From the Publisher
"A wit as sharp as Sedaris, a sensibility as poignant as Sexton, Brown manages to blur the lines between cult writer and poet with remarkable ease and grace.” -Anthem Magazine
"Sincere, twisted and violently romantic.” - OC Weekly
"Derrick Brown's work-both on and off the page-sizzles with jolting images and blasts of humor, yet retains a deep compassion at it's core. He has a heart the size of a Mack truck, but we're not sure who's behind the wheel.”
-Jeffrey McDaniel, author Alibi School and The Endarkenment
Read an Excerpt
The Kurosawa Champagne
Tonight your body shook,
hurling your nightmares back to Cambodia.
Your nightgown wisped off into Ursula Minor.
I was left here on earth feeling alone,
paranoid about the Rapture.
I think it is safe to say we drank too much.
Must I apologize for the volume in my slobber?
Must I apologize for the best dance moves ever?
Booze is my tuition to clown college.
I swung at your purse.
It was staring at me.
We swerved home on black laughter bleeding from forgettable boxing.
I asked you to sleep in the shape of a trench so that I might know shelter.
I drew the word surrender in the mist of your breath,
waving a white sheet around your body.
'Dear, in the morning let me put on your make-up for you.
I'll be loading your gems with mascara then I'll tell you the truth...'
I watched black ropes and tears ramble down your face.
Lady war paint.
A squad of tiny men rappels down those snaking lines and you say:
"Thank you for releasing all those idiots from my life.”
You have a daily pill case.
There are no pills inside.
It holds the ashes of people who died
... the moment they saw you.
The cinema we built was to play the greats but we could never afford the power so in the dark cinema you painted pictures of Kurosawa.
I just stared at you like Orson Welles,
getting fat off your style.
You are a movie that keeps exploding.
You are Dante's fireplace.
We were so broke,
I'd pour tap water into your mouth,
burp against your lips so you could have champagne.
You love champagne.
Sparring in the candlelight.
the mathematical equivalent of a woman's beauty is directly relational to the amount or degree other women hate her.
You, dear, are hated.
Your boots are a soundtrack to adultery.
Thank God your feet fall in the rhythm of loyalty.
If this kills me,
slice me julienne uncurl my veins and fashion yourself a noose so I can hold you once more.