Since all the riches of this world
May be gifts from the Devil and earthly kings,
I should suspect that I worshipp’d the Devil
If I thank’d my God for worldly things.
— William Blake
Tony Brewer is a poet and audio artist from Bloomington, Indiana. He is executive director of the Spoken Word Stage at the 4th Street Art Festival and co-producer of the Writers Guild Spoken Word Series. His books include Hot Type Cold Read, Pity for Sale, and Fragile Batteries. Tony has been offering Poetry On Demand at coffeehouses, museums, cemeteries, churches, bars, and art and music festivals for over a decade, and he is a frequent collaborator with experimental music & field recording ensemble ORTET.
Welcome to the Poets Weave, I'm Romayne Rubinas Dorsey. Tony, what poems have you brought for us today?
Our Solemn Debris
In the quiet of the evening of the end
with the sidewalks empty and traffic nonexistent
one by one neighbors wheel separate trash and
recycling totes to the curb automatically
trained and uniform as their gray and yellow bins
We are keeping it together one foot from the street and
at least four feet apart so tomorrow morning
the mechanical arm of the upgraded trucks
can grip with assurance and hoist
receptacles like whiskey shots
knocking back into a wet brown gob
compacted toasts for every human
the virus tucks away behind nuclear doors
inwardly thrashing with panic yet calm
enough to save reusables from a landfill fate
Elon Musk is not vegan but Teslas are
We rounded a turn and there sat
a deer with broken back legs
in the middle of the highway
his eyes rolling back in pain
& distress
The phone tree goes from me
to animal control to sheriff
to his brother-in-law
who arrives in a camo truck
grabs a handful of antler
and drags the buck into the ditch
We did not wait around but
there are only 2 ways this could end
Bullet to the head
or a slashed jugular
All that morality trailing
off into tall grass
a quick shallow pool gone
in a day or two
Hunter gets meat
Highway stays clear
Some believe we live
in a computer simulation
Don’t tell Bambi
O Bury Me Not
I cannot escape the corn
nor walls for shadow rest
Red skies at night
when always always golden rays
The drivers laugh passing by
defeat in the wind
when we are winning
Fields whisper like cities shout
long nights wherever is home
Men permanently boys
shrugged into father coats
touch bombs before
dropping microcosms too
large to hold skin & ink
& corn gets put in everything
The dust explodes
Pick a season that’s cruel
its pleasant memory
as landscape shields a strangled sob
The cut leaves growing space
repressed humanity needs to live
so one man can enjoy
the quality of light
upon such stricken ears
as Heaven conjures its own myth
of endlessness shattered
by a fence
Our Origin
Tell me a story
not how your day has been
that you cleaned the cat box
took out the trash
after clearing the refrigerator
of dead uneaten food
House spirits care for these details
and the piles of spite is takes
to motivate your ass
to chore away a Saturday
I want your legends and myths
not the lie-consuming cycle
requiring a ladder to properly tuck away
or the rumor slouching down Main
Sirens going whoop whoop
through the intersection have it
cammed for their protection
Will we be stranded on this rock?
Forever? I remember how to make a raft
from a movie and the movie
in my head where Dad was there
to tell me how and do it all himself
Where fate got slammed a pool formed
I filled it with neat colored rocks
I found along the riverbank
Not naturally occurring
A plot – some action and a truth
The eyes glaze over because telling
is no substitute for a show
reduced in this textual world
to merely unbelievably enthralling
Back in to the stars you go
Up up into the cloud
with ringing ears
from the chorus glory
Nothing need be foretold
but save us from the random
with singular vision
and undeniable breath
Leave nothing out
and make it good
You've been listening to the poetry of Tony Brewer on the Poets Weave, I'm Romayne Rubinas Dorsey.
