Brandon Whitehead

Brandon Whitehead

Brandon Whitehead is a writer, poet, critic and pizza-lover with (not surprisingly) a long career in manual labor, including most anything to do with trucks, warehouses and graveyard maintenance. As a rather surly member of the literary community in Kansas City, Missouri, Brandon has occasionally emerged to perform at Prospero's Pit Poetry or The Writer's Place in historic and well-kept Midtown Kansas City, and been published in several local publications of which he has not, frankly, kept very good records.

As a music critic for eKC online (www.kcactive.com) he has written hundreds of reviews that are about music maybe 50% of the time.

Along with his poetry, Mr. Whitehead writes extremly shory fiction and weird tales, which make a nice, neat stack of papers on his desk to make him feel self-important. He also likes cookies and monkeys.

Brandon Whitehead,Writer/Music/Editorial,
eKC online, www.kcactive.com,
kinginyellow@juno.com,
1501 Burlington, Suite 207, North Kansas City, MO, 64116,816-509-1064, eKC-Still Local, Still Independent!

A Most Beautiful Show, poem by Brandon Whitehead

      It’s another beautiful day today,
      85 degrees and sunny,
      A clear and beautiful sky
      without a chance of any rain, snow, ice or sleet—
      so let’s keep up those smiles, people!
      All the polite excuses, the “Oh, Well, that’s ok.”
      and that most important
      “It’s just the way things have too be.”
      Remember, every foul stink
      is a glorious perfume,
      every rank and stained odor
      a boiled and spiced roast of meat,
      the cigarette butts are Turkish delights
      scattered by a White Queen
      in stiletto heels and a push-up bra.
      Wave now to the rotting Dukes and Duchesses
      as their shiny carriages roll by,
      giving back-handed waves
      to the little people of the street
      who do little dances on hard little feet,
      their close-lipped smiles hiding
      their sharp little teeth- It’s a gingerbread world
      and you can eat it all,
      even the walls, brick by brick.
      You can lick the gutters clean
      like frosting off a spoon,
      while boys and girls of all ages
      put on the best freak show that’s ever been-
      Watch as they bang on their cages,
      their eyes rolling back to the whites
      like a shark hooked by a fat man in a tiny boat
      floating in a quite, quite empty sea.
      It’s a beautiful thing how our dervish world
      just spins and spins and spins…
      and you, yes, you, can join right in,
      for just one life, one life
      and you can be in the greatest carnival
      their ever was, better than Catullus to drunk to walk,
      or a chorus of the dammed, playing pan-flutes
      with their lips cut off by leering
      and capricious gods…
      Somewhere, perhaps behind all those stars up there,
      a studio audience is watching it all,
      their laughter noted to us
      as if but a passing thunder’s roll.
      My, oh my, such a beautiful, beautiful show…


read more

Chinese Windshield-Wiper, poem by Brandon Whitehead

      My car- MY wonderful car
      is no lifeless desert,
      no sterile ER
      pressurized with
      filtered atmosphere--
      It is an island,
      whose reefs and sholes
      gather the flotsam
      of the midwest's
      tidal jetstream,
      a faithful home to 39th St.'s
      shaggy, hung-over moths
      and tripped-out hippie spiders
      (who wave at me
      slidding into the driver's seat
      as if to say "Thanks for
      lettin' us crash, man-
      got a smoke?")

      This, I take all in stride.

      Unfortunatly, my car does not.

      Despite my blessings of housefly husks,
      mummified french-fries
      and a large orange spot
      under the seat
      that has not lost
      an ounce of stickyness
      in over two years,
      my car has gotten some form
      of automotive leprocy,
      resulting in various bits
      of, oh, say muffler
      or such
      falling off
      from time to time.

      It was inevitable, I suppose,
      that one day the windshield-wiper
      would fall off too, so I wasn't surprised
      when it did just that.

      Investigating the remains
      for a part
      or model #,
      I find only the words
      "Made in China".

      Now, I am fully aware
      that China is an ancient
      and far-distant land
      that I cannot just call up
      and ask for
      windshield-wipers.

      So I go to the closest place
      I can think of
      to China: WalMart.

      Using my blind bat-senses
      as the supernovic glare
      reduces my pupils to pin-pricks,
      I grab the first wiper
      that says "Made in China",
      throw money at a light
      with a number on it,
      peel the accumulation
      of sticky children
      off my pants
      and flee back out into the lot.

      The instructions say
      "Click in place.",
      and after fifteen minutes
      in a sudden freezing downpour
      I want to meet the person
      that wrote it
      and find a place to click him.


read more

Syndicate content