starstruck, poems by tim w. brown

PART ONE: ORBITS

Heart is a Drum

"I want I want I want" is a refrain you will hearif you listen close enough.Its source is the heart:a beat is heard as bloodreverberates in ears, pulseis felt inside the wrist.It's a two-step rhythm thateveryone, even the unmusical,has a feel for, vibrationspropelling us on a marchin this parade called life.It echoes and resonatesthrough the chest cavity,attuning the listener withjust how big and hollow,like a bass drum, we are,how much we ache to fillthe world with our noise.

Originally published in Indelible Ink No. 10 (1995)

Daddy Steel

Whenever I askedabout the navy or Japanhis memories would fadeto battleship gray.All he has to showare tattoos that scrunch upwhen he drives in screws.

I never met his dad,who was a brakemanand died of a stroke.But Dad said reallyhe flushed his gutwith drink.

Sobered,he came home from the plantwith fingernails splinteredas the steel he pickedfrom trouser cuffs.

His eyes galvanizedwhen he heardmy steel was the brassof a French horn.He thought my bloodwas his, with cellsshaped like wingnuts.

Originally published in Oyez Review No. 16 (1988)

Empire Builder

Train is a gullet, swallowsdust and rock, sand and snow,passengers -- beer is allthey need until There.Wooing women and work,signals flash red, green, yellow.Cowboy sees red,yowls of women's thighs:"They're slicker'n steer horns!"Then there's Bob.He'll straighten up(he really will),working on the docks wherepeas weigh more than gems.I see yellow: Pardoning myself,buying rounds of beer,I bob down the aisle,eyes hidden under cowboy hat,

-- polarized --between the right side andthe wrong side of the tracks.

Tread

Beneath a halo of heat the tarroad trickles by a cornfield

Grit and sweat glitteron men housed in carapacewho sow gravelonto the muck with shovels

The steam roller plows through the groupand planes smooth the roadbedwhich will rage five more yearsagainst the treadof truck tires and sun

And beyond the barbed wirecorn tassels tanpeppering the air with pollenas husks bulge and flex

Originally published in Towers Fall 1981

Bugger Square

They belchand fist dough,these godswho circuit the blockin cars shinyas shopping carts.

The lake whips windround chess tablesand trees,

and me with icein my shorts, as

I watch some striplingin blue vestmentsstride up Clark Street.

A door swings open:Sweet Chariotdrives him to his knees.

Originally published in Towers Spring 1982Reprinted in Indelible Ink No. 10 (1995)

We're Romantics, Not Mechanics

(for Steven Lynn Anderson)

Spiny Norm was dressed near an astronaut and Iwore those pants too thin except to ride in taxisin. We had a ball to catch before it came down.So we were tearing up tar roads to avoid the MainStreets that stagger along state highways withstop signs everywhere.

This mother was even onthe map yet our car croaked in a creek flooded asthe veins in my temples became. Before yellingfor a truck to yank us out we decided the treeswere drifting not the stream. And can you believeit we heroes made the diving catch at two girls'feet with no stains on these knees.

Originally published in Towers Spring 1983

Jesus Yuck

A gust has caught this garretand rocked me awake

before the end-shudderof some nightmare

lucky for me.

This morningsleet blares beyond the blinds

and I've got errands to run--Jesus yuck.

Knots

(for William O. Brown)

I still hear the BOOM!of sixteen-inch gunslobbing shells big as carstoward the Korean coastwhen I think how they

sunk you in a coffinof battleship gray.Or maybe it's the CLAP!of you boxing my earsnot with fists, but words

that began at age eight:every post card you sentwhile working on the roadsaid, "Be a straight shooter,"meaning to pee in the pot.

Up until age twelve I toldmy friends I wanted to jointhe navy, drink beer,get tattooed like my Dad.But I was born a land lubber.

Pushing a lawn mower througha sea of grass was for melike breaking in a horse.Shaking your head, you called mea "left-handed Jap bazooka shooter."

When I grew up, you stillbelieved I wasn't "workingwith a full sea bag."Now I see you tried to packa sailor suit in a saddle bag

built for a bucking mule.Those sea dogs sure taught yousome fancy knots, oneyou used to hang yourself.Unlike you, none will lasso me.

Originally published in Children, Churches & Daddies November 1997

On Sangamon

(for Mark D. Hedl)

My roommate and Itake it for granted,living where we do,that we can revelin our madness, untouched. It scaresaway certain guests.

The walls are brickand painted peeling blue.Ghosts seeminglydrift in and outas if into clouds.

The el shoots us home.It hurtles and tilts,bumps us off of peoplewe plot against all dayfrom street level upto the eighty-ninth floor.

It creeps, it slithers inand rises up so muchit caves our stomachs in:Truck Pollution.They park late at night--big diesels, panel trucks--all stuffed with meatthat feeds a million mouths;and all huff and puffand blow us out of bed.

Wild dogs (one limps) rampage after scraps the bums have left. Wandering forever,they bark and chew their growls, snap at each other's heels. We call the poundbefore they bite.

The picture is snowyoutside those windows--it dusts in every crack,every crevice of this place,this body.

The pigsheads someone dumped on the sidewalk as a jokewill probably haunt us for the rest of our days.

Our view is of a chutethat spits out bones,skulls and rib cagesof countless cows. It scares away certainguests…

So late at night, alone,my roommate and I play ball, tossing it, whipping it,bouncing it off of walls,catching it while trippingover where the floorwrenches up, and ifa window breaks or a lampis punched around a bit,we laugh. We laugh hard.We cry we laugh so hard.We laugh. Hard.

Originally published in WISdom No. 2 (1994)

Bottles

(for Steven Lynn Anderson)

Sealed in their box beside memy bottle collection clinkedwhen our car whisked awayfrom your town.

Bottleswe huffed as flutes, bowled over,sold in bars.

We'd smash onenow and then for spite and sweepthe glass into the sump pump--our secret. Then the bottle taleslong distance: you saidTruman Wilburn stuck his dickin a rum bottle and sliced it up bad.I told you about the porn at school--women fucking themselves--with coke bottles. "Sometimes theyeven wrench out their guts!"Such news rolled of our tongueslike pickle jars across wooden floors.

• • • •

During my visits we'd tearup tar roads toward partiesinhaling bottles of beerlike canisters of laughing gas.Then chuck them out windows--German hand grenades. Alwayswhen bottles were stashedunder a seat, a cop would sniffyour muffler, and you'd grab for the gum.I'd photograph your friends,their bottles funnels sudsing up the rug,and you, posing, some punkseething to jab a bottle's jagged edgeinto my camera's eye,the eye of your latest lovewho, spinning the bottle,kissed some guy named Joe.You'd swallow your rage, though,a handful of broken glass.

• • • •

Streator, where everyone hammers outbottles, your newest home,with the glass plant out back,Leviathan that stretches for blocks,heaving and spouting. And the empties--mountains sorted by color and shaperipe for mining.

You'd watchthe workers whoosh in the doors,tick-tocking louder than bottlesshooting down the labeling line.Their kids screeched up in pick-ups,heads clear as bottles of Miller beer,wanting to scrap with the stranger.You'd pace the floor over such scenesbreaking bottles over your head.I purpled--"See, you're a bottle of Heinekenamong ten thousand bottles of Bud."After scanning the sandy silica soilof the town, you grabbed up the bottlesdotting the coffee table like tombsand tossed them out backin a garbage bag, too big,like the sofa, to move.

Originally published in Towers Spring 1983

Tulip Blooms

The tulip bulbsof May do notunfurl their leavesin my neighborhood,where those who careenough to plantcannot uproot cement,nor crowd out broken bottles that sproutfuriously in yards.So I think as I walk to work, pavementa badly stretchedcanvas, whose borderscould stand tulipblooms polka dottingyellow, red and blue.

Originally published in Strong Coffee May 1994

PART TWO: GRAVITY

Water and Glass

(for Audrey B. Pass)

Eyes grow bleary undera cataract of files,reports and documents.Such is second shifton the forty-seventh floor.So whenever I can,I rest my eyeson farther sights:Sailboats like diamondson Lake Michigan,cars scurrying througha maze of streets,buildings red in sunset,bricks no more a reachthan picking plums.

Looking on the skylineI see my lover's buildinglocated blocks away.It's then I knowI can't reachthat far after all.For there are canyonsbetween, and a riverwhere at night a cranedredges, shovel sluggingthrough smoked glass.My fists also poundon glass restraining me,at least until midnightcomes, and we're free.

Originally published in Strong Coffee July 1993

My Love

My love'sa bassoon,craneslike Nefertiti,tawny-grained.

So hardto hum:lipstoo pursedshe squawks.

Cold airswells hervents,blow too hotshe drips.

Demands awide handspanto coverher keys.

* * *

But whenthe orchestrarests,I tossmy head:

Oh, my love'sa bassoon,soarshusky-voicedas I tongue

her reeds.

Originally published in Rockford Review No. 11 (1992)

Galena Rose


You can't buy a good rosein Galena, Illinois. Nonewith a stem long as a fingertracing the vein from elbowto wrist, none unfoldinglike a wicked lower lip,none that smell half so goodas nosing breasts, nonewith thorns that prick like wit.

Say it with flowers, they say,but how with bloodless, juicelessflowers dried to adorn a doorfor all the neighbors to seeor consigned to gather dustin a sitting room vase?

The florist does his bestwith what he stocks, cuppinghands around the flaccid bloom,blowing pale breath to reddena rose I'm dying to give my love,the only rose in town.

Originally published in The Ledge Summer 1995

Bruised Rose


At times she doesn't carefor herself like me, whogives her a long-stem roseonce a week, navigatingit through revolving doorsdizzy from businessmenbarging through, or downescalators, where I sayto them, "Watch the rose."So I think, rose zipperedinside my coat, trudgingin the snow on errand day.

She bruises easy as a rose;a purple bruise appearson her knee, a brown oneon the inside of her arm,another fades to yellowon her shoulder blade,first she's seen of it.She never knows for surehow she gathers them:maybe she bumps a desk,or clips a door frame,or tags a swinging lamp.

She bruises within, too:stamens bend in her brain;her windpipe, thorny stem,lacerates her throat; herheart unfurls like petalsthat bloom too far, thenfall off their receptacle.This is why I bring a rose.Carry it against my chest,where bubbling blood withinreleases scent, reddens it,makes the bruise dissolve.

Originally published in Hammers No. 7 (1993)

Allegheny Storm


Rain drops are clopping like horses' hoovesacross the windshield as we wend our waythrough the Alleghenies, ears ballooned with airfrom lower elevations and from thunderheadslumping air together.I ask her if our heads will explode like homesdo in tornado weather when we hear the radio,sizzling as if lightning bolts were stirring itaround a frying pan, warn of funnel clouds.She laughs, then says, "Kiss me here," pointingto her neck below the ear. I lift up her earring,tiny beads adangle likea doll house chandelier,and oblige. She drives on. Thunder rumbles overhead,an endless elevated train;I tell her that they saytornadoes sound like trains,but since I can't hearso well till my ears pop,I'll keep a close watch."Kiss me here," she says.And I do, one eye on her,but the other on the sky.

Originally published in Slipstream Spring 1995

Love Drunk

Like a shot of good whiskey--vapor lingering too shortin cavities of my head,warm-wet soaking lungs,then shivering cold--she tastes like more.

So I think waitingfor my bus, cut offby that stern bartenderObligation.

How to face the day soberly?Women don't just showlike the bus, soon asyou light your cigarette.Nor can you bottle whatthey distill down there,liquor so rare it evaporateswhen touched by air.

Funny how drunkennessdissipates, howhangover blots out memory,leaving nothing save scent:fruity drops on a sleeve,perfume down my shirt front.

Once I take my seatI unzip my coat,unstoppering intoxicantI desperately inhale,lap up every moleculeenveloping my face.And know that is allthat will hold metill I'm drunk again.

Originally published in The Free Cuisenart April 1997

Make Love, Not War

The current waris messing withmy love life, Iswear, becauseall she wantsto do is watchCNN, not rollaround with me,make love, seestars explode.

Originally published in WISdom No. 2 (1994)

Her Dead Husband

Shafts of light enter her roombetween vertical blinds, streakthe ceiling, reminding me of raysthat emanate from ghosts.

So I think, lying next to her,spinning in bed like on a lathe.Chips of skin fly off, unbark me;underneath I bleach from this light.

She is haunted, too; in her dreamsdisembodied hands attack her heartwith knives, perforate her sleep.She doesn't snore exactly,

she gargles blood, what remainsto those alive, along with skin,nothing that compares to lightcast by ghosts, pure, undoctored.

Originally published in Oyez Review No. 19 (1991)

Sand Cannot Be Counted On

We have come to the far shoreof Lake Michigan (via charge cardsand a rented car) awayfrom the City of Towers.The surf eases toward our feetleaving crooked lines drawn by a child,and then, like the poet,erasing, erasing.

For sand cannot be counted on.It seems to rise in horseshoesup the bluff behind us, but peering closerwe see the sand melting and bendingwith the scuttling of wind, the hush of a breath.

As my lover and I clamber up a dune,we spot on the western shorethe Towers where we make happy facesfor the Boss. We notice that the Lakeis not smooth like glasslike they say over there;water will never crumble or breakinto sand as eventually will the Towers,which shrink from our view.

Stripped, warming our parts on the sand,we hear the water play fortissimo,more pure and glorious than horns.Water and sand seduce, but a glimpseat the Towers says pretty soonwe'll have to brush off our bare bellies.I ask her why we can'tmake demands of the sandlike the Towers do for us.

My demand is that the sandwill stick to her naked breasts.I spell my name with sanddown her back, making her laughand then roll down the dune.She understands the nature of sand(she notes with the turning of the moonher own body responding, remolding).Naturally, my name spills away.

But I cannot be sad--it's not her alone, it's sand.And though sand cannot be counted on,I hope our stampings above the beachwill stay behind us for a time.My lover, I know, will recall the tickleof my name down her spine--for a little while at least.

Originally published in Skylark No. 18 (1989)

Of Spoons and Bras


Propelled by the snap of elastic,the wife's brassiere came flyingacross the room and landedon the bed. I expected laughterwhen she entered the bedroom,but instead she was crying.

"This bra is done," she sobbed,looking through considerable holes.

"So?" I responded, thinking twiceabout reaching for her bare breasts.

"You don't understand," she said."I was married in this bra!"Then I saw why she was sad:one more day and one more objectremoved from that memorable event.

While I embraced her to showour marriage wasn't yet stretchedbeyond its limits, I remembereda similar sad moment, whenwashing dishes, I noticed thatour silverware, a wedding gift,had lost its luster afterthree years of nightly scouring.

"Time is measured by destruction,"I said. "Pyramids fall down,highways crack, money wears out.What can't be broken are bondsof love, flashes of memory.Nonmaterial, they are permanent,they have the most substance."

"You're so smart," she said,her mood suddenly altered."Smart guys turn me on!"she cooed, then she placed myhands over her breasts,the memory of their caresslonger-lasting than any bra.

A Call to Walt Whitman

Walt Whitman! Walt Whitman!your praises rolled across the plainslike conestoga wagons, peopleinside yahooing like flies,

sharing with you that sheer goddamn joyto sniff a continent not yetbetter than a heap of dung--flies all, but equally blue.

They buzzed happy as bees,gathered pollen, stoked their hives,but served themselves, not a queen.Dung for all, all for dung.

Everyman, you sang their praises,lifting them from flyhood.They put on boots, became men;they dug ditches and shared their water,

for all men need to drink.Neighborly, they built bridges,shook hands across ravines.It was electric, Walt.

Everybody seemed to pour his sharein the bucket--the sweat, the grain, the bricks--because the mixture was America.All for one, one for all.

That was about the time you died.Clouds spell out your namein the poets' corner of heaven.You're an angel now; we lack your gleam.

You rock, Walt, what killed you?The Civil War? Or was it the sightof most men staying flies,conniving, rubbing their hands?

Dammit, Walt, they're bottle-eyed;nothing's enough to fill those facets.Neighbors? They're to hound.Their dinners are for infecting.

Worse, they lay their eggs,suckle them in corruptionto carry on the strain,"All for dung, dung for all."

The buzzing has gone way out of tune.Come down from your cloud, Walt,and teach America your joyful noise,teach us to sing of ourselves,

"All for one, one for all."

Originally published in Free Fest March 1992

starstruck, poems by tim w. brown

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