Brian Quinn (23 Apr, 2018)


Dragging hand-me-down virtues
through tunnels of
barbed wire, wrapping
ethic(and morality, some
times)inside oily rags
on the verge of igniting themselves.

we fight and
we spit
and we wild an-
d we spark,
fearful of being over-
heard by glass-walled neighbors:

our louder, American pastime
of digging in our back yards
at midnight for only the latest
psychologies, hoping they won’t
calls the cops. no. we need
something aching, ancient.

pine and hemlock come to mind. and rites
that demand more blood and dance.

to fight and
to spit
and to wild an-
d to spark
is to dig in the back yards of
our ids and our egos regardless of .
philosophy’s agency.

there is no more time to
kneel before, only to rail
against, to lean and press
against, to fight-spit-wild-spark

to share the splinters
from this, our baptism.

Baptism was originally published anonymously.
Great: Poems of Resistance & Fortitude
Authored by An Anonymous Collection
An anthology of anonymous poems saturated with messages of resistance, fortitude, and subversion, dedicated to November 9, 2016. These poems were written and submitted from across the United States: An honest, brutal, determined voice echoes the narratives of women, people of color, assault victims, and working class people.
The revised edition is dedicated to the six journalists among more than 200 people arrested and charged with felony rioting during the 2017 Presidential Inauguration.
You may buy your copy here.


Part One

when I say I
love you(
trust you)
I am not
consum(at)ing your
worth: how can I
I’ve only ever known a

(there is only ever one everything at any given moment)

to him
you are only ever
never known this you)when
he tells you one can never count on
moonlight, calls you
beautiful only at noon.

more about in-relation-to
as much about (co?)ordinates
as composition.

and you:
you will only meet
(y)our lovers
in the pre-dawn city as it rains,
neon giving
lust(er) to sidewalks
in ways the moon or the sun
never could

Part Two

Police sirens and rattling subway trains are hope for continued night, but in this mo(u)rning glare, the GIRLS-GIRLS-GIRLS sign outside your studio’s third story window might as well be advertising stationary, its neon promise no longer providing proof of the temple that is the small of your back, so worshiped by rain and the tongue of (every)last night’s lover.

Wedding at a Plantation (Catering in Charleston)

the iconic arches of magnolias
lining the dust-packed drive
(almost) obscure the small
houses set behind,
until those ancient trees
open to the massive front steps,
the hard, oaken doors of
the main house of the restored
but I came up the other drive, this one
newly paved,
leading to the ‘round back of the
servant’s entrance.
fences keep folks from actually comin’
‘round back because back here
they haven’t even bothered to
throw on a coat of white-wash:

the magnolia drive leads guests
to this weekend’s
wedding. or
i don’t even remember which
until the fog-horn-leg-horn
daddy of the bride, sweating through his
says to me,

boy, why,
why don’t ya head
on o’er to the bar thare
an’ fetch me a drank.

it’s not a question,
i’m wearing chef whites, you see, white
along with all the other decorations:
chairs, cooks, waiters, bartenders, bussers,

and if you can take your eyes
off the splendor of those
you can see the new coat of
whitewash on those small houses
hiding behind.

Brian Quinn 2018 DSC_0029