Saturday, June 12, 2010

Fuck You

Fuck You

You cannot understand
This leather jacket
And me.

I don’t care
If you want
Or don’t want to


I can’t even ride a bicycle.
This jacket, embroidered heavily in orange on the back, on the silver pin on the lapel
Says “Harley Davidson.”

This jacket is ancient.
The guy who wore it
Has got to be


No one
No matter how desperate for drugs or drink
Would sell this beautiful, wonderful thing.

It squeaks quietly when I move, muted.
It is softer than any human’s skin.
It sleeps on me, so lightly

Like a lover, like a tiny coddled baby, like my own pre-birth placenta, like God.

It has gray veins
In its darkness.
Its zippers have been repaired.

Someone cared about
This thing.
It was


The man at the shop saw it on me
And knew, just as much as I did
That it was mine now.

He sold it to me
For nothing
Almost, I swear.

He smiled and told me to wear it in good health.

I don’t know who he was,
Who wore this skin.
He might have been insane.

He might have been bad
Or good
Or just


I‘m trying

Right now
Not to

He might have had AIDS

Or killed himself with
Heroin or
Jack Daniels.

I’m taking over for him.
I’ll do the living now.
I will work this part.

The jacket will take the weather that still is falling.

If, when I step out of my goddamn pretty Prius,
A fucking “real” biker wants to look at me

With disdain, with a sneer,
As if I am a poseur,
As if I do not wear this shit with the utmost honesty,

That asshole

Can go directly
To fucking


by Coke Brown Jr. -
as posted on Coke's Croaks -

Friday, June 11, 2010

Avoidable Inevitabilities

Avoidable Inevitabilities

It’s not just that she’s Asian -
Her eyes try to reach forward
Through the thin glass in the
Mod rectangular frames
That her mother just bought her -
She must have practically begged
For them, repeatedly explained
That she could not read the numbers
On the small, bleached paper credit card slips
Printed by the twenty-dollar

Machine behind this counter

In this horrible thirty-room motel
Four stories without air conditioning
But it’s Denver, so I guess a man
Isn’t supposed to need it, I should open
The window like the curly gray-bearded

Angry, weathered alcoholic next door

And the young woman apologies profusely
Genuinely hurt by my dissatisfaction
Her squinting eyes are not cast down
But looking right at me, almost confused
Frowning a small, mortified frown
Insisting sincerely that it isn’t her fault that
There’s a bar with a loud live band
Right under my room every night
And that I can’t sleep
I know I won’t get back

The two-hundred dollars for this week

In that scratched tile
Open-air lobby
I realize
That she doesn’t have to strain
To be pretty

Although she can’t see herself

When she takes her
Hair down and
Her glasses off
And frowns
At night

Her accent is not very thick
She should be in college
But she’d
Have a difficult time

Her mother

by Coke Brown Jr. -
as posted on Coke's Croaks -

Saturday, June 5, 2010

Capture (Road Poem #6)

Capture (Road Poem #6)

Does my photo steal the soul
From the black cherry dirt, as well

I can only see it
Hear the creek

By quickly stomping
On the brakes

Whipping out the camera and
Back into the long and winding road


I don't even remember Muir Woods anymore
Or my sister, almost at all

Only arguments with my ex
Me stomping away

All of us

Any moisture from this land

Using it, turning it
With our focus, our attention



I worried
I shouldn't stop to look and shoot at all

No idea how far I was
From a real road

Heatstroke or dehydration
Sunburn, run out of gas

Woman somewhere asked me
What I wanted to remember so badly

Around a bend two trees
Taller one's

Green puffy arms

Hovering above
The other

I said,

Other than


And suddenly
There was

The interstate
Crank up the radio


I don’t


by Coke Brown Jr. -
as posted on Coke's Croaks -

Thursday, June 3, 2010

Road Poem #3

Road Poem #3

Reading the first things in ages
Made them Kerouac because I hadn't
And noticing the lamps, then
In the hotel room
Almost remembering marijuana again
It's memory so long embedded
And books and a cat, two now here, as well
Not matching lights but borne of the same elements
Burnished silver color and black and cream and one lucite
And realizing
You could see all the way
To the person who put this lamp together
With his hands
And the bedspread
I can't but
I'd bet you could


by Coke Brown Jr. -
as posted on Coke's Croaks -