Brandon D. Johnson   DISPLACED PERSON you are not secluded behind those oversized shades you have nothing to hide under your processed mop reddened by its time in the sun your thin sideburns trailing the edge of your jawbone aren't a masterwork to conceal but the fact that you're not piloting a pimpmobile down "P" in '68, that your stacked heels aren't cruising you to Ben's Chili Bowl and the best pimpsteak in the city at two in the morning that you're riding this subway with me thirty years after what appears to be your time i can only wonder which train of life, or thought, left you behind.     Eglon Daley Musician 61" x 61", acrylic on canvas more work by Eglon Daley   COOL Uncle Bobbo's '61 Deuce, all grille and fins, grinned down the road like a tiger high on last night's gazelle. My cousins, Eric and Adrian, and I sat in the back- seat anticipating ice cream cones. I was older and able to see out the windows without standing. My head was right next to the open window looking at places I'd rarely seen in town. Uncle Bobbo, Portia and Aunt Nat were perched in the front, deep in conversation too old to be worth a listen. They didn't look back at us. The Tastee Queen driveway was lined with the back ends of some of the best cars outta Detroit, all as indistinct as any car in '62, except for the burgundy Chevy Impala, double rear antennas, skirted rear wheels, enough chrome for a blind man to see in moonlight, sitting in the back of the lot. "Thas Lester!" Portia's whole face was an emergency. She knew that was her husband's car, with him in it, sitting close to another woman. "No, it's not!" my uncle said, unconvincingly. "Yes, it is!" I said, chin toward them, putting all the familiar symbols together to conclude that that was my next door neighbor, the cool dude with the Kangol and that sharp car, RIGHT THERE, thirty feet from my see-all- evil-eyes. "NO, IT'S NOT!" Bobbo and Nat double-barreled disapproval my way, their eyes large as the "O's" on a fifty foot Kool's Menthol billboard. I shut up. It was so final I can't remember if we stayed at the Tastee Queen, or not. The next day my mother said, "Bran, sometimes when adults say things, you should just listen." She said nothing else. I guess she knew I was smart enough to connect the "O's" and learn. I didn't say a thing. I was practicing being cool.   POINT MADE Man burns ant with match Did not understand the deed Then lightning struck him   SO I COULDN'T HEAR a found poem (9-1-97) They poofed my eardrums invisible made me temporarily deaf so I couldn't hear out my ears when I was arrested when I didn't hear people ask me to leave their houses when I didn't hear teachers teaching so I couldn't hear what I was being arrested for.   TROUBLE MAN you're a high school court god. syncopate spheres interpolate values with a ten foot constant. bump your head on the backboard. you come up hard. you lace Cons gladiator chain mail this is sovereign country colors blaze leather sleeves. but your shots don't drop. you come apart. no honor catching bench splinters. you come apart. wanna throw wood wanna burn rubber wanna sweat. but you know the rules. hopeless deity this is not your world. your eyes penetrate the Autobiography angry men die wars fume from kitchen table televisions. you come up hard. b-ball games end cars slip into darkness submarines on patrol. you come up climb new heights on hemp ladders quart bottles refract night hard. you....come....a....part. Trouble Man struts rear window speakers. you singalong with Marvin chant War songs. allowanced boys learn inner-city blues. Cisco is that brotha round the corner. this you know baby.   FLAMENCO PANTOUM sleep has no value on this kinda blue night music is tumbleweed prancing sanguine phrases across the room at four-ay-em a deft sketch by Davis for dreaming dancers music is tumbleweed prancing across a mind conceiving sextets playing sticks and boards a deft sketch by Davis for dreaming dancers the first time .......a road they cut through brush across a mind conceiving sextets playing sticks and boards joined by notes the color of the sea .......Trane played the first time ........a road they cut through brush through my room ........my head .........a burning soul joined by notes the color of the sea ........Trane played six simple notes I repeat again and over........this deep groove through my room ........my head .........a burning soul all night ........done right ..........forever six simple notes I repeat again and over........this deep groove we have just this one time .........let the night be our bed all night ........done right ........forever wish I'd been there to see whose eyes were closed we have just this one time .........let the night be our bed could this've been a night to hang tight with them wish I'd been there to see whose eyes were closed sensual songs slipping through hard lived lips could this've been a night to hang tight with them sanguine phrases tossed cross rooms past four-ay-em sensual songs slipping through hard lived lips and sleep had no value in that kind blue light     Brandon D. Johnson is originally from Gary, Indiana. He received a J.D. degree from Antioch School of Law in '81 and presently works with a document and information collection organization. He was a Larry Neal Writers' Competition Awardee for '97 and '98. He is a founding member of the Modern Urban Griots and a graduate of the Cave Canem Workshop/Retreat. He is a 1999 DC Commission on the Arts and Humanities Fellowship Grant recipeint. Johnson has read his work in numerous venues in the DC area, as well as in Philadelphia and New York. He is published in The Drumming Between Us, Fodderwing, Callalloo, Gargoyle, and the anthologies Winners and Drumvoices 2000. He is the author of two books, Man Burns Ant and The Strangers Between, and co-author of The Black Rooster Social Inn: This is the Place. Published in Volume 3, Number 2, Spring 2002. To read more by this author: Brandon D. Johnson: It's Your Mug Anniversary Issue