The Brutalist Photos

Thank you.

Hello,
I want to thank all of you who have enjoyed The Brutalist.
I am now writing under a new blog 

It is sort of the next chapter of my poetry 
You are welcome to access it
Here
http://tobinjohnston1.blogspot.com/

Thank you all for your interest and love.
I hope I didn't bore you.
Toby

I Don't Mean to Brag

I don’t mean to brag but. . .

I write poems
yea
that's right
I know
this shit just comes
ta me

I don’t even close Microsoft word
it’s open like an all night corner store
I can type with my right hand
while my left smokes

Metaphors, for me, are
like, um. . .
easy.

And one of my similes
took a bullet for the president
but I won’t tell you which one

See the thing is-
I’m well rehearsed like old Homer
loved like Emily Dickenson but still a loner
strong and sensitive like Pablo Nuruda’s boner
sober lyrics but still able
and I can still drink Dylan Tomas under the table
but hey
this is what I do

You know that poem that goes
It's hard out here for a pimp
When he tryin to get this money for the rent
For the Cadillacs and gas money spent
Because a whole lot of bitches talkin shit
you ain't knowin’
Yea well
I wrote that.

You want to hear another-
I took the road less
traveled
ect.
ect.
and baby
that has made all the difference
I didn’t write that
but I could have

And sure, I know
somewhere there’s a poet with a heart of gold
bucking hay in an Iowa grass field
with words the world has never heard but has waited for
but slope-forehead mother fucker is to busy feed sheep
to commit shit to paper
and he ain’t here anyway.

So I guess what I’m tryin’ to say is-
Do you want to by my muse,
baby?

Old Song of the Heart Broken Working Man

Old Song of the Heart Broken Working Man

I was a rail worker
workin’ the C & O line
‘cross the Chesapeake
in that hot tin-roof new august
the air, muggy like livin’ in water
Sweat runnin’ down my knuckles, greasin’ my arms to action, tattooin’ my shirt and pants and face with yellow clouds of dry dirt
the air was filled with grunts from effort laden lungs and the steely percussions of iron hammers fallin’, and sometimes
we were singin’ hymns
other times the jail house chain gang blues
and sometimes we worked on in silence
waitin’ to be struck down by our sudden obsolesces
‘cause the world decided it could build a better man

I was a lumber jack
left foot up hill, right foot down,
in western Oregon
reddened cheeks by mid-morning shadows
walking in the deep perfume of old growth and vegetation
rotting to be reborn
callused palms to the tar worn axe handle
strike, strike, striking at my ringed and wounded heart of white pine
crying crystalline tears
until the work was done
and I saw there were no more hearts left beating
no bleeding left in the wound

I was a descamisados -
made my way up from Lobos, Argentina
to the mad dog rig in El Golfo de Mejico
a skipped big rock distance from Louisiana’s shore
He a Creole name Edmonde, that one there a black Dominican named Jack, he a gringo boss man whipping us to work with curses
names us all mother fuckers like we his orphan child
we trip pipe all day, throw chain, labor over the big wet wrenches of our trade
till the black mud come up from the pipe and cover us like tears of the virgin
until the shift bell rings and the sun sets flat against
El Mar, el color del oro
casting fire over the derrick, gang planks, tower, and the roughnecks
like everything was made to burn.


I was a dockworker
in port side Chicago
the great lights of the dying waterfront industrial
at my back
leaning hard against the greedy
grasping
machine gun
gales of lake Michigan
cradling a stuck and burning match
in my hands
but it went out
despite everything
it went out
leaving me only smoke
chasing it’s self out over the black formless water

These hands
gave me my place amounts men
and a warm meal and a few bucks spendin’ for the weekend

These hands
that could be tender despite themselves
could caress a woman’s arm while she slept

I thought they were strong enough
I have always prized them
these hands,
all I have in the whole world,
I always believed
they would be enough

The Revolutionist's Son

My father told me while loading his gun
“Drink Scotch, Whiskey, Vodka and Rum
‘cause this world, my boy, weighs a fuckin’ ton
and someday soon you’ll have to carry it son.”

Either/Or

Either/Or

I can type with one hand while the other
feeds me smoke
like burning fields feed the air
an ivory body

I can pray with one
word
and curse with the next
trusting a God who knows
the heart which utters
devotion and betrayal
is at least honest

I sit amounts friends
and weep from loneliness
and walk down an alley
married to
a woman
as she removes the window screen
extends her small arm out into the night
plays with darkness between her fingers

can I leave my love
out of love
for love

comedy
and tragedy are the same face
light falls and recognizes

one
then the other

life is a joke told at funeral

Happiness
is three matches left
for two cigarettes

Tribute

Tribute

I was borrowed this joy
was given this unexpected happiness undeserved

by a composer, McKenzie
who I am teaching to break dance
and who was the first to tell me the worst was over

by a brother, Erik
who let me sleep on his floor for two weeks, doesn’t shy from my embarrassed grief
by his wife, Sarah
who wraps me in hugs at each meeting, a wordlessness love more real than any open declaration of love

by a sister, Wendi
who fights so hard to be my friend,
and her husband, Nova
who loves her and unexpectedly completes our family

by my mom, Jamie
who calls to check up on me, who tells me I am lottery ticket
and lets me pretend to help her with her cleaning accounts

by my little bro, Boomer
who tackles me during soccer and apologize for all this fucked up shit

by my best friend, Andy
who forgives me the weakness I have worked so hard at hiding from him for all these years

by his wife, Meg
who volunteers to help jess fill out the divorce papers


by my class mate, May
who risks everything, everything, everything
to show me I am worth the risk

by my friend, Larry
who does not charge me for leasing his couch

by a girl on the east coast  
who wrote my grief-stricken curriculum
and tucks me into the bed I once shared

by the six cigarettes left in the pack
and the hot one in my hand
and the cool tall boy of 21 Steel Reserve
because it is slow brewed for exceptional smooth flavor
By Otis Redding and The National
and Gram Green for his whisky priest

by God who I still confess a wise father
giver of perfect gifts.