Past Time
By Brandon D. Johnson: (’97-’99)

I zigzag sidewalks shunning land-mined gym-shoes
hear chanted anthems of long-dead rappers between
broken glass and chewing gum. buildings grow beards
before they collapse under secret acts spilling from
windows. I don't look into alleys. dead-eyed men
walk with babies' cries in their hands.

my woman sits in an empty hotel room, lamps give life to shadows
needless duties waylay me, detours created by my deficits
this is the night of at lasts and I'm not there to help her breathe.
candles and Cassandra fade, cheese hardens, crackers don't anymore
she's a decumbent Coke bottle crushing plush pile like the furniture
a man could learn a lot watching a couch do its job.

I see Melle first, a man nasty as Blues songs sung for
sassy women. he's scrippin to his boys, standing round a
fire, embers spiraling past frost-bite like lightning bugs headed
for the moon. downtown phrases slide from his lips
hotrods on an icy road, a midnight cold as the hawk slipping
under a girl's skirt.

men like us don't know when to shut up,
neither knowing when to be bested or accept a coupe de grace
gracefully. daddies' reps are ground underfoot, mommas need
to know better than come into a hungry man's mind when he's scheming.
we dozen so hard family trees fall like shifting cards in the hands
of a Times Square Monty artist. men like us don't know when to shut up.

it’s like standing room only at a theater-in-the-round out here.
the periphery catches shrapnel, a laughing crony's sister bites the dust.
errant bombs nick the noses of ne'er-do-wells and neighbors out to catch
the spectacle before cops make rounds. barbed hands ease trade tools
from waistbands and sweat socks. Melle lifts a forty, quashes the rumble before
damage is done. when his eyes begin to float, I'm gone. I ease toward
the curb, a pair of tight jeans glowing at the edge of the fire
remind me of my destination. a street lamp wobbles when I pass,
the light makes night a Harryhausen invention.

my woman's angry as a moth beating porch light for sun.
chocolates soften on unsullied pillowcases. the hawk rattles
windows asking to be her lover, lays down feelings easier
than I ever wanted to. she snatches the do not disturb sign
thinks the bellman might need a new babe to escort. why lose black lace
and scalloped borders, to the cleaning lady. clock hands point the way out
she knows nothing's coming in before night ends its solitary shift.

Copyright © Brandon D. Johnson. All rights reserved. Used with permission of the author.

Brandon D. Johnson originally from Gary, Indiana, now lives in the Washington, D.C. Received a J.D. degree from Antioch School of Law and presently works with an information marketing company. Larry Neal Writer's Competition Awardee for '97 & '98; graduate Cave Canem Fellow (’97-’99); 1999 DC Commission on the Arts Fellowship Grant recipient; published in The Drumming Between Us, Fodderwing, anthologies Winners, Callaloo, Drumvoices 2000, Gargoyle, redbrick review, Cabin Fever, and Gathering Ground: A Reader Celebrating Cave Canem's First Decade; author of The Strangers Between, Man Burns Ant, and most recently Love’s Skin, as well as co-author of The Black Rooster Social Inn: This is the Place.

Copyright © 1997-2006 by Cave Canem Foundation, Inc.

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