Monday, August 25, 2014

Tom Brzezina


On the morning before the morning of,
tension knotted the muscles between
my shoulder blades.

In the afternoon before the morning of,
the dark blue van was still parked across
the street.

On the night before the morning of,
I sat up in my bed, a loaded
shotgun in my lap.

On the morning of, I heard the back
door creak open, then careful
footsteps in the hall.

In the afternoon of the morning of,
I was lying on a slab in a jail cell,
and he was dead.

In the evening of the morning of,
I mouthed off to the guard, and he

On the night of the morning of,
I was in a hospital bed, handcuffed to
the railing.

On the morning after the morning of,
I was still handcuffed to the railing,
but my lawyer had good news.

That evening, I sat in front of my
television, eating Kung Pao chicken,
contemplating the absurdity of life.

Tom reads "The Morning Of":

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Tom confesses: "'The Morning Of' is a dry, procedural accounting of events, which were triggered by something outside of the poem. These events suggest certain traits of the main character. Without knowledge of his original action, however, he remains a ghost."


Born and raised in Detroit.
Worked in factories.
Sang rhythm & blues in dive bars.
Became ad agency word merchant.
Dropped out, turned off, tuned in.
Writes poems about conflict between
interior life and exterior world.
Hovers around home town
with true love and two dogs.

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