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Jan 2021 · 496
Rebel Yell & Burn
Brandon Burtis Jan 2021
Find community amongst the dives
where the masses drink
like sailors,
sink like ships.
The wayfarer's watering hole, where
spirits stain scripture
written on bar napkins
and patrons serve
as a quiet reminder,
that I sold my megaphone
and bought a butane lighter.
"Rebellion was born in a bar."  
                      ~ Voltaire
Jan 2021 · 491
Neon Ballerina
Brandon Burtis Jan 2021
In these moments you were nothing but magic
-- gypsy dancing from suburb to suburb,
-- stripping yourself of your shoes,
-- feeling the earth directly beneath your feet;
Whispering secrets that kiss the soft-singing lips of the wind,
the elements of my earth

and a story I can only try to tell.
Upon My Arrival at Vivians
Jan 2021 · 449
Where Silence Lies
Brandon Burtis Jan 2021
When we try
to hide
the ghosts
that know
our lives,
most the time,
where silences lies
they talk
The quieter you are, the more you hear
Apr 2020 · 207
I Wrote You a Letter,
Brandon Burtis Apr 2020
Don't worry the weather, my wayward woman,
for the seas are much calmer this close to the beach.
I don't know where you are, or where you are going,
but roses will greet you upon your arrival.

I've read all your postcards from places you've travelled;
Penned with slang you pick up in the cities you stay.
I've packed up and took to a road of my own
-- just figured I'd write you to tell you I'm safe.

My sights have consisted of stars that we've counted;
Dust that bustles so freely beneath me;
Castaway houses with rooms full of boxes;
And people like you, who find comfort in change.

But I wouldn't mind a box we could live in --
different from these we've decided to leave.
But the past of a road paves the path that goes,
and I'm starting to see that a box is a dream.

So I'll dream a dream just the way you would dream it
-- of luggage and boxes of things you'll be keeping --
to always remind you of what we have chosen;
And that to be living, means constantly going.
"Separation is supposed
to make the heart grow fonder,
but it won't."
Aug 2017 · 555
The Lover's Paradox
Brandon Burtis Aug 2017
If you don't believe
that the world can turn
into a Hobbesian-state,
then find a wall
& stare at it until it hurts.
   You'll notice
        that the paint isn't dry
        & the picture will change
        with a single blink,
        fade with dry eyes
        & breathe when you want it to.
  You'll see a wall
  can be many things;
        It can move in a dream
        if you make it,
        or drape itself in mirrors
        & make you infinite,
        although trapped,
        staring at a wall
        & thinking of someone else,
        but only seeing yourself
        forever
        in every direction.
Hobbes Theory: This belief stemmed from the central tenet of Hobbes' natural philosophy that human beings are, at their core, selfish creatures.  

A poem about love, loss & the unconscious selfishness that connects them.
Aug 2017 · 327
Beauty is Terror
Brandon Burtis Aug 2017
Fall

When you see something beautiful, quiver
before it.
  The Autumn leaves were hosting
a masquerade that laid a shawl over
your face.  I said hi and you didn’t say
anything back, which made me feel full
though I hadn’t eaten a thing all day.
I thought it was sweater weather, but you
proved me wrong; wearing nothing more than skin-
tight jeans, Gladiator shoes, and a thin
blanket to keep you warm. And you made me
feel it might be wrong to touch your hand, so
I did nothing more than watch you watch me.
You, so poised, it was like you were sleeping.
I knew I needed to say something but
I felt I shouldn’t.  Or even ask you
some off question like Where’d the summer go?
And you suddenly looked cold with pastel-
colored leaves painting themselves on your skin.
So I told you that seasons change and you
reminded me I’d see you again soon.

Winter

When I see you, I quiver before you.
I feel different, but you have not changed
a bit.  I took a much different route,
skating barefoot across the lake because
the cold made me feel alive until hard
snow reminded me that I was close
to the last place I remembered winter
was beautiful. My breathing ceased when
I noticed it melting snowflakes that were
aching to land atop your seemingly
wind-burnt nose.  You could never change, could you?
Which always made me surprised to see you.
Your smile was frozen on your face, which I
saw as a façade.  Your blue lipstick and
bleach-blonde hair told me you hadn’t even
gotten to know yourself before the breeze
came and erased the remnants of the Fall
and made your sweater start to crack like ice,
or spider-veins around your shoulders.  I’ve
never seen anything quite like it.  I
wish I could have told someone.  Anyone.

Spring

I feel like you could have forgotten me
though I still like to think you are thinking
what I’m thinking even though that might not
always be true.  I lay down in my bed
counting neon stars that travel into
my window and out my bedroom door.  I’m
starting to believe you were never real.
While I was gone, you were only resting,
thinking of Spring and wishing it could be
just like winter again.  Today I saw
a girl with a veil of flowers in
her hair, reminding me that her flowers
would soon wither in warmth, but yours will be
forever frozen for me.  Everything
can always be just as I recall it.
Or at least I hope.  I miss you, don’t I?
I don’t want to, but I have to see you.
I start to remember things that may not
even be true: The way you would furrow
your brow at me when you were upset with
something, or always act like someone was
watching us.  I guess that I can only
know you as well as I am supposed to.

Summer*

Beauty is Terror.  When I see something
beautiful I quiver before it.*  The
frozen figs clasping small snow-topped berries
have melted, leaving behind rotting shades
of brown, which convince me I could be lost.
Everything is different.  Everything
is different—the words get caught in my
throat, making me choke when I see you.  I
can see your eyes are elsewhere, and though you
have always been quiet, it used to make
more sense.  Now I feel I have to explain
myself.  Or just say something.  Anything.
"Where’d the winter go?" I say.  And you say
nothing back, showing me that seasons change
and we’ve changed with them.  The smile on your face
has thawed, and my tears can’t freeze on my cheek
to remind me that I’ve cried for a girl
who had not even told me her name.  But
I could never blame you for that which I
feel partly responsible.  You were lost
when we met, and I could have brought you back
or told someone where to find you.  But I
did not.  And that truly terrifies me.
I wanted to tell you I’d see you soon,
but I see much less of you than I had
before, in the winter, and I knew you
would be gone by the next time I came back.
A poem written in iambic about what can be considered beautiful, and what it exposes about us.
Jun 2017 · 362
The Way She Smiles
Brandon Burtis Jun 2017
Staring at cracks
    can keep you
from seeing with
    clouded judgement
Please contact for Life Rights.
Jun 2017 · 794
LA Drivers
Brandon Burtis Jun 2017
I saw a car burning on the side of the road;
Two passengers and police standing around it,
like a campfire;
I'm not sure if someone was still inside

…But I saw a gap in traffic
and turned away,
knowing I could drive faster down the 405 --
if only for a couple seconds --
and look in my rearview mirror
having forgotten where the smoke
was coming from.
"One day God picked up the world, turned it on it's side, and shook it.  Everything loose fell in Los Angeles."              ~ Frank Lloyd Wright
May 2017 · 391
Spitfire Woman
Brandon Burtis May 2017
She breathes in deep,
like holding her breath
until her next fix.

She doesn't sleep,
but daydreams,
harmonizing with lullabies

You've had memorized
since
you first met her.
May 2017 · 395
Montana
Brandon Burtis May 2017
I packed up and went to Montana --
a place that I'd seen once before.
Then to New Orleans, Louisiana,
by way of 90 South and skipping tolls.

I lost my logic in their lingos --
from Back-country boys to French Creole.
This gypsy man, he needs no intro --
he arrives, and then, in time, he goes.

Drunk and ******, but still standing,
like Van Damme on death row.
This silence is a grave reminder,
that death will meet me down this road.

In time, I'll find I've made my sorrow,
but I still hear you crying close behind.
Since you're the reason for my roaming,
maybe you're what it is I need to find.
May 2017 · 805
Free Speech
Brandon Burtis May 2017
****.
*IDEA ****THIS POEM SHOULD HAVE A BADASS FOOTNOTE THAT ALLOWS PEOPLE TO READ TOO FAR INTO IT****START BRAINSTORMING*
Brandon Burtis May 2017
NETFLIX sits like a neon sign
In a purgatory-like trance I
stare at the ceiling wondering
whether or not I'd like to live
by night
Take it's hand, have this dance;
When my eyes are open though i should be sleeping; I

react to every creak in the floor
every raindrop that lands
outside my open window
Hearing heated whispers from the fireplace
i've since extinguished and
my eyes are open while i should be sleeping -- in this solitude

i find company in the creaking
Inviting the gentle side of my paranoid mind to
keep me from filling my head with
half-baked questions i'm impatient to pass over
Foolishly drunk-dialing my subconscious
when I know I'd have nothing to say
if she actually answered.  But

2am is a time for dreamers
and if i know you
your eyes are open while you should be sleeping
Now I close my eyes to cover
the glow of my empty outgoing message;
Hearing your footsteps in each creak;
Feigning the feeling of your warmth
in the extinguished fire;
Finding company in solitude
because i haven't thrown out your toothbrush.  All this

ever since my eyes were open while I should be sleeping
May 2017 · 902
Untitled
Brandon Burtis May 2017
You sit patiently
            in the back of my mind;
A cold and barren place,
            but safe
      from the monsters I made.
....the thoughts that bled through to Saturday morning
Apr 2017 · 646
Swan Song
Brandon Burtis Apr 2017
I saw you little bird
And I told you to stop chirping
I saw you flying by little bird
And I told you to stop chirping
I’m not sure exactly what I’m doing wrong
But attempts are hardly working

I told you to leave little bird
I told you to leave and you kept coming
I told you to leave little bird
I told you to leave and you kept coming
You always follow me little bird
So I guess what’s the use in running

Now you’re still here little bird
You’re still here and I’m hardly moving
You bring me to tears little bird
But now your soft chirp is almost soothing
If you ran away little bird
I’d no longer know what I was doing
What is you little bird?
Apr 2017 · 961
Untitled
Brandon Burtis Apr 2017
Love
is still
a word
you can find
in the dictionary.
Apr 2017 · 1.2k
2am near Tulane
Brandon Burtis Apr 2017
A clothes hanger
                   clutches a line
                   of paper lanterns
                                     lighting my next step
                                     on streets my shoes stick to
                                               from wheat beer
I hear the ‘Pit'                      coursing through cracks  
                    &                        inebriating aged clay bricks
                    ‘Pat”
                     of rain on rooftops
                                   & falsely take it
                                       for Charlie Parker's
                                                     'Hot House'
but it’s 2am near Tulane
  & they’ve graduated to
                  tracks from Tremé;
                  Brass jazz & barflies;
                  Mad Hatters & Mademoiselles
                                     dancing barefoot
                                     in the French Quarters
                                            under red fluorescent lights
                                               under cloud-covered stars;
She gets them drunk off dance & song;
Guaranteed to make locals
                      late to last call;
                      shows them back-country gems,
                        the beautiful ruins known only
                                                      by bayou gals
                                                            & city folk
outside,                                              in search of sirens
where the ceiling's missing,
dancing 'till their bodies taste like rain

They 'crash'
                    &
                       'splash'
                                       .....breaking through worn wooden floors
                                                          ­           & cracks in plaster walls
lead by the ‘Pit’                                                     back to the street,
                        &
                      ‘Pat’
                              as other strange drops join the dance,
                              descending from skies to rooftops;
                                                     Finding lower highs
                                                     in search of Bourbon Street
                                                          ­          lost & looking
&                                                                 near Tulane at 2am
my blue suede shoes are dying of thirst,
                                 stuck upon each step;
                                          lacking direction
&                                         looking for jazz
waiting to drown
      in the 'Pit'
                 & 'Pat'
                     & splash
                         of this daily rain dance;
                         Lose myself in this listening
                         as dreamers do
                             on the streets near Tulane
                             At 2am;
Meant to be read like jazz.......preferably, with bourbon
Apr 2015 · 2.5k
Hey Bartender (#1)
Brandon Burtis Apr 2015
I've been experiencing life
through 1 oz. of meltage,
and a smile that's fading with the moment.
I pick up my drink in lieu of
making trivial conversation
about the weather, sports, life in Los Angeles --
searching for clues of anything you like,
so that for a mere moment
I can be the one that makes you smile.
Not that cookie-cutter, customer-pleasing smile
that cracks around the ears,
but the type that makes the restaurant roof split open
a bit more every minute your heart beats;
the type that makes you feel
like you're not working,
and that a smile is never necessary
if only for the sake of another.
Brandon Burtis Apr 2015
You carry the kind of ashy witchcraft
I read about in cut-out passages
of out-of-date New Orleans newspapers
discarded in alley-cat trashcans
bums use to light fires that further an
unwarranted air of rebellion.

I don't understand you.
But every ounce of me
wants to fill you in
like a crosswords puzzle
with words that aren't the ones they're
looking for
but still find a way of fitting all the same.

And my brain bleeds memories
I've made up
that stain my shirt like unwashed sweat
and make me feel *****
for getting myself so hot in the first place.
Brandon Burtis Apr 2015
You feel a seething burn
teething like a rabid toddler
turning it's jaw
cutting deeper into your skin

She's on you
slowly moving in you
telling you that when
coal meets fire
and burns
it turns to diamond;
lasts forever

You feel a screaming
inside you
hoping it goes unheard
or unfelt
because only then can that screaming
last forever

— The End —