April 19-April 25, 1999: Michael H. Brownstein and Mariposa

Bio(auto)

Michael H Brownstein is widely published in the literary presses He won the Ommation Poetry Chapbook award in 1988 and has been writing and performing poetry ever since.

The following work is Copyright © 1999, and owned by Michael H Brownstein and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Chores

The metal garbage can
filled itself with fire,
and air, and took to the plastic
like a mixing of water First there was a pop,
then a gush, and the plastic
bottles swooshed
into purple and dripped
suns of light like the last
crisps of fireworks late,
the Fourth of July.

Sunset

Cloud and wind
created a havoc
of harmony This night
I pointed out orange
and black blue
to my children
three times
and would have again
if they did not say
how they had seen it
and that was enough–
can’t we get dinner now?

night

night hushpuppied
and we watched the flames
boil over into spitballs
of orange leaking
from melting plastic
onto dead grass and weed sometimes night flames
before blue black
smothers everything in sight.

dall sheep

we walked the wrong way at first
the tundra like dish water sponges
and then realized the circles on the map
were clues to the height of climbing–
we in search of dall sheep found
deep brush, cursed terrain,
and a bloody spot where a bear
dragged a carcass to its den
for eating The dall sheep stared at us
never really understanding what we were.

Mariposa
mariposazul@hotmail.com

Bio(auto)

I’m Mariposa, writing out of a need to flutter out all those thoughts I keep on file day by day I live in San Francisco, but mainly in my mind Outside is fine, but my inside’s so much more colorful/meaningful And in the end, isn’t that the only thing we know well enough to say that we know, ourselves?

The following work is Copyright © 1999, and owned by Mariposa and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Me and Men

I’ll pose,
sit
and
let you
cut
me
my ear
draw me
slashed lines
all up and
down
my breast
stomach

and something
special
a
dark acryllic
on my
genitals
to cover
the missing
skin
you’ve
ripped
off

I’ll sit here
and craddle
those apologies
so-sorries

never again;

I’ll sit
here
you image
of power
of control
of ownership

your signature
written
in
bruises.

His Prayer

Buried in Her
five year smell

She tugs him out
lodged in-between
Her
a
sore splinter
determined
to keep
a
reminder under
neath

She strains against
Her mother’s wall,

He rips apart
gentle innards
guts her

A woman body
drained
bruised
bloodied

holding
him
inside.

Madam Butterfly

Madam
splayed
pin tip down

inversion made impossible

She’s beautiful whore
open
to every
man
pressed up/against
the display case

unbelieving of
such irridescence
a miraculous discovery

They mutter in
men breath
urgent to caress
the
magnificent

lifeless
Madam Butterfly.

Lover’s Disease

Disturb
girl
jump into your urn
and dust to dust
pray it
numbs

hope it
undoes

the knots he keeps
underneath you
coiled piano notes
bang into you

his long dry skin
a musical talent
you
despise

rather,
have no sense
have no thought
a whispered name
than this,

rather,
sit in an urn
a dust bunnie
than
sit
on his
pew
and
recite
his score,

the one he
wrote for
you.