Tom Brzezina

THE MORNING OF

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
overreacted.

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."


TOM BRZEZINA

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.

Tom Brzezina

LEW ARCHER WRITES A POEM

The sun goes down
like a shot of cheap whiskey
and the whole city blacks out.
The moon is a toenail clipping.
And the stars drown in garish neon.

To the innocent, the dark brings dreamy sleep.
For the rest of us, the night shift roars to life
and the hammers of loneliness
begin their monotonous beat.

In the titty bar, Melody takes the stage,
her green g-string, an ammo belt
of dirty dollar bills.

The meat markets are packed with dynamite.
Bright eyes dance over the rims of cocktails,
while the fuse burns faster and faster
and the frantic thrust
of blind sex
explodes.

In the jazz club, a cat blowing furious sax
is marginalized by a roomful of meaningless
conversation.

A black-and-white rolls up on a hapless drunk,
caught pissing behind a dumpster,
while packs of acned boys
search for foes to fight.

In other words,
another night.


Tom reads "Lew Archer Writes a Poem":



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Tom confesses: "This poem was inspired, of course, by the great Ross Macdonald. His descriptions of California's underbelly during the 50s and 60s are note perfect. And Lew Archer’s ongoing patter is studded with metaphoric gems. Another inspiration was the sad state of my home town. Imagine Lew working in today’s Detroit."



TOM BRZEZINA

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.