—Poetry by Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
VIRUS MUTANT !6
It was never the smell that got to you first,
but the ripeness in tissue and skin,
how it lingered on your tongue and inside your nose,
colors more gray than pink, more coal
than skin. You see what you see
without interruption, without interrogation—
and in the outer skirts under the bright lights,
you hear the grinding-down of fever within stress.
and the moon becomes a white gash within darkness,
not a textile or paint, not even batik,
but a three-dimensional collage cut-out
into chunks, scarification, rubies and elementals,
an autoclave for tattoo needles.
It was never the smell that got to you first,
but the ripeness in tissue and skin,
how it lingered on your tongue and inside your nose,
colors more gray than pink, more coal
than skin. You see what you see
without interruption, without interrogation—
and in the outer skirts under the bright lights,
you hear the grinding-down of fever within stress.
and the moon becomes a white gash within darkness,
not a textile or paint, not even batik,
but a three-dimensional collage cut-out
into chunks, scarification, rubies and elementals,
an autoclave for tattoo needles.
VIRUS
The hate storm did not come with hail and sleet,
nor did it unleash a firestorm, a torrent of napalm—
the winds did not grow into bitterness and plague,
clouds did not erupt into fury and the crack of a whip.
No one felt blood welts or the rash of disease.
When the hate storm came, it blew in on a breeze,
a trade wind from near the equator, soft, almost a lullaby,
and it warmed the skin, carried an inside beauty,
paused to take in a deep breath of not air, but memory—
No one feared blood welts or the rash of disease.
The hate storm arrived unannounced one sunny day
lifting the scent of flowers into the world, the glow of love.
Why did we not see it coming? Why did we ignore it for so long?
No matter. When it came, it could not change the cold.
No one felt the rash of love, the blood of peace.
No one thought to stop it,
and no one bothered to see the child on the hill
looking down.
She alone buried blood welts, the rash of disease:
She began the rebuilding of what hate had destroyed.
LEVIDROME
In the aftermath
of aftermaths
there came a man of math
who knew after-maths
shtam-retfa wenk oho
htam fo nam a emac ereht
shtamertfa fo
htamertfa eht ni
and so it went
dog begat god
god begat dog
looped pool-ed
level reap level pear
ton of (k)not(s)
was (a) saw
and so it is
htam retfa emac ohw
nam a saw ereht tub
htamertfa rehtona ton saw ereht
htamertfa eht fo gninrom eht ni
in the morning of the aftermath
there was not another aftermath
but there was a man
who came after math
FOR GOOD
Charles dislocated his shoulder blade the first time he had sex,
learned his fractions when the numbers talked back to him,
colored his sketchbook outside the cartoonish images of God,
and one day took him on an adventure to meet the snake people—
a tribe that sewed the skin of the snake first to a piece of wood
and then into and around their heads—snakes waving in the wind.
Who knew he would change his name,
his posture,
the simple status of his life
and discover him years later
in the basement
of one abandoned building,
then another.
As we aged, he aged differently—his tongue split,
his sconce of smell diminished to an irritation,
his hair did not gray or whiten, but curled into tight coils
and late in the afternoons when we felt like napping,
he would lean against a wall between buildings
in a world of close-knit alleys, meditating until he vanished.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
WATCHING THE WIND
—Michael H. Brownstein
A frontier of lightning,
a train whistle of cloud,
the thick court of wind
combs brush, limb and leaf
and the rain that was to come
does not.
_____________________
Welcome back to the Kitchen, Michael—always a pleasure—and thanks for the poems! Michael’s “Levidrome” is an experimental piece which was published on Moss TR\rill/.
•••Today (Sat., 4/16), 6pm: Third Sat. Art Walk Poetry Night in Placerville at TooGood Cellars, 304 Main St., Placerville. Come early and search out poems hidden along Main Street; then read them at TooGood Cellars’ open mic starting at 6pm.
_____________________
—Medusa
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
