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Benjamin Brown Sep 2017
No, it was Autumn.
Autumn, I carried on my shoulders;
Up onto the platform waiting for a train....
Heavy loaded sun on our bare necks and heads
I'd inhale, I embraced you.
Lightly sweet sweat salted dry heat sun baked scent of your hair on the verge of combustion.
Spending weekends adorned in silly string,
Chalk monsters and animal escapades,
Super bubbles, Sand pies and climbing
Up and down the playground
As I figured out how to be a father in thier sick and twisted game of sherades.
I crouched over and watched you as you slept once.
You awoke to find me watching you.
Smiled up with an infants brilliance
That satisfied with breadth and stride, endured, reverbed, in moments that would ride,
Forward out from the inside as if it were eternity...
Foolish me.
Fixated on the smiling baby
Swaddled in her innocence and infancy before me.
Walking your neighborhood in summer night.
To escape the tension of the mom and dad fit fight,
We looked up at the night time sky too see
Although you couldn't really talk then,
"Look Autumn, Crescent moon..."
"Crescent moon" she said,
after having pulled the baby bottle from her hoodied plump cheeked mouth and pointing up to the cloudless purple sky
moonlight captured perfectly and
Slivered in her eye as the swarm and carousel of shadows watched from dark corners and curtains of the houses we were walking by...
"Ben!! Ben!!," her baby voice shouted.
Never having said my name before,
Crying from the stroller
Imitating her mother's neglected cries,
I returned and kneeled on the floor to hold her...
At my mothers house,
In my little brothers bed,
With you and your freshly bathed soft wet shampooed head;
Intoxicating, infatuating...
Fumes that once consumed are liberating restraining vivid pin and check point cause worth celebrating...
Buckling your safety belt, the day before your fifth birthday, after explaining why I had to leave, even I misunderstood.
"Be good" I said...
Before you rode off in the backseat of the car with your grandmother at the wheel...
"Remember Autumn"
I told her before I left
This is an anecdotal poem I wrote about my daughter, I did my best to remember all these details about when I used to spend time with her, I wasn't sure if I overdid it with the adjectives or if the emphasis was in all the wrong places, I might try to do it again from scratch
Benjamin Brown Sep 2017
We were on the beach,
Catching birds
With broken lenses.
I couldn't think,
Light rain moved you;
But I couldn't trust my senses,
Reminding everybody
Of everything wrong in the world.
"We don't want to see you."
So they say,
"The anonymous they."
This is an old poem I posted on a Craigslist personal months ago, some ******* always flagging my posts, I was on the beach trying to read and people were harassing me, if the poem seems or appears to be mine and with no psychic or government watermarks, ill post them, I don't mind external influences, e.g. environment or experiences, as long as they occur naturally, but some weirdos are always trying to objectify me and turn me into some sort of type writer or pen or something, artists and their egos, some coattail riding loser that wants to be put out of their misery
Benjamin Brown Sep 2017
Every moment, bleeds into the next,
Coffee stained countertops,
Hazelnut creamers and splenda sweeteners.
You couldn't explain it,
but you could try.
Blueberrie and cheese danish,
While I imagined watching us
Through the eyes and lives of the people driving by.
Diabetes ruined your vision,
I was your eyes in early morning,
And at night.
The black suburban doors creaked
When you opened them,
You would slam them closed,
So I slammed them too.
The faint auto part store smell of grease and plastic,
Pungent dashboard dust and cup holder crumbs.
Passing daybreak sunstream tongues of red and orange,
With vivid shrouds of purple, blue and gray movie screen clouds.
Bird littered in ways, that awes, stuns and cliches.
I fumbled through the cds and tapes
As we drove down the way,
Routine etched into everyday;
You would always turn the music down,
And I would turn it right back up again.
This is about my Dad, we would ride into the city together in his black suburban and stop at the circle k for coffee every morning before he dropped me off at school, he was a good man.
Benjamin Brown Sep 2017
Warm saline, like shutter blinds;
Peering from behind.
Dial tone times, three cities away.
I'll have lunch at noon
A feast? A beast?
Faux renegade, with lemonade.
Search engine results for;
I couldn't remember what the term was,
Saline veils, blinds and binds.

A bird,
Canary yellow with a symphony of strings;
It doesn't sing anymore.
Hooded menace creeps,
Down busy streets
And alleyways and keeps;
Harpooned white,
and ebbing, flowing, weeps.


Wolves, thieves and sheep.
I stayed awake all night,
With warm saline,
Like shutter blinds.
Benjamin Brown Sep 2017
They were laughing so much,
They were laughing so hard.
Hard, hard, laughter;
How do you elaborate on nothing?
Benjamin Brown Aug 2017
El llorron.
Cantando cuentas
Historias conosidos,
En una manera extrano.
Viviendo extrano
Enojado con nadien
Gritando a ellos
Amorado de extranos;
Ensima de los arboles
Abajo del ceilo
Regalando mi corazon
En el fuego

Nada mas queria algo que era mia
Written in spanish, sorry about the bad spelling, the feminine inconintation on Mia or the word mine was a typo but I decided to leave it as is due to my eagerness to express that which was heart felt, or my emotions or from my heart [emotions being feminine, note the masculine being reoccurringly dominant through out the poem], without convolution or polluted by external influences, as in I wanted to express that which is my own sentiments free of restraint or human conspirators eager to box and label or distort my expression, due to my own ethical artistic values, or desire to find objectively existing emotion and express them
Benjamin Brown Aug 2017
There is sweet whistling,
And rushing wind
Around my reddened ears.
Flailing leg and arm
To catch,
but not to harm.
Striking whatever may lie near;
And fate does strike the hearts of evil men,
Like a blow of grace does dignify its blow,
And I?
true to that which does dignify
Hang on nothing,
And let nothing go.
A man,
making snow angels,
In sand

— The End —