’t listen to newer music
No drum and bass or hard R & B
As if I were a relic myself
As if I took a plunge into flash and circumstance
and learned in a devil’s hurry about it
The mice knew already and I cleaned them out
The dust was settled around them and their little skulls
lay perfect and dry in their unfettered pelts
As perfect and dry as my own

I am listening to old Americana
No vibrating sounds or unfettered syllables
I’m just dozing off when a mouse scoots by
on the floor between the TV and the dozing cat
who startles up and becomes too late alert
This one has gotten away with something short of murder
Last of the breed perhaps
Last of his kind
I shrug off his escape and pet myself
Too much little pest little annoyance little dweller
in the dark between my slap and the cat’s paw
Like myself waiting to fall by the side of the trail
or get going and get gone with the music
Like myself waiting for
Whatever Comes Next

I am not equipped
for a new poem —
not today; instead
I have prepared myself
for a lack of them entirely —
a lack of new poems! Entirely
to be without thought
and ultimately reaction.

Let the wind
and rain and lovely, lovely clouds
wash them cleanly from our
crowded, crooked minds —
yours too.

Yours too;
may you be free of a new poem
till the next day after this, or
the next day or the day after that.
You don’t need one when instead
you are one with the news of a poem.
When you are the news of a poem.
When the poem vanishes, a leaf
on a breeze.

Brilliantly edited.
The last gasp of a season of wonder.

Gulp of air — a little leak, then nothing more.
I look him fearlessly in one eye — right, then left.

He is more like a bird though he preached about them incessantly.
Stopped caring about them after he stopped breathing.

Not a moment too soon.
I look into his stony eyes again.

He has stopped breathing, stopped everything in fact.
The day begins to brighten.

It won’t rain.
For a moment, anyway, until he clears the earth.

I’m home.
None of my furniture consoles me.
I am alone in a house stuffed with it.
None of it allows me to weep.

I’m home.
I keep my lids shuttered against
the inadvertent blow against them
that may come from a longing glance

from my straying left eye. I’m home
and if I am not careful, I will
burst. I will fall apart knowing
all of this is meant to be

average, normal; it is not.
I’m home now in a typical place
wearing typical clothes — black
T-shirt, plaid pants. You,

gentleman caller, can knock
but I will not respond. You
will walk away puzzled. Meanwhile
I’ll be naked and crying;

you will not hear me. I’m home
and I’m nude and crying and
to bring it to full and satisfying boil
no one is as puzzled as I am

about this. Everyone’s been called.
Everyone’s been notified. You would think
I would have this all simple and controlled.
If anyone comes in, though, I’ll be

crying. Without clothes. Lying
in the middle of the floor. Exhausted
from trying — what? Tired of all of this —
what? I’m home. What difference will it make?

I thank everyone for their time and attention to my poetry and our friendship.

Unfortunately, I have decided to close my online writing practice for the moment. It takes a lot out of me and frankly I do not have a lot of myself to spare.

I will be back at some point when I feel stronger. Will do some public appearances here and there. And I will maintain the Dark Matter blog and aspects of my Patreon site.

This has been too much. Two and one-half months prior to this. It has been too much.

Thank you.

Onward.
T
6-1-2024

…set for tomorrow night at Arts In The Garden. Included two new pieces from the post stroke(s) work. Likely to be my last set for a while.

Wish me…?
T

Will do more notes tomorrow…do come to my reading Thursday.

Onward,

T

I lost a post this morning.

It was a good one, full of wolves and a baby and it likely followed the river to where the baby would be slaughtered, but then a worm showed up and I was left with a partial poem and a draft which vanished.

So I wrote this instead out of anger.

What do you think? Does it make up for the one lost to the stroke?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward.
T

Until I start gearing up again it would be great to have a few more folks join the site.  Say, four? 

http://patreon.com/TonyBrown

Thanks.

Go now. Find your way past
edges and borders. Look into
liminal space for his preferred
edges.

Into his explosive space,
his placement in it; was it central
to him, a fence post of his reason,
a tough stone for logic? He didn’t
seem to know. He kept
his own counsel in all matters
and it fell to him to do no more
than mutter, say “never mind,”
close his eyes, wonder how it all
went together or not. So:

go now. Go to his source
or go alone. Allow him
this one luxury, this response.
Go into the street and sob.
You are not at fault for this.