I remember you like accidental
photographs: sun flare, skin,
the tops of trees. Knees. Your shirt-
sleeves in a dove grey breeze. (I arrange
the photos like a slow striptease.)

Creepers, snaking in a frenzy
go up on the red  brick wall,
crowded and so full,
an organization, amazing
of its own, how thrilling
to watch them create
the rhythm of life!
Its a weave, so thick
braided together
in so many ways,
my eyes, like honey drunk bees,
refuse to come back,
the flowers, the whole lot
are charming and with full of nectar.
What a fragrance,it spreads,
never experienced this before,
I get a feeling of hovering high
in the air,
**these creepers have a secret code,
to transport me to another world,
up one goes on the wings of that fragrance,
never wants to come back.

The well is dry
Tonight

Not much thought

Nowhere to go
But sleep

Or

Drink

The well is dry
Tonight and

I envision black crocodiles
With razors for
Teeth, chuckling underneath
Their putrid, blood stink breath
Their belly's tanning
In the sun like I wish I could

Pepper shakers for
Limbs caring for
The war sick wounded
Sounding like the whoosh
Of the first windy roar
From an atomic explosion

Naked and writhing and waiting
For death to crack his knuckles
The big sleep at last
Where no light can be seen
Taking comfort in the new, familiar darkness

At night, when there isn't much going on,
I see the water start to boil over
The food begin to rot in its bowls
Lakes churn from no wind or rain or boat
Only spinning to feel its means has an end

Here, the fish weep into their scaly fins
And night - when there isn't much going on -
With the bars all open and the churches all closed
And the streets bursting with de-salienation tools
Branded with love and hate and indecency;
Where matters pressed are things worth dying for

The well
Is dry
Tonight

And the trains and trams pass by
A ***** dies
A cop makes a young woman cry

Yes,
There is not much
Going on

Tonight

But there are still things happening
I try to hear them
I get lucky every now and again

When there isn't much going on,

The dust of the dirt
Fills my nostrils, making it
Hard to breathe and I see
Snakes have bitten my feet,
Though they do not swell and
Laughter of one who once loved me,
Has turned to the ringing in my ears

Clouds form the forward march
And the fortress has buckled down
This place does not need to make sense
Here, I can be alone with no one but
Who I was before and who I wish to be

The well is dry tonight
But, I continue seeking

I keep on
Digging
Picking
Brushing away the dust
And wiping away the blood

The well is dry tonight
And I try to keep on

Drinking
Thinking
Blinking

Anyways

We sipped boulder rock from refrigerators doors
and watched the heavens hand out food stamps with IBM logos.
“ode to Mehmet” we sang, and licked the Mossberg—
fixating on the blue collar philosophy that lived in our empty wallets.

Trash cans filled with water bottles stared at us to find our essence—
the one we had lost while being fed quintessential American idioms
in state-of-the-art classrooms sponsored by slaves and Popol Vuh blood.

Six million years of human existence trivialized down to a single sentence—
* Man loved God, man wrote, man conquered God, and now man loves science* —
scribbled on SmartBoards afforded by fire burning from Prometheus’ female liver.

Trees sing with oxygen no more for the sake of making paper,
and eyes soak in the words on paper for the sake of making paper.
Trees make the avenue but the future holds an Avenue of no trees—
… for in the land of the free, anything but freedom ain’t free.

My flowing red insides
turned to concrete
and almost tore
right through my flesh
to hit the floor
when
I saw you
standing there
yesterday.
It was almost like
peering into a past life,
but you never
looked my way….

On August twenty-ninth, two-thousand and seven,
Marks the night my mother will never forget.
The night that had headlights for a moon
And air bag smoke for a cloudy sky.
The night she lost a part
Of her daughter.
For paranoia sets in every night,
I would rather the moon, than those head lights.

Rest In Peace,
To the trusting girl in me
Who got lost in the night’s cloudy sky
On August twenty-ninth, two-thousand and seven.

Her gentle love would guide me
At the time I first appeared
From that big slap on my bottom
Through a lot of growing years
She could look pretty tall
With that hickory switch in hand
Her love helped me grow into a man

Later at a football game
A young beauty cheered our team
When she offered me a ride I said
"Don't pinch me--let me dream"
From the first time that I kissed her
My heart was in her hands
Her love helped me grow into a man

While the road from boy to man can be fantastic...
                Some angels have to work a little magic

She was twenty inches long
When her mother cried in pain
The doctor smacked our baby girl
And, ohhhh, she raised some cain
But she got a whole lot quieter
When I held her little hand
Her love helped me grow into a man

A man grows some each season
Till he's all that he can be
From a mother's care, through a love affair
To the last but not the least
They all were sent from heaven
And it worked out like He planned
Their love helped me grow into a man

Tag:  Three angels helped me grow into a man



Copyright Louis Brown

Once I spoke the language of the flowers,
Once I understood each word the caterpillar said,
Once I smiled in secret at the gossip of the starlings,
And shared a conversation with the housefly
in my bed.
Once I heard and answered all the questions
of the crickets,
And joined the crying of each falling dying
flake of snow,
Once I spoke the language of the flowers. . . .
How did it go?
How did it go?