Jonathan Brown's Word Sauce

poems

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jonathanbrownpoetry:

NOLA Folks!  Mark your calendars!  This Thursday Sage Francis is coming to town and we’re opening.  Send me a message for some cheap presale tickets.  

jonathanbrownpoetry:

NOLA Folks!  Mark your calendars!  This Thursday Sage Francis is coming to town and we’re opening.  Send me a message for some cheap presale tickets.  

4 notes

What’s Your Date Of Birth?

 

It’s Talk-To-Yourself-Day at the pharmacy

and I’m feeling left out.  Nobody told me

I’d have an illness armed to the teeth

with chicken-noodle-soup-colored-mucus.

I’d get faster help from the counter if my arms

were cratered with sores open as late

as the good bars in New Orleans.
 

Bumblebee costume?  Do you.

Gunshots in the morning? What’s a daycare to do?

Nobody will find the body in that church

parking lot until tomorrow afternoon.

  

Filed under Jonathan Brown Poetry Poem Creative Writing Spilled Ink Rejects-Corner What's Your Date of Birth New Orleans NOLA

6 notes

One Less Thought To Cross Off The List: One Last Option to Exhaust

I fell asleep while writing you this letter.

Woke up and it was finished.

I died as soon as I opened my eyes. 

My first words were my past life’s last.

One child’s sandcastle is the next man’s glass house.

Nothing will give us meaning more than the silence we stole.

More than the time we spent

trying to say I love you through a key hole.

A face I hardly knew is a place I used to call home. 

The first girl I ever loved

told me if I wasn’t careful

I’d die alone.  Whatever happens I’ll wait.

Even when I’m so old my catheter aches.

Even when our children

hate to admit they’ve forgotten

about us since they had their own.

Our memories are not even inside of us

anymore. They’re scatterbrained clicks

on a typewriter slowly running out of ink. 

Time limps along as strong as an infant arm wrestling.

A rock in a pond in reverse. The ripple returns

to its initial sink. When the water gets two feet high

and rising who wouldn’t ask for a stiff drink? 

God is not drunk.  You are. 

Who knew love would be a time machine

bringing us back to our childhoods

which pass ever so slowly and forever

like fireflyless pastures

in front of rain-soaked-train-windows?  

 

Filed under Jonathan Brown Poetry Poem creativie writing spilled ink Rejects-Corner

3 notes

For My Brother

 

One of my earliest memories                       is blinking                 

while sitting on the bricks of the fountain                         waiting

to be picked up after grammar school after all                 the other kids

have long gone.  I’m trying to write a song.  I’m                pretending

to be Axl Rose.  My brother knows              how to play

the solo from November Rain                      on the piano. 
 

Mom forgot to pick us up again.                  I’m acting

like this is the biggest problem on the planet.                   I’m asking

my brother why grass is blue and sky is green.                He ignores me. 

Again, I’m in my skin by myself.  I figure I’m not enough.           I’ll try harder.  

How old do you think mom and dad are?                          Must be

really old.  Have you seen how tall they are?                     I mean

Dad’s a mountain.  Mom’s that flagpole. Did you ever                 feel bad

after you smashed all those tadpoles?
 

The way they whisper in front of us makes                      me worried

they speak a language we won’t learn                   on our own.
 

The way they raise their voices                   through the ceiling

after we go to bed makes me think                        the carpet

in our bedroom is wet because the cat made a mess.     
           

Full of heart or heartless, twenty-five years from now                I’ll wonder

why I can’t sleep sober or without touching                     my phone                  

or with my feet on the bed.   Do you think mom               will say wait
 

until your dad gets home if I dip my shoes                       in this fountain? 

How long do you think we’ll have to wait              this time? 

What if he comes home and he’s                somewhere else?

Like he’s tired or just got fired                    or tried everything

he already knew how to make glue out of words?
 

What if they made clothes out of Band-Aids?

How do invisible things stick together?  Why don’t          the birds

just fall out of the sky?  I can’t wait                                    to go home. 

I don’t think death would be so bad. 

It’s the dying part.  That’s the rock                         to the wasp nest.       

Filed under Poetry Jonathan Brown

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ohnooooooez asked: I don't have a question. That's not true, I lied. I have a ton of questions, but I'm not sure any apply. I want to say thank you, for doing what you do and putting it out into the world. Thank you for being an intelligent human that not only thinks, but speaks. Thank you for inspiration. I only discovered you recently (you're not an artifact, I know), but my head has been swimmy with your words since. Thank you, for offering distraction and comfort by doing what you're clearly meant to. Morgan

This made me so incredibly happy.  Thank you Morgan!  It feels incredible to know someone out there on the other side of the internet is listening.  Way to make my day.