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