Another one of time's creations

So, I started this poem at the beginning of a long-term relationship and finished it when it was over... it is symbolic of a real musical experience involving this person and also of the break down of communication that can happen when you are... well involved with a narcissist- eek. I know. Well, we all make mistakes, now don't we.

Blown

Sit. Listen.

Do you hear?

Dissonance rings to

Resolve- heated debate,

Ending with harmonious

Embrace-

Something created-

Something learned.

Eyes dart from fingers to

Mouths breathing

Life into metal

Vibrations plucked

Like ideas from thought to

Words that cannot be

Expressed, only felt by

The instinct of passion

And the measured movement of skin

Against skin.

Then, he takes,

No steals, a solo

When I thought, ‘ensemble,’

Means electrons shared,

Chemical change- molecules

Giving birth to something

New, unexpected, experimental.

But some bonds are weak with

Saxophone pocket pinball- you

Rationalize interjections with illogical

Explanations of jazz tradition.

Art forgotten by technical jargon-

Musical equations conquer, rape,

Pillage emotional nomads,

Barbaric collectivism.

Lulled in the cerebral,

Furrowed-brow lollygag,

You notice me silent

And suddenly ask, “Is everything okay?”

“Okay is difficult to define,” I say.

© Copyright 2008 Joanna Brown

A Day in the Auditory Life of an Austinite...

“Interference!”

Birds chattering, no,

Flirting.

Leaves applauding at

The rooster’s caw, “It’s still the day!”

Whishing tires over distant highway concrete

Shush train horns boasting, “I’m here! I’m here!

Here.

I’m off!”

The wind chime colliding, ming-^ming

-miiiiiiiing.

Motorcycles rev-rev-revving, strutting

Their stuff, “Grrr, grrr, grOwlllll!”

Bombastic bass pumping,

Bumping,

Flooding into this

Austin audio ascension.

© Copyright 2006 Joanna Brown

Aging

This is my salute to aging... in the face of my late twenties, I made a choice. I refused to "get old." This does not mean that I found the holy grail or found my way to a witch doctor... or am in denial. It simply means that I will do whatever I can to maintain my body so that I may remain as active as possible in my life. Meanwhile, I will not acknowledge deep within my soul that I am old, for I do not feel old. It is true thus far- you are only as old as you feel. Yes, I feel wiser, but do I feel old. Hell no.

P.S. It should be mentioned that my line breaks are VERY intentional in all my poems. Pay attention and you will be rewarded with a shower of double entendres.

Of Crow’s Feet

I still wear turquoise cowgirl

Boots and green eye

Shadow with a mini-

Skirt smile, yoga wit.

I’ll still gun you

Down with a sharp-

Shooter tongue- it saves

Space on the hard drive.

Because I can no longer decipher my wrist-

Watch. Well, I no longer

Carry a watch- what an utter waste

Of my dear, time.

© Copyright 2005 Joanna Brown

Gothic much?

Hahahaha- this one must be my goth side coming out... it's pretty freaking dark... but I still find it interesting... What can I say, I feel love as deeply as I feel loss. This poem helped me to purge that. It's a heavy, weighty poem, but perhaps some may like... you never know.

Crimson

From the smoke curling off

The end of a gun,

Red flashing, around, around

Me, like a migraine daydream,

Or so they say, I see

Your cotton-candy

Delight in my most wretched

Hour of solitude,

But I do not feel scarlet

Talons curling, encircling,

Until all is flooded

Blood-black and warm.

Safe it seems, until the stench

Forces a pin-prick to this

Collapsing cavern.

Singing of freedom and trembling

Thimbles while you

Shush the flailing, slurring false

Promises of best intentions,

And I know it and say it

But choose to remain,

Remain color-blind to it.

All the red, red around me,

Sticky, messy, filled with regret.

The red, red, red, red

Wild and pulsing

Burns, burn, burn, burn,

Burning red to black.

And I know it and say it

But choose to remain,

Remain color-blind to it.

Later, much too much, too

Much later, the pain, wild and pulsing

Sets in to slap me.

Slap me

Back to the smoke curling off the end of a gun,

And all the damage done, before me

And with me…

Crawl out of this

Cave, remnants of “me” trailing

Behind to watch our Love die,

And I raise the golden goblet,

Encrusted with rubies,

“Salud, to those who choose to remain,

Remain, color-blind to it!”

And the tannins slide down my throat.

All the red, the red,

Sticky and

Messy, filled with regret.

The red, red, red, red

Wild and pulsing burns,

Burn, burn, burn,

Burning red to black.

And we know it and say it

But choose to remain,

Remain color-blind to it.

© Copyright 2005 Joanna Brown

Serious Name Dropping

This was/is my first feminist piece and song... I reference like mad, but I am thrilled with it! It's important to reflect upon feminist figures of the past, and think about where we are today... we owe them much, and I believe we do not have the right to sit on our asses, complacent... watching what they accomplished crumble away... enough preaching. Enjoy.

Mona Lisa’s

Ain’t it progress.

Ain’t it progress, Hester?

Water bras and long-lasting lip wear

That sticks to your lips like a

Burning “A” upon you breast.

We can do it,

Can we do it, Rosie?

World war crutches and white hosiery,

Dismissed with a kiss to the nursery

To raise his armies.

Princess waves through the looking

Glass, pantomime

Stigmata, but it’s just

A Few Small Nips, right,

Sister Cristina?

I’m not here to shut my mouth.

I’m not here to keep your lies.

Cut the catty chatter ladies and

Your alibis.

You’re not here to store

The shame. You’re not here

To seal your eyes. Wake up,

Rise up Mona Lisa’s.

Never compromise.

What about the sisterhood?

Left you My Calling Card (1), Bell.

Romancing the clone with fan mail

‘Til Cosmopolitan claims equality over

The “Rainbow, rainbow, rainbow.”

Crouching on the pedestal,

Back against the glass, anonymous,

Bronze goddess.

Exposed flesh, seizure lights

They gotcha where they

Wantcha, Guerilla Girls

Remind us.

I’m not here to shut my mouth.

I’m not here to keep your lies.

Cut the catty chatter ladies and

Your alibis.

You’re not here to store

The shame. You’re not here

To seal your eyes. Wake up,

Rise up Mona Lisa’s.

Never compromise.

Dear Ms. Carpenter, cut the “Tunic,”

Cut your hair- sing tenacious tenor

Tales of Queen Gorgo’s ruling edict:

Bring Forth "only real men" for us too

Scrape away the wax, anorexic.

Wane no more, Karen- save your breath in

Songs of Iron Jawed Angel licks.

I’m not here to shut my mouth.

I’m not here to keep your lies.

Cut the catty chatter ladies and

Your alibis.

You’re not here to store

The shame. You’re not here

To seal your eyes. Wake up,

Rise up Mona Lisa’s.

Never compromise.

© Copyright 2004-2011 Joanna Brown

First Written Song

This was a poem written in conjunction with the keyboard instrumentation. It really unraveled and became something quite marvelous. I will love it always because it made me realize I could write music... that it was something infused in my bones, like a soul. Writing this first song was truly a magical experience that keeps me coming back for more.

T.V. A.D.D.

Your salvation by the dollar-

Tammy Fay Faker, call her,

Let’s pay off her maker.

Who will marry a gazillionare,

A Big Brother, Survivor lair?

Ogle life through imposters.

Take your dose of P.R. truth

Mix it with a plastic sooth-

Sayer of disaster fantastic-

Fantastic!

6-10-I.V.

I have to help you.

You know you want it.

I have to force myself on you.

Help you.

I have to take you.

I have to have you.

You must be mine to

Help you.

I will help you.

I will help you.

You must believe me.

Help you.

I’ll protect you.

I will love you.

You can see that can’t you?

Help you.

T.V., A.D.D. Baby

T.V., A.D.D. Baby

Dr. Phil will corral your psyche

While whoring QVC for quickies

Fix your hair, your house,

Your species (feces?).

©Copyright 2004 Joanna Brown

Transmetropolitan Inspired

After reading the entire comic book series Transmetropolitan, I was, only naturally, very inspired. This series of graphic novels is highly creative and intelligent, while equally crass, banal and disgusting. It is completely forthright, and there is so much beauty in that brutal honesty. This is the style and tone this poem took on as it desperately poured out of me onto the paper. It is unlike anything else that I have ever written. Thanks Warren Ellis and Darick Robertson!

Trail of Breathing Parts

A mess of

Cells, constantly

Multiplying, burning

Dying and falling

Away, like it never meant anything.

Stretch marks, ingrown

Hairs, moles, freckles

Varicose veins, laugh

Lines bring comfort-

This trail of breathing parts.

Because I’m holding…

It all in-

Everyday now, holding it

In because I can’t, I won’t,

I don’t know how to release this-

The Straw man I ingest and attempt

To digest, everyday,

Now. In what package, what

Form of delivery will you accept

What must be expelled, returned,

Reused by another- in what form

Will you accept me… as a real human being?

So I walk through the day to finish

The day and say what I have to

Say, just to get by as

A real human being.

But I take that solo.

Take. And take it

Far from the melody, so to feel

A genuine emotion, not one

Masked by spit

Flying from lips or smiles

Slathered in robotic sweetness.

I want what I want in the moment

Before and I come to

Tears for each moment I wish

Was mine but

May never be, no never be

As me,

As I am today, tonight, right now,

Or ever…

I pretend I become a comic book Goddess.

Perfect form:

A ten with a wicked grin and the just right

Comeback to tear all your, all my

Lies to bits,

Bits to exhale in a hearty belly

Laugh at my intoxicating dry wit…

But my stretch marks bring

Me back, you know,

Because they never disappear.

Without science or pretend,

They’re always there

Declaring I’m a real

Human being.

©Copyright 2004 Joanna Brown

Would you believe it?

This poem was once attached to the previous... a now, very ex-boyfriend convinced my stubborn mind to release my clutches on their union... oh, the foreshadowing! Well done! He is given this one small credit, and that is all. The poems gave birth all on their own... across time... across experiences.

Honestly, sometimes, I do not know where credit is due. The unveiling of each poem from my fingertips... the amazing connections that unravel... surely, I cannot be the only force guiding its sails to shore... I know this notion is ridiculous to most, but I swear, only when I write poetry and more recently, when I play music, do I know of something other worldly. It's enough to give me faith... in myself... in something larger than my tiny perspective on the world. Enough ranting. Poetry.

Green Room

A haunted rocking chair paces the attic,

Restless, breathless,

Vacant and filled with regret, for

Change and unspent energy,

Creaking the joists below.

When will I ever be, ever be, ever be

When will I ever be in the green room?

The cleaved stalk of an Indian paintbrush,

Mangled, shredding;

Vibrant blossom dipped in reds, pinks, oranges,

Rooted on interstate median,

Flailing in gusts of exhaust.

When will I ever be, ever be, ever be

When will I ever be in the green room?

A coat rack waits stoically, biding its time,

Elegant, refined.

Porcelain hands, reaching, delicately painted

Lavender, loyally longing to simply hold…

Your layered guise.

When will I ever be, ever be, ever be

When will I ever be in the green room?

Imagine finite pleasure and transgress…

Too translucent desire,

Vision of a whisper chance.

Orchestra spark rhythm! Ferment

Green noise-

See lime.

Where I will ever be, ever be, ever be

Where I will ever be in the green room.

©Copyright June 6, 2011 Joanna Brown

Began in College but...

There aren't too many poems in which I can distinctly remember the moment of inspiration, but this is one of them. I was eating in a diner in Chapel Hill or maybe Raleigh, North Carolina with my best girlfriend from college, Meredith. I cannot remember the name of the joint... some chain... rather like a Denny's but not... We were there for breakfast on a Sunday. Meredith ordered her typical sweet tea and bacon, "floppy, please." Man, would she ever love Ecuadorian bacon- haha!

Getting back on track, a-hem... We were checking out and admiring this very prim, little Sunday school girl in her shiny, black Mary Jane's... and we both had a moment, musing is there anything more stereotypical about a little girl? So many of us had shiny, Mary Jane's at some point or other, and we freaking loved them! So, that's how this whole poem got started. It evolved as I included that image into another poem... then, I extracted it and made it into its own little poem. I hope you like. It is fun!

*I cannot get the white space to work with this blog so the format is really off. Oh well, this is the best I can do!

Chiffon

A four-year-old twirling in a diner foyer:

Spinning, spinning-

Arms up!

Pinwheel ceiling tiles,

Water stains

Rorschach

Work of art.

Spinning, spinning-

Arms down!

The roulette wheel blur of

Shiny, black

Mary Jane’s

Tip-tip-tapping

Around, around!

Chubby, baby arms riiiiiiise,

Spread wiiiiiiide

with abandon.

Ringlets bobbing, uncoiling… in… the

Pull of her gravit

y machine, a high-s

peed blender wi

thout a top-

Her giggles spray onto me.

Breathe in the fiery

Pollen- yellow, honey bee.

Donning sleepy

Grins, zombies gawk,

Hypnotized by the opening

And closing of the parasol-

The cotton candy pink,

Sunday school dress,

Sticky with chiffon, lace, ribbons

And chuckles that unfuuuuu

uuurrrrr

rrrrrrrl…

…retract.

Suddenly--- ---slingshot

Innocent bystanders.

Her giggles spray onto me.

Breathe in the fiery

Pollen- yellow, honey bee.

Sneeze and infectious

Laughter guns down

Any stubborn still standing.




©Copyright June 5, 2011 Joanna Brown

Still in College!

Anticipation

You’ll never know I glimpsed you

Twice before you caught me “unaware.”

I saw you there, asking for me,

As I headed down the stair-

Case you might have seen me,

I took those stairs in four’s and five’s,

Fleeing from your big surprise,

And fell into the WOMEN’s

Door.

Safe, I sat down on the floor

And stared at those tan, square

Tiles until they blurred and swam in circles.

I took deep breaths to build me back

And prepared for your attack, like

A painted face and perfect hair

Could ready me for this

Affair.

©Copyright 2001 Joanna Brown

Short and Sweet

Storm Watch

The apple has not lain

Far from the tree,

Except by hurricanes

Of therapy.

©Copyright 2000 Joanna Brown

First Recorded Song

This is an oldie but a goody, and the first one to become a song... It may seem that I am being too open about myself, but really, we have all felt this way before... and felt disgustingly stupid afterward. Dirty even. With this generic reasoning and the use of music, the poem becomes more alluring, as it is meant to sound like a machine starting up, performing its purpose and then shutting down, almost like a spooky carousel- think Something Wicked This Way Comes- the song and poem are not written to make you feel comfortable- quite the opposite- but to make you question how we are all brain washed to think that love is infatuation through past and current cinema and how we must unlearn this to discover true, genuine love. I hope this makes sense. I did my best here to explain...

Tangled Tongues

But please, no,

Don’t just

Swallow. Push your tongue through

The crevices.

Feel the resistance before

It sinks into the bile,

Your taste, your smell, your

Steady arms, you lift to shake and

Give me back.

Please, no,

Watch me.

Tangled in sad infatuation.

Nothing more than that,

Pathetic,

That’s it, and I’m buried

Against your chest,

Memorizing you

Off your neck and gasping at every

Single

Fingertip

Along the small

Of

My

Back-

Pulling,

Closer,

Me.

©Copyright 2001 Joanna Brown

Donna Reed Chars the Pumpkin Pie

Across great-grandmother’s

Dining table and china,

You and I see

The aged melancholy, swimming

In the iridescent oil pools of one

Another’s recording cameras.

We sit alone at this

Eight-mouthed, Thanksgiving monster,

Gluttony and mundane

Red wine flowing

Small talk teeming,

Mother and her sixty’s sitcom

Reaming out our will to shred

This Good House-

Keeping world.

Forks and knives at five-o-clock,

Napkins to the left and men

Gallantly saunter back

To football games and beer bellies

While women scramble to collect

And wash dishes.

More wine? How about a slice of home baked pie?

A la mode?

Who is the most gracious, most refined, most lovely?

Ohhhh… guests are most impressed by the family…

Until a tear in the film.

A phone call…

Death in the family-

Not sudden-

But still…

Songs of her glory written in a fury

And tears appropriately handed out…

But brother and sister sit rigid,

Desperate longing locking

Them into reality.

They never knew her.

No one here

Knew her.

And you and I,

Eyes dry,

Don’t try to sing along.

©Copyright 2000 Joanna Brown

The Salvageable Ones

I shall begin with the ones from college. The ones my professors actually liked... revised a million times since.

Unwarranted

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I adore the sun-kisses on his nose and the baby

Gaps between his teeth. I understand

When he takes my hand

And warms it between

His slender two,

He means the best in what he feels

He must confess.

I shiver when he leans into my middle ear to breathe

The pressing messages…

You can trust me. I will never do

What was done to you…

And I pull

My bruised, damp

Hand away.

© Copyright 2001 Joanna Brown