Welcome to our newest feature here at Poetry Snark: American Poets of the 70s: Where are They Now? Our first feature poet is Thomas Brush (no, I made up neither that name, nor that haircut). Click on the image to enlarge (if you dare). Use the comments section to read / critique his poem, or to tell us where Mr. Brush is now.
posted by Snark @ 5:04 PM
2 Comments:
I, Poetry Snark, am Thomas Brush. And if you think this is humor--posting a dated photo of me along with a rather sentimental snippet of my verse--then you are a comedic milksop. First of all, that was no soft verse of whimsy--that was a poem about my brother, Keith Brush, and his brush with death at the hands of the VC. His face was nearly removed, not by LSD--like mine--but by bloodthirsty vietnamese whores. When one of them demanded more money than they'd bargained for she pulled a razor-blade out of her ear (where she'd been hiding it) and tried to slice the smile from Keith's countenance--forever! If this is to be snarked at-- you're insane! I should command the tigers of my verse to pulp your brains, Poetry Snark!
I only came upon this site because I was googling myself to find out how I did at the greater Oregon taffy festival-- for those of you who are my TRUE friends and admirers, and whom I have lost touch with, I may as well let you know--from the horse's mouth, as it is-- how I am doing and what I spend my days working on: I am a taffier, primarily, and a poet secondarily. Star Horse and I have been married 21 years and Brian is heading off to Oregon State next year to study environmental databasing. I live a quiet life. I carve, I taffy, I canoe and hike and moonlight as an amateur granola alchemist. I keep busy. Star Horse writes her boondoggles. We're getting into back-rubbing. Jogging is out--knees. I relax, I think. Lately Brian teaches me computers. They're fascinating. Brian is great. I'm working on a long poem about my family. I don't know what shape it's gonna take but it's shaping up. I like to think of poetry like a tree made of sugar--or my brain like that sugar tree, melting in the sun, taffying all of Oregon with a pale ribbon of nonchalance and impromptu synergies. If the Poetry Snarkers have a problem with that, too bad for them and I hope they can be happy in life. I really do.
Bon chance everyone,
Thomas Brush
It sure doesn't sound like a poem about tearing someone's face off to me; but if it is, it's a rather dumb attempt.
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