Guest Poet: Kristyn Brown

Desperate Times Guest Artist Series Volume II: Kristyn Brown
Today on Desperate Times, we feature one the soon to be most well known philosophers on the planet, Miss Kristyn Brown. Currently studying in Belgium to get her Masters degree in Philosophy, she has been gracious enough to share some of her current work with us.


1. How not to cry:

Think only of what you’ve got

Not what is missing

Feel the way you are

Sitting in a coffee shop

Don’t think the word alone

That would be thinking what you’ve not got



Don’t want to talk

Or be satisfied with talking to yourself

You are a great conversationalist anyway

Lucky you, you are now having a great conversation

At least



Think about the sun or the clouds

Or the stool or the hanging photos of Brooklyn Bridge

Or the flashing game machine in the corner

Or the Bruce Springsteen’s voice, the fuzzy speaker in the corner

The racked yellow and blue patio chairs



Think of all the things around you

Make sure they stay in sight

Make sure it is a stool you are sitting on;

How is that game played; When did he write this song;

Who was on the bridge that day; What is he doing right now; Is he warm;

Is he tuffling under the sheets; Is the sailboat wind chime catching the sun

No, no! too far!



Don’t let the stool disappear!



Write a poem

Nothing is ending

You’re just waiting



03/20/09



2. Dear God: Response Requested



Dear God,

[10:00:08 AM] Kristyn Brown says: Please excuse the following blasphemy (I will assume you have because I am not yet aware of any smiting).



I was in Paradise today.

I was supposed to be in Paradise today.

It seemed to be very much like this is what Paradise was to be, or once was.



But was I?

Surely, you would know.



All the bounties, all the riches, radiant flowers with the lofting smells of heaven

Sun- the gavitational, succumbing,

Closing my eyes simply to turn to it

What was that feeling today... of closed eyes, only a thin beating shield between that sun and my mind?

I tried to think it today, but I could not find the words.



Anyway, back to this Paradise thing.

It seemed like,

for all the ancient reasons, for all the scraped paintings and pictures handed down by pallets and brushes;

For all descriptions of release and redemption, for all the forgottenness, the unhistorical, the never has there been of the grinding of everyday axewheels;

The, Oh, how I love the God, the Sun, the Paradise which is all I know!

That, in Paradise, I was.



But something today, even while it was happening something seemed strangely unParadisely; seemed missing.

Not a note from the bird’s harmonious oaths and odes ricocheting off of one another;

Not the perfect hovering of the shallowest pool water upon its depths;

Not a tile missing from the lusciously captured sahara sand smoothed over into perfect squares beneath my feet;

Not any dimming of the Sun because the clouds swept graciously around it like ladies of the court around their queen, careful not to cross the boundary from picturesque to annoyance.



And now the Sun has set and my thoughts, my heart, my feelings recount the day.

This paradise today seems missing something, missing a lime like the Sangria standing vigilant beside me.

And now that the people have gone inside, hiding from the soft chill that runs along behind the Sun, a pigeon sweeps down and rests beside the pool, wetting his beak.

Now, these misbegotten doves, dirty as they are, bathe in the golden fountains and gilded pools.



Was it Paradise I saw today?

Or is this Paradise now?

Surely, you would know.



Love,

Kristyn



[10:30:29 AM] Kristyn Brown says: ps. Sorry for the cigarette ashes I left on the hard, disinterested sahara tiles.



07/04/09



3. I Place the Cards



I place the cards in order

Smoking a cigarette

And the flag ship of my mind sails off

somewhere far beyond this oak table

threes on fours on fives

and queens on kings

kings on aces

I start making a phone call

But would rather not hear the endless ringing

That I know will not stop, there will be no other end

So I put the phone down on the table, still ringing, but not in my ears

And I place the cards

Twos on threes on fours

And fives on sixes

Next Week - audio files!!!!

2/24/09 - Lonesome Hobo's Poetry

From the stolen diary of a Lonesome Hobo lying in Washington Square Park

I am a Lonesome Hobo who threw away his wealth
I squandered love on someone else, forgot about myself

I am the tightrope walker, just before he falls
I looked for my love in the crowd and noticed she was gone

I clothe myself in garbage, material and fake
The tattered shreds reflect my heart, scared in disarray

I cast you in my movie, you said you loved the script
You changed the lines without me knowing, boy do I feel jipped

Today I shoot the camera, I hide behind the lens
I wish that could do or say that which would make amends

Meet me in the park sometime, beneath our fav'rite tree
The place you swore undying love and gave your heart to me

I would sing you a folk song, about life that never ends
But I'd rather share my heart with you, than remain as simply friends.

I'm told I must stop rhyming, that my lines are played and cheap
The most beautiful, profundities, in my mind I'll keep

2/23/09 - Lonesome Hobo's Loneliness

From the stolen diary of a Lonesome Hobo laying in Washington Square Park

Is there anything worse than feeling completely alone?
Solitude has it's benefits, but loneliness is different.
Loneliness is like a slow moving, painful cancer.
I feel the pain tapping the love from my heart, sucking the goodness out of my body.
What do you do to stop it?
How do you bring yourself to go on when everything you do reminds you that life never used to be this painful?
I don't want to deal with the pain. I've been dealing with pain my whole life and I don't need anymore.
I can't sleep.
I can't eat.
I can't feel the way a functioning human being feels.
I'm putting off death as long as I can. When I can't deal with it anymore, then I'll let death take me. As long as I'm around, that's proof that I can take the hurt of desertion, right?
The sleep of the sinful is no rest at all.
I'm being punished for sins no one knows but me.
What was once bright and beautiful, has grown gray and ugly; the sun, the clouds, the sky, the people with whom I walk.
The day holds no providence for me anymore. I'll just sit here and grind my teeth while God plans my next misfortune.
I wonder what my next unfortunate event shall be... I've had enough of them.

I could list them, but my hand is getting tired and my pen is running out of ink.

The rats will keep me warm tonight.