Brandon Shane




Rain is never more beautiful, than within the violence  

of a great city, the water washing over petrol, chemicals,  

bodily fluids of men subdued by their vices, then the hail  

smashes windows and dents enough windows, hoods,  

that we scurry them under little things, as our minds  

grace the larger picture; the splatter of a thousand  

languages and spices, born from fire and conflict,  

or fleeing from a totalitarian; historical missions  

on hills mourning their ugly beginnings, baptized  

again and again by tears of sinners who only know  

their monstrous hands. I kick glass, as the city rots  

and my toes have become numb, stomach bloody  

with enough ulcers to put Bukowski away for good.  

Throwing away pills, then finding them again  

in early morning desperation, like little birds  

finally having a chance, away from the bullies  

with sharp beaks and large feathery stomachs,  

and I trip over concrete, hit my mouth, it bleeds;  

why do I feel this pain, why is everything so damn  

painful; all the holy books getting off on a mother  

with bunk beds but no children. 

I returned home for my father’s funeral,  

in the rain again, this time there were trees,  

and they formed walls, a business sector,  

an industry, flowers created markets,  

shrubs did their part; there were pigs, cows,  

and even a dog that protected them  

from coyotes dancing in the brush,  

the crows were too intelligent for this,  

and so they talked from high places;  

In the will he gave me some land  

and ownership is a brick, bills are debris,  

expectation a sea placed  

underneath your heavy feet.   

I shoved my toes into the mud,  

watched fireflies go in and out of a ditch,  

saw the sky churning like a stomachache,  

listened to frogs, retreated  

to a porch and heard the old wood  

bend; the world is beyond agony  

but tonight, like a bad boxer with teeth  

lodged into his throat, I sat quietly  

watched the moon like a horse  

having broken his hooves,  

waiting for the tin roof to fall on my head.





Brandon Shane is a poet and horticulturist, born in Yokosuka Japan. You can see his work in the Argyle Literary Magazine, Berlin Literary Review, Acropolis Journal, Grim & Gilded, Heimat Review, York Literary Review, The Mersey Review, Prairie Home Magazine, among many others. He would later graduate from Cal State Long Beach.