Brandon Brown

 
 

Things I Like




I like the way that sour
orange blossoms smell
in Springtime, in Sevilla,
little fragrant nipples
exhaling from the fruits.
And I like the paintings
of Francisco Zurbaran. 
And I love smoked sardines,
vermouth on ice, big
bloated capers, olive oil,
anchovies, the wines of Jerez,
and little beers. And I am
into making someone cum
with my tongue. And I like
when Klay Thompson is in
his bag, drowning triples
with no dribbles, and the
ball washes through twines
as if it were a well-built
boat on water. I really am
quite fond of my lady.
And I love writing poems
and pieces in prose, and
I love reading. And I really
take enormous pleasure
in thinking about the friends
who I love, both here in
El Cerrito and all around
the world. I seriously love
Kat Sinclair’s new pamphlet.
And I really like Carly Rae
Jepsen. I like the Late Latin
word tostum which means “burned”
but used metaphorically
means “quickly” like you
would say to your lover if I 
don’t see you tostum then
I’ll fucking die. And I
really like that this word
is the ancestor of the English
word “toast” which is cooked
and cooked quickly. And
I pretty much like toast.
I am very enamored of
Elliot, the cat of Stephanie
and Clive. And I like their
house on Short Street, with
the magic cactus standing
tall in front and the backyard,
with its splendid orange tree.

 
 

My Lady




My lady isn’t a woman.
Even less is my lady “mine.”
This is not some Dante
shit. I’ve seen my lady and
my lady has seen me. I
respect my lady. If you see
my lady you can show this
poem to my lady and I will
not feel anxious. My lady is
relatable. I meet my lady
by streaky dogwoods.
We watch little leaguers
yawp and ball in the cool
soft sod of Central Park.
Central Park, El Cerrito
that is. Not that other one.
My lady likes the purity
of the game. That’s how
I learn from my lady.

I’m not being coy or
funny. If you knew my
lady, you would want
to live a long life full
of sensual pleasure as
I do. If my lady had their
way, Joni Mitchell would
never die. The wars would
end, summer would spill
all over the field like a
busted water balloon
and soak there all year.
The sun wouldn’t set on the
seventh inning, when tweens
in uniform stretch and
sing that marvelous song.
Peanuts, cracker jacks, my lady.
Sweet sufferable promise.

 
 

Why Is Giannis In Fresno




Ask why the chive
has grown a cup
of fuzzy hair. Ask
if that is skunk or
dank in the air.
Ask what the tree
is called that shades
us from the jealous
bitter sun. But never
ask me to say anything
mean about my lady
in public. I have been
pissed on the banks
of the Seine, horny
at a wake, bored in the
bath, hungover at work,
but I have never said
anything bad about my lady.

OK I take back what I said
about the sun. It is not as
good as plants but it is
their moody benefactor.
Seaweed in the bay is tasty
and nutritious. I wear it on
my mouth like a mustache.
Clean briny mustache.
The kind you gnaw on
when you’re pissed or
bored or horny or hung
over. The tide returns because
it likes us. Giannis finds
the best elote in Fresno.
Kittens do salutations to the sun.

 
 

A Song Of The Comtessa De Dia




1.


Lately I’ve been so depressed
because a guy I have been fucking
—not just fucking, I love him—
has betrayed me
because I couldn’t commit
and that’s why I’ve been acting so wild
in bed and also dressed.


2.


I would like very much to hold
this guy in my arms one evening, naked.
He would feel ecstatic
with me as his tender pillow.
Since I love him more
than Alice B. Toklas loved Gertrude Stein
he has my heart, my love,
my mind, my eyes, my life.


3.


Guy, hot guy, charming guy and good,
when will I own you?
I want to lay you down in twilight
and lick your lips.
You should know I am ready
to explore monogamy with you
as long as you promise,
in return,
to do everything I say.

 
 

Poem




Get it together Brandon
it’s summertime. Oh
okay, so someone
shat on your birthday.
A peach doesn’t cry.

Somewhere on earth
a billionaire is probably
dying. When a peach
does it can still become
a pie. The billionaire
goes into the ground
where you can bring
your little dog to shit.

A birthday is nothing.
Not compared to the
hawthorn tree, strong
as a dildo against
the clouds. Wind gives
up and goes back
to its lair at the poles.
The hawthorn tree
is an image of how
strong my love feels.
Love for the light,
love for my lady, love
for the wet fruit. And
here you are, Brandon,
forty one years old
writing a poem.

 
 

USS Callister




It’s a summer day like any
other. I mean not really.
It’s the first day of summer.
Light pervades until it’s
the hour that rats bounce
from their nasty bedrooms.
We see one scramble along
fencetop, graceful and
disgusting, its mouth stained
yellow with lemon zest.
It’s my birthday party.
I’m no spring rat, and yet
there are still new experiences:
never saw rat run by in
daylight, never had a chunky
sake, never brought a friend
loaded gummies to their
hospital room. When the
Jehovah’s Witnesses knock
we are still splayed on the
bed, big late morning light
breaking down the window
to get in. It states a rainbow
in the little pool of cum
cooling off on my upper
junk. I like this little rainbow.
I don’t like the rat, the
hospital, the Jehovah’s
Witnesses. And I don’t
want to get into playing
video games, ever. And
I don’t really like colonialist
space narratives. And
I really don’t like Landry
from Friday Night Lights
playing a psychopathic
incel in this otherwise
quite fine episode of
Black Mirror.

 
 

Blue




Kirsten Dunst is a great
actress, dogwood a dashing
flower, mustard wonderful
to eat. These phrases keep
me up in bed, insisting
on their truth like the beat
of a minor pop vehicle,
an afterthought really,
written with Rihanna in
mind and delegated to
oh I don’t know
you hear it at an opportune
time and become its
servant. Usually when I am
this sad I turn to pop
music, to trestle what
I can’t nest, but Alli sleeps
kindly beside me. Even my
phone’s tucked in for the
night, quietly losing heart.
Someday it will take space
in a waste basket, we
all will. In the morning
I run to its arms but by
then I don’t want to hear
anything. 7:10 a.m. and the
air in El Cerrito smells like
frying little fish, which
are delicious to eat. Big
flowers bloom out of
their bags. Kirsten Dunst
is a great and underrated
actress. O my friends, can
you fucking believe that
this is the world and no
where in it is Kevin Killian?

 

Brandon Brown is the author of several books, most recently The
Four Seasons (Wonder) and The Good Life (Big Lucks). His work
has recently appeared in Art in America, Open Space, The Believer, 
and Berkeley Poetry Review. He is a co-editor at Krupskaya and
edits the zine Panda's Friend. He lives in El Cerrito, California.