Brett Evans

 

My Dog is an honor student
 

I don’t care
                          to inherit the Eart
          better t’ avoid
                                mookapalooza

dorito bag
                          lilypad

                     mosquito hawk launch
         should do
                         (for your happiness)

  I tell my
                          tough audience

                        down the bayou

 

 

 

                               The Shining Bath

horse
                    among the birds
                    and facedown field chair
                    of Champagne Lane

  a sidewalk made of blackberry
           vines
                        Agnes calls you to dinner

            twenty-two years ago

            in a time before they had Taxes

            all drove white el caminos

            w/ tri-bouquet stovepipe hats

                     where the barbering happens
                              dates anticipate their
                              rivers re-directed

                     hatched eggs tattle
                              how gravel might turn
                              to diamonds   (yours + mine)

           trip on the Aeolian skin-music
                       which is breezes bent 

                 through “White Castle” – our
                                burnt-down almost

                          river mansion

 

 

Second lining
         at Lloyd’s Kennel School

the dog in the picture is through
         the fence/ the you in the picture
         is, too, warm

red sea  crash black  box
         party
                allnightlong

fire in your heart is out
         of that song’s loop

it plays louder later
         when walking the street

as Joe Strummer’s forest

 

 

Mother’s day poem

It’s like hatching from an egg,
         it must be!
                    only less prettyblue shell
         & more messy.

When I could tell anything
         I loved my mother.

I grew up to love words as
         the birds love to sing;

Here are a few (crumb trails)

Thank you for making the trees,
         and creeks
                       and these feet
         I use to climb
         down- stream.

 

 

this must be flimsy
                                   this Life

May mids
                      a bit negatively

$ is not the castle I thought

poetry is not the tender lip

! phone book on sofa
                   bad feng shui !

these days:   sheep give birth
                              to rifles
         We know this

then again  Grover as shedazilla gives
           frowsy almost puppy

                     fur      wch is refreshing

waterfalls       pipers!

These endless  (kung soap)  phonecalls

“Snap it off!” she says to endings

 

 

is it just me

or did someone take

the human hurricane

protector off?           jobs
                                         dying
                                        lithium mothers
                             badly broken legs

   these are my friends’ lives

this May-end, ‘04

  I campaign & lobby & drink to

being
                  paperboat operator
            on the Rio Ozama   retiring

full-bono 80 years
                           ahead of time

 

 

                                                      Stakes Alive  
 

The radio is alive!  (It’s been
          –        alive!    on the porch all day.)
         Am I? trans-am? Over there
         we went
                    to Tatyana’s poolside
          a thong is a motor (that hustles
          particulars)
                        in the see-the-cemetery from here
          courtyard
                     real ripe yellow banana pendants
                     and the streetcars a stone’s
                                                      block partying
                    
again for millennium volk
          on Canal Street.

The new David Cross record arrives
and he leads off talking about kids
            (Tatyana’s pregnant)
but that’s later, in the mailbox

now it’s mimosas and crayfish fat on fingers
and boiled shrimps and Grover and Lu [dogs]

barking embarrassingly at the people that live here
and the goings-on, such as

Good mix: Strummer and Jimmy Cliff and the tide
is high but I’m

watching G. make a steaming pile on the manicured
near-pool lawn like I knew he probably would

            and I had to walk it (the load) out to the dumpster
            in the plastic the seafood came in and where,
            oddly, in the dumpster’s inner part, there’s a round           
           
wooden coffee table with a few pizza crusts on it
            as if people threw it out rather than clean it – and -

                        Do you get better grip on tee shirt removal
                        if you cross your wrists at the waist?
                        Whether the center of the world was on
                        and coming was always the bullseye quest-
                        ion for me. Them times back in NY

when it was, Am I having the most fun possible in this town
when there’s fun, like, allover, and
                                    Is fun the fucking question?
This here life isn’t enough?  Outdoor life with girls and dogs
and temporary pie boy Jeremy showing up
            to hear about Madonna incorporating yoga poses into
            her stage act while over his shoulder overlaps

a hefty lesbian hello-kitty-themed birthday party
            (they’re the ones with the tunes and the lawnkeep
            that makes me for-sure have to pick up pronto after
            Grover)…

                        C’mon now, it’s Saturday
and I don’t have to work for a week – when is it ever enough for
me?  Isn’t this richness? 
                                    I know it’s great I’m not dumb
my Dna has been saturated from birth with massive
longings that often keep
           a rhythm outside
                      the great friends, Soul Sister spinning, the red 

              fifties table from Sheila’s rummage sale wow

What do I need?   The maker Sophia herself
            to come down and bang
                        everyone in the pool?    Be in someone else’s

                        prophecy?    Combine Sri Lanka and remembered

                        cartoons and the font-a-licious scribble “nostalgia

for old fashioned ogling and eggs at the Malibu
diner with Jamie” finally finds a home
            in my poems, whew, just before
            my wedding?
                                    This: Is there life before death?
                                                                                    Enough?
I know it’s completely amazing
there’s something wrong with me
                        I think it has to do with wanting to rarify every thing
            and everyone I love into heave’n (upbringing? Curses!)

            and time passing.
                                               On the table: delicious watermelon
and coffee and the tunes of a Saturday bon nuit.

 

 

                                           Baronial sandglass


Feeling less baronial this morning,
with neither Janine nor Joey’s sense
of direction, nor Christopher Walken’s knack
for ignoring punc- tuation, I return
to my micro-planning the never-can-be-
completed-anyway, like art and laundry
and class.
                Shreds of odd songs featherstyle
the hookah-uneven head(stripe) with a won
dering whether anyone’s ever said
“my pretty laundry” and seeing for the 1st
time (after just describing summer here
in a morning email with “Heat Miser
is a bitch yeah”) the dryer has
                         “Electronic Dry Miser”
by the timer
            as a squirrel through the glass digs
            something out of a planted pot.

Does time go
                      where you left it?   I’ll
                    remember meeting y’all
as an open
question with a fascinating
                                                A:
             And I’ll most def
            initely not forget the dead

            can or cannot cut a rug.


 

A Super Fuchs Sonnet

                                    (w/ Janine Hayes)

The bartender is made of freckles and beer.
She, a lovely it to me, can see right thru
the empty reeds of my wallet as I ash on
my soul, somewhere down around my shoe.
Taking the A train to hell station and back
to hell station is no Metairie playground pic
nic, no kiss of the pontiff’s signet ring.
Has the sun given birth to a new sun?
Shall I compare me to a mikey-meal of sushi
& dirty rosemary sprigs? Somewhere high,
Jamie must be laughing like an itinerant cloud.
After a night of drinking, it now she farts on
my career. No worry, dear, the riches come
back in heaps with this submission.


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