Thursday, January 21, 2016
Two Poems by Michael H. Brownstein
Beads of light
the sun god's veil:
I in the window breathe
the breast milk of God
I am having a cloud infused teardown
tar paper and asphalt excrement.
The lips of the world not the lips of worms
nor the eyes of the world--but the eyes of snakes
blinded at the edge of their tongue.
What has been written when the night shade
hugs the grass fed stream, obsidian and pumice
pushing through surface gravel, the rich water
smooths itself after a rough patch
and settles down to a rainbow and a hum.
Michael H. Brownstein has been widely published. His latest works, Firestorm: A Rendering of Torah (Camel Saloon Books on Blogs) and The Katy Trail, Mid-Missouri, 100F Outside and other poems (Barometric Pressures -- A Kind of a Hurricane Press). His work has appeared in The Cafe Review, American Letters and Commentary, Xavier Review, Hotel Amerika, Meridian Anthology of Contemporary Poetry, The Pacific Review, and others. In addition, he has nine poetry chapbooks including The Shooting Gallery (Samidat Press, 1987), Poems from the Body Bag (Ommation Press, 1988), A Period of Trees (Snark Press, 2004), What Stone Is (Fractal Edge Press, 2005) and I Was a Teacher Once (Ten Page Press, 2011). He is the editor of First Poems from Viet Nam (2011).