Brett Fogarty

Brett Fogarty went to Emerson College and soon afterward disappeared into Asia for a year and a half of his life. He can found during the normal persons living week taking naps in the employee restroom and drinking ludicrous amounts of coffee. The best way to reach him though, is through here-

Two Poems (Issue 19.)

Two Poems (Issue 7.)

Two Poems (July 20, 2010. Issue 19.)

Those Trains, They Take You Everywhere, Except

Tokyo swallows me into
its maw so from now on
just beer and not too many
at that (it’s cheap and in
pitchers but tastes like rust).
Hours later, I mentally swim
the back float through underground
bars in a district miles outside of
what I know, but still, somehow, the
night sky is difficult to see. And now
I feel like Jonah in a belly
tapping the bones of the city
an ear to the wall
listening for reverberations.
Over the chatter of the street
the hawkers scream about cheap
shoes, import Nikes from China.
My friend, she says there are only
thoughts about Mexico City and
a desire to stand in the beating sun
on the wet ground. There are flowers
everywhere not like here and
she throws them at the feet of
a moving skeletal Santa Muerta.
Just a chance to raise her hands
above her head and look at the
sky through open fingers.

The Straight Line Ahead
To Danny Lyon

It's easy being hard in the cross beams
of steel girders and bikes that shake
rattle everything when they pass by
(heading to who knows where).
It's easy being an extension of the pavement
all this assorted mess of concrete and bricks
that we convince ourselves is home, is love.
All the kids, the convicts and the police
play the stare-right-into-that-lens-fucker
game so well it stops being a game and
turns into perfect fierceness.
I linger in their stares, I look for myself
or ones that I know well in them.
In the end, there's the boy on a motorbike
crossing the Ohio River alone with
the whole creeped out world on a straight
line ahead. He turns to look back for a moment
to a road littered with bits of rubber and glass.
The radio sings loud hey it’s me I’m dynamite.
He wonders, as we all wonder
who or what is left behind in the
business of our scattered lives that
seemed at the start, so easy to accept.

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Two Poems (July 20, 2009. Issue 7.)

Well First, Go

They will leave
you to the wolves that
won’t care for you.
No discoveries of
vast cities on a hill,
just the cold and
the trees with branches
that reach out into
the blue blue sky.
There are motorized
watercraft near and
the low drone
of an idling engine
splits the eerie silence.
My plan for escape
for you is complete but
incomplete is my
blueprint for all the lost
so only you, for now.

Life as a Class C Firework

He was a teenage bottle rocket
who took off and sat sustained above
the tree line to glimpse the suburbs
in the blinding summer sun.
The strange perfection of
being so free in such odd time
signatures was never lost on him.
A neighborhood made up of 6/8’s
and 7/4’s of peace and
preconditioned paving stones.
There is only the upward trajectory,
then a winding slow descent to end as
an inside joke told around a cluttered,
sticky dinner table years later.
He swore the voices traveled
later out through the screen doors,
past the dead branches and flaking white
birch trees to reach him, laying spent in
a small pile of gathered mulch.
For a moment, the elusive happiness
returned and then burned out, again falling
earthward, again only a finite amount
of all things to be given and received

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The Legendary