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.
eKC online, www.kcactive.com, email@example.com,
1501 Burlington, Suite 207, North Kansas City, MO, 64116,816-509-1064, eKC-Still Local, Still Independent!
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…
My car- MY wonderful car
is no lifeless desert,
no sterile ER
It is an island,
whose reefs and sholes
gather the flotsam
of the midwest's
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,
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
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
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.