MIKE BROWN IS A TYPE OF CHRIST
By which I mean, mostly, that we gaze upon the boy
& all of our fallen return to us, their wounds unhealed
& howling. I want to say something about indeterminacy
here. Decomposition as a kind of writing.
How the body never vanishes, really,
merely sketches the landscape anew
underground, foxgloves & marigolds jutting
like scimitars from the field's flesh,
precious weapons of those thought to be rot
already, soil's song, long gone past the grave.
For who says the dead don't think, don't shake
the weight of marrow & slip, quiet as fire, back
into whatever partition binds this life
to its grand black Epilogue? Last night,
I imagined every officer's gun
gathered & stuffed in a bombproof box
by the side of the highway; wondered
what they might choose to craft
with their hands, their eyes, both given
for so long to the work of chasing
what can't be contained. I dreamt unkillable
multitudes assembled in the wake
of a slain friend, the name
his mother once cast
like a cloak over him
the small & common blade
beneath their tongues.
In his collection Owed, Joshua Bennett is a gifted and provocative poet capable of capturing his experiences and visions in verse of startling quality. His content and his form are meshed inextricably so that his emotion and frustration ring with clarity and direction. This is a engaging, engrossing collection I highly recommend to anyone interested in the power of contemporary poetry. I will certainly read his first collection The Sobbing School and other collections as they are published.
Highly recommended.
OWED TO THE CHEESE BUS
O, how we gave chase
on legs that bent like Air
-heads under front teeth
or early summer's graceless
gaze. The back seats that loved us
back. Our bodies flush
against their sticky green
leather glory once heat
was high enough for hydrants
to bloom: block boys molted
swagger, gathered laughing
to see red & yellow metal
croon cool. It was you
who taught uncute kids
the breaks, their hearts to flex
with pluck & pomp, re-spawn
when Valentine's Day cards
went unopened, when jewelry
stolen from Mom
& given to Melissa was worn
to homecoming with Jordan
who was an inch taller
than he should have been
& a mediocre chess player.
Who else could defang the shame
but you, great muse of Morlock
youth, patron saint
of the thirteen-yet-still-juice-box
-bearing multitudes?
Mom's Volvo? Quotidian
by comparison. They call you
yellow. I call you off-gold
chariot. Haven for homework
forgotten at home or forgone
altogether. Truth is, we all together
like this nowhere but here.
You wrought us. You drop us
off but never drop us. Even
when drivers threaten
to call the law,
or actually carry through
with such a pitiful joke
& we drop down for fear
of turning to smoke, you stay.
Your floors may be filthy, but they
are solid as a full life & we are young.
& quicksilver tongued. & learning
words like inertia for the first time.