Michael H. Brownstein has been widely published throughout the literary press. His work has appeared in The Café Review, American Letters and Commentary, Meridian Anthology of Contemporary Poetry, Free Lunch, The Pacific Review and many others. He has been featured in a number of online poetry journals including Milk and poetrysuperhighway.com. In addition, he has eight chapbooks including The Shooting Gallery (Samisdat Press), Poems from the Body Bag (winner of the Ommation Press Poetry Chapbook contest), A Period of Trees (Snark Press), and What Stone Is (Fractal Edge Press). Brownstein taught upper grade science in the Chicago public schools; continues his studies with authentic African instruments; conducts grant writing workshops for educators; and records performance pieces with grants from the City of Chicago ’s Cultural Affair Department, the BP Leadership Grant, and others.
EVENING DEVIL MOCKS ME
1.
Evening devil mocks me.
Dawn devil swoons.
Morning devilish and development.
Afternoon devil drives straight through.
This the market of losers,
stalls full of spoiled fruit,
the back wall broken fists,
and from the ceiling, rotten teeth.
At the window cook cooks
pig brains and ham,
melted slime with cheese.
2.
Who is responsible for sexy winds,
calm seas, calm skies,
quiet before the change?
3.
You cannot ski in dark places,
you cannot ski over fire,
you cannot ski on the edge of cliffs,
and even devil cannot ski
on skis made of red.
Color is everything, devil says,
his cave gray shadow,
off white in one corner,
midnight in the main chamber,
everywhere black/white gloom.
BARK
In the restaurant of ancient trees
In the restaurant of dying leaves
In the restaurant of bark’s deep wounds
In the restaurant of branches splintered under ice and storm
In the restaurant of torn twigs
In the restaurant of acorn litter
In the restaurant of nesting materials drying among the hair
In the restaurant of animals burrowed into skin
In the restaurant of smells
In the restaurant of alone
A tree is only a tree
For years and years it rises
For months and months it lets out air
Every fall it unloads all of its worries
Every spring it remembers what has been
Every summer it offers itself to strangers
Every winter it burrows into itself
A tree can only be a tree
In the restaurant of ancient trees
Leaves die off and wrinkle
Branches age into uselessness
And then one lightning night
A hard crack scratches into everything
And if you listen really hard
And if you are awake and aware
You will see the sprites of the trees
Mourning another moment in their long existence
Shrugging off all of its weight
Finding somewhere else to rest its head
WHEN YOU’RE IN HELL, YOU’RE IN HELL
and hell has weight
marbled skin, granite and sandstone slivers,
and every now and then for absolutely no reason at all
an entire fingernail falls off
or a big toe
and then the big toe grows back in the wrong place—
below an eyebrow, for example,
or on top of the tongue
or twice its normal size on the sole of a foot so you have to limp.
In hell, no one pushes a heavy boulder to the top of a mountain,
food and drink is always available
and if you know where to look, you can find a spring breeze,
but animals of prey with sharp beaks do attack at random
tearing open flesh to devour an organ or two
and then the organs grow back a few minutes later.
There is never a scar, but the pain,
oh, yes, the pain
and just when you think you can be comfortable,
a frigid blast blows away the heat
and breath freezes,
noses fall off,
and little fingers fracture.
None of this is as bad as the fingernail.
When it grows back, it always grows straight into the eyeball.
This is hell.
