Gooseneck lamp
and votive candle lit
here in my room,
bathroom light shining from
the house next door,
no sliver of dawn showing
but it’s still morning
on my skin, the cold
new day here if not yet
obvious to all.

In a moment
I’ll put out my lights
and close the shades
against the ones I can’t extinguish.
I’ll sleep a while longer until the full day
breaks through
and nudges me back awake.

Ask me what I’m thankful for
and I’ll tell you that there
is light you cannot avoid seeing
and light you can control. I am thankful
for the switch, I am grateful
for the finger that allows me to throw it, but
I am most grateful for the way light comes in
anyway, regardless of my choice.

today was long and emotionally draining. however, it’s over now, and I feel better all the time.

Happy happy for those of you who do celebrate — gratitude’s gratitude after all, in spite of what the day symbolizes to so many — and we’ll see you somewhere on the other side.

dusk spirit, reincarnation
of first revolver, blued skin,
yellow scent of sulfur;

dusk ghost, revenant
knife, bone hilted, satin
sheen of used steel;

dusk moth, noose reviving
early but just in time, hairy
hemp burning into hide;

dusk bear, returned pills in a jar,
old whiskey on a bedside stand,
growling in preparation;

dusk man, dusky woman,
twilight of humor, a hand
dealt with bad faith;

all creatures of dusk
in their habitats, allotted
a space in which to wait;

sunset bringing options,
pain, surcease of pain,
upset carts, spilled fruit;

dimming birds not singing
because sound tastes bitter,
not flying for want of air;

then —

dusk star,
shard, burn hole,
heat announcing itself;

dusk walk, rising from hard ground,
just enough to make legs move,
head for home moved enough to move;

dusk, no more than day in night, it’s
all in how it settles — blanket or shroud
in wearer’s eye alone. choose. pick one.

get up and walk away
or walk towards a new thing. get up.
dusk lasts no longer than it must.

that I’ve broken down and created a Myspace for publicizing my work.

A very few of you know that I had another Myspace at one time that was strictly personal, and was deliberately not known to the poetry community. I was going through a bad time and felt like I needed a place to hide from everyone.

I don’t like Myspace. I think it’s kinda crude and I hate working with it. But I have to acknowledge that it works for performing artists, so I’ve put one up.

Right now, there’s only bare bones info up, one poem, and no recordings. They’re coming. I’ll also go back and put in more shows and more details. I just wanted to get the ball rolling while I still had the will.

Anyway…here it is:

http://www.myspace.com/poetrybytonybrown

Don’t hate me because I’m a hypocrite.

dusk spirit, reincarnation
of first revolver, blued skin,
yellow scent of sulfur;

dusk ghost, revenant
knife, bone hilted, satin
sheen of used steel;

dusk moth, noose reviving
early but just in time, hairy
hemp burning into hide;

dusk bear, returned pills in a jar,
old whiskey on a bedside stand,
growling in preparation;

dusk man, dusky woman,
twilight of humor, a hand
dealt with bad faith;

all creatures of dusk
in their habitats, allotted
a space in which to wait;

sunset bringing options,
pain, surcease of pain,
upset carts, spilled fruit;

dimming birds not singing
because sound tastes bitter,
not flying for want of air;

night superfluous, sunrise
a joke, dusk alone
real and present;

break down,
let it go,
slip away.

I said something from the stage at the Hut tonight regarding the use of the phrase/image “bent over/fucked up the ass/getting the shaft” to illustrate something awful, like being at the mercy of the government or corporations. It’s almost always a guy who says it. It showed up a couple of times tonight in the open.

I suggested that the guys who used it might be a tad homophobic.

There was scattered applause, but applause wasn’t what I was looking for — I was more interested in getting people to see the potency and the ideas underlying a lot of slang. But I wonder, am I overreacting? Is noticing the source of an idiom unimportant?

In a conversation afterward, I voiced my similar feelings about referring to someone, male or female, as “my/your/his/her/their bitch,” with all its suggestions of subservience and submission.

Am I overanalyzing?

I don’t think of this as political correctness — I hate that phrase since it implies insincerity to me — but as making poets aware of the hidden spells and conjurings beneath our simplest language. I have no objections with someone who wants to say these things; I have strong objections with poems where things are said without regard to what they mean at all operative levels.

We get to do magic as poets. Magic requires understanding and intent at the very least.

I feel, sometimes, like I’m too rigid about these things…that I expect too much of those who purport to use language as art. But I guess my feeling is that if I can take the time to think about these things, anyone can. ANYONE.

People put too much reliance on talent and free expression as the building blocks of a poet’s craft. They forget that the words — how they mean, what they mean, why they mean what they mean — are fundamental, and if you use them, you ought to know how they work at al those levels.

My head hurts. This is why I think so often about stepping away from the poetry scene, I think…my own fucking standards are getting in the way of my ability to link with people. I hate that. I want to weep often. I want to close my eyes and not look outward.

currently watching the last race of the NASCAR season, where the championship will be decided.

Although it’s almost a foregone conclusion that Jimmie Johnson will win it all, it’s still a good race. I’m just pissed that the Nextel Cup points scheme is going to take my favorite driver, Kasey Kahne, out of contention for the Cup, despite his season-leading six wins.

I haven’t followed a sport this closely in years, and it’s nice to be involved in it — a welcome escape from things. I used to make fun of folks who were passionate about sports to the point of knowing all the stats, etc., but I get it now. I’m not an expert by any means, of course, but I’m enjoying it enough to think I will be one someday,

What night is Whoopiecat’s slam in Dallas?

I’ll be in Grapevine, TX from afternoon on the 5th to the afternoon of the 7th, with my nights free, and I’ll have a car. Working early on the 6th and 7th so no heavy nights can happen, but if I can make the slam, I’d like to.

ETA: Got it. Wednesday night the 6th. Corbet’s featuring. I’ll be there.

i just finished a song. if i can get it recorded in the next few days and then figure out how to post the sound file, i shall.

the classic rock band
on stage is
making a raft
from old bones
and old couples
are climbing on,

bobbing on the floor
as they get their sea legs back
on friday night
at the wood river cafe.

it’s chain of fools
and summertime
and white room and
strange brew,

and everyone knows all the words
and half the room is cocked
and the other half is just behind them.

when the band takes a break
the smokers gather out back
and when the band comes back on
they don’t hurry in, they just
finish their smokes and hurl the butts into
the full sand bucket by the door.

now it’s eagles and byrds
and creedence and stevie ray
and everyone who wasn’t crocked before
is now,

and the good ship sails into the midnight hour
with a band who won’t quit their day jobs
but wish they could, and all the passengers
wanting anything but work,
and when the last chord plays everyone
goes home, thinking about

sunrise over the ocean, cheap guitars,
pretty men and women, sweat
on a drummer’s brow,

the way the room rocked and tumbled
for them, for them alone,
just the way it used to rock.

I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am:

Abortion, birth control foe to head federal office of family planning.

which words
left unused
will sprout mushrooms
and slime molds?

i can’t speak them
for fear of engaging
with the rotting

i used to know more words
for any thing on the planet
than anyone else
i used to be the tongue

and now i’m nothing
silent
afraid to speak

those words
that have been lying fallow
and are now sprouting white fronds
that would smell like death on my lips

i will bend over
for them someday
but today i am cold enough

my lips turning blue
cold enough
to be sure
that all they would do is chill me more

speaking the dead words
hearing them in my skull
shaking my jaw

i am unready
knowing i will have to speak them
eventually but today
i want to live without them

no grazing upon the white flesh today
no time allotted for them
although i gaze long and hard

at them
growing there
in a pile of waste
waiting

I wish I could feel like a beginner again on a regular basis.

I can’t recall the Original Joy of this work. I’ll catch glimpses when I try a new form, a new approach — but mostly, it’s like every line I write comes with its own voice saying “been there, done that.”

Someone once said that every poet really only writes one poem over and over. I don’t know if it’s entirely true for everyone, but I feel like it’s come true for me, and I’m starting to hate that poem.

Working on stuff like the Jim poems and now the Sondra series has helped, but I’m not sure what to do in addition to that, or about how to proceed once they are done. Setting the stuff to music has been wonderful, but even there I think I can only go so far.

I find myself reaching more and more for the guitar as a way to get it out there — to put stuff into words and music. Maybe that’s what’s next.

But I’m reaching an unthinkable point — the point where I may not see myself as a poet anymore. And for someone who’s identified that way since he was 14, for someone who’s made it such a central part of spirituality and being, that’s almost unbearable to contemplate.

OJ’s book is actually an attempt to smoke out the real killer.

The theory is, he’ll get upset at the inaccuracies in his book and write his own named “No, I DID IT!!!” Call me crazy, but it just might work.

Smaht thinkin’, eh?

Good night, everyone — I’m going to go to sleep now, he said hopefully.