Derrick Brown, former paratrooper for the 82nd Airborne, gondolier, magician, and fired weatherman, now travels the world and performs his written work. From Long Beach, CA, he is dedicated to bringing American poetry into rock and roll status. As one of the most original and well-traveled writer/performers in the country, he has gained a cult following for his poetry performances all over the U.S. and Europe. A poetic terrorism group has taken to tagging his metaphors across the globe. About.com called his last collection, Scandalabra , one of the best books of 2009. To date, Brown has performed as a writer at over 1500 venues and universities internationally including The Tonight Show with Jay Leno, La Sorbonne in Paris, CBGB's in NYC, All Tomorrows parties with the Flaming Lips and a small Jewish youth group in Glendale. You can read more from him at brownpoetry.com and buy his books at writebloody.com/store.

Two Poems (September 20, 2011. Issue 31.)

THE GARY AUCTION
OF SPRING HILL, TENNESSEE

Coke in a bottle is best
via machine. The concerned barker's call stopped
when it stole my money and the nacho lady had to help me.

One six-foot sickle.
One friar tuck tea pot.
One lamp of a bear, stealing
honey from a red tree.
Six pieces of dirty owl jewelry.
A pew built for one.
A small box of turquoise.
A working radio,
big as a desk.
A sewing machine from 1906.
A display case full of survival knives.
An oil lamp that burns slow.
A pendant of an onyx heart.
A case with a four leaf clover,
the glass cracked.

"We ain't selling no mattresses today, so ya all need to stop
sleeping. Start bidding."
The barker held up a few classic dolls:
"I'm not sure what material this is. I'm also not sure how all these
babies were made…well, I have some idea."
Paintings of slain ducks and rabbits, hanging by their feet:
I couldn't afford.
"Get your number."
The back barn is full of pianos.
Park in the grass, walk in and touch them all.
I bought the sickle.
When I went up to grab it:
"You know how to use that thing son?"
I told him, "I'm dying to learn."

The pulled pork and ice cream ain't the best,
but they're there.
Records.
Stuff the dead couldn't take.
No one to inherit it to.
If it was inherited, they called Gary
to get them some money.
Dust and tin.
The battle memorabilia.
Where will it go?
I learned what the old women loved: glass,
lamps, costume jewelry, intricate doilies, display plates of JFK,
and handmade blankets.
Everyone wants the confederate gear.

THE DESIRE OF MEMORY

When I was boy,
I wanted to grow up to be one of four things: stage magician,
invisible swamp creature, on the street newscaster, or fireman.

Couldn't imagine anything cooler than waking up and sliding down
a time-saving pole.

Quiet around others,
loud and alone in my head.
Plastic green tanks that were never the right scale.

I was hiding, often under the sink by the trash.
I couldn't smell things.
I was fine.

When I got older and hung out with the other kids,
I pretended to be interested in their lowered cars, their loud stereos,
and baseball statistics.
They would always ask,
"Derrick, can you do this? What can you do?"

What could I do?
I could learn four skateboard tricks
and not learn anymore.
I still know them. I'm steady.

When the kids pinned me down to throw matches in my hair
it wasn't because they hated me.
I thought they all had done it. They liked to burn everything.
I could weep in public.

I began making blowguns out of PVC pipe.
We threw lemons at the neighbor's garage door.
We didn't hate them.
We loved the sound.
We would steal Christmas light bulbs if they were the fat kind cause
when you chucked them they would pop on impact with a loud
BLOP!

We couldn't imagine buying something and wanting it to stay nice.

My toys and figurines were melted.
I wanted to blow up anything that would allow me.

Burn everything.

I got grounded for stripping a Barbie down to her smoothness.
I didn't know what a bikini area was supposed to look like
but I knew now that it looked like an unpeeled peach.

I was a
High school virgin on a scooter that went 30 mph. Lookout.
I was skinny and had a large head. I looked like a lollipop that fell in cat fur.

I got into magic.
My performances were often accompanied by Phil Collins hit track,
In the Air Tonight. It was on cassette. If I didn't stop the tape fast
enough at the end of the trick the track would cross fade into a super
neon jam called This Must Be Love. For my finale trick, zombie ball,
a silver ball magically floated atop a silk. A dove pan, full of flame, to
dove. The doves hated it.

At Knott's Berry Farm's magic shop.
I would wear a maroon vest and gray slacks with a dull clip on tie.
I would chase shoplifters in dress shoes.
I would make a fake tarantula drop from the ceiling
and land on someone's shoulder.
I would tell no one my secrets until they bought them.
I would make a room full of day campers say oooooooooh.
I would wander the park after hours, imagining living
somewhere thought up.

Solid radio waves.
A graveyard on Mars.
The 2 legged dreams of copperhead snakes.
Love in a one person bed.
Disaster sex.
A book about my love of the smell of PVC pipe.

A newscaster's lounge.
A fireman's locker.
A swamp creature watching children outgrow him.
A magician turning his head
from the secret.