I Love You Is Back
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I love Derrick Brown for the surprise of one word waking up next to another. One moment tender, funny or romantic, the next, visceral, ironic and revelatory - here is the full chaos of life. An amazing talent. -Janet Fitch, Author of White Oleander
A wit as sharp as Sedaris, a sensibility as poignant as Sexton, Brown manages to blur the lines between poet and cult writer with remarkable ease and grace. - Anthem Magazine
Derrick Brown is one of the greatest contemporary poets. Done. I always keep him on my radar. -Sage Francis, Hip-Hop Artist
Derrick Brown
DERRICK c. BROWN is the winner of the 2013 Texas Book of The Year award for Poetry. He is a former paratrooper for the 82nd airborne and is the president of one of what Forbes and Filter Magazine call "...one of the best independent presses in the country", Write Bloody Publishing. He is the author of four books of poetry
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Book preview
I Love You Is Back - Derrick Brown
I Love You Is Back
a collection of poems 2004 - 2006
by Derrick C. Brown
Write Bloody Publishing
America’s Independent Press
Long Beach, CA
writebloody.com
Copyright © Derrick C. Brown 2006, 2012
No part of this book may be used or performed without written consent from the author, if living, except for critical articles or reviews.
Brown, Derrick C.
2nd edition.
ISBN:978-1-935904-35-9
Interior Layout by Lea C. Deschenes
Cover Designed by Matt Maust
Type set in Bergamo from www.theleagueofmoveabletype.com
Printed in Tennessee, USA
Write Bloody Publishing
Long Beach, CA
Support Independent Presses
writebloody.com
To contact the author, send an email to writebloody@gmail.com
MADE IN THE USA
Other Books by Derrick C. Brown
Strange Light
Workin’ Mime to Five
Scandalabra
I Love You Is Back
Born in the Year of the Butterfly Knife
Amalgamation (with Blaine Fontana)
Children’s Books
Valentine The Porcupine Dances Funny
I Looooove You, Whale!
Hot Hands and Ralph in... The Weirdo Winter
To all the ones wondering if they are actually writers,
the wondering says you already are.
The details you noticed say you always were.
Rewriting, questioning and kicking in doors means
you’ll be good.
—D
I Love You Is Back
One must pass through
life, red or blue, quite
naked, with the music
of the subtle sinner,
at all times ready to
party.
Only those who contemplate
the constellations
can still move us.
—Francis Picabia
Author’s Note
I was walking through a late New York City weeknight with acclaimed poet Mike McGee. We had been dancing ridiculously with the brilliant poets of the Bowery Poetry Club and The Louder Arts lushes from Bar 13. We were in the mood. You know that feeling, when no one leaves the party early, no wallflowers are blooming, the wild dancing that escalates into prime morning conversation embarrassment.
Mike and I began officially wandering the streets after the sweat-fest. I love wandering…when I have money to get home. That night I had some. I think we were in the Lower East Side. We found some graffiti. We stared at it until booze tears welled up a little. He took a photo of it. It became the title of this book. You should make someones day by posting the phrase somewhere.
Here’s to not getting caught, here’s to writing like you’re possessed, here’s to you being nuts.
—D.
All Distortion, All the Time
Someone plug my lungs back into the guitar amps!
I want to live
on all distortion, all the time.
More overdrive!
Aren’t you sick of being appraised as just wholesale?
Aren’t you sick of sailing on listing ships?
Aren’t you weary from playing cellos with ex-lover’s bones?
I want the butterfly brigade to grant me a year
with no stomach problems.
I want to affix the word un-blame in the dictionary.
I want a piano that will not warp outdoors
when the rain demands slow dancing.
I want to skew the difference between Tai Chi and Chai tea,
and end up drinking a tall glass of your graceful force.
I want to lick my hands after I touch someone that has just become
razzle dazzled.
I want birds to come close enough to hear them speak Aviation Spanish.
Abierto, abierto.
I want your record collection in my throat,
and my thumb in the electric ass of this all night jukebox.
I want my shoulder blades mounted
in the museum of beautiful knives.
I want church in a bar and a bar in every church.
I want to pass out and hear you say Amen with your body.
I want a skeleton night light in the closet.
I want your wow in my now so we become NWOW.
I want free shit to not cost anything.
I want you to feel like a disco ball of fish hooks
so you can hang on my words and I can spin in your small miracles of light.
I want my kitchen to be a Brazilian dance floor
with a pot of your sweat in the oven
and a fridge stocked with booty lust.
I want new sheets. Everyday.
I want your silver muscles cut into a quilt. Let me sleep under your strength.
I want more pony lamps. No reason.
I want to sing this into all tail pipes until I’m exhausted of puns.
I want to smell the everything.
I want to remember that the sky is so gorgeously large,
I feel stranded beneath it.
When I gasp beneath it,
I only want to gasp
for more.
Saint Mark’s
The telephone wires must be down.
You still haven’t called this winter.
I decide to go to the church,
the empty one
that looks like it was struck by meteors.
I see it from Highway 31, off the road a little bit.
The roof has blown off of the Tennessee Assembly of God,
formerly known as Saint Mark’s.
I go in with a camera.
I hope to replace some dated photographs in my home.
The backdoor is unlocked and the carpets are flooded.
Grass is clawing through the floorboards.
Red plastic flowers on their side.
There is a sycamore in the parking lot
whose leaves will not let go.
Fake stained glass decals and pews broken by axes of wind.
Hymnals warped.
There is a dove design
on the hymnal. I once saw it on a shotgun barrel.
There is a song in here calling for that lightning bolt,
the one that is still trying to land on my fork.
The window, there is a field, with no one to run to on the other side
and no reason to return to the start.
Above