He makes his home in a state of mind

Three Poems by Michael Brownstein

The Wind (1974)

The wind
Blows everything away
Including love
Including hate
In waves the wind
Can you hear it calling
Can you hear the wind calling your name?

It Can't Be True (1974)

That we belong to one of the last generations
To see an uncontaminated sky
And walk through enough forest
Stretching for hundreds of square miles
Uncharted and completely surrounded by itself
Holding us because being there
Is a real suprise, vast and everyday
And not just the unspoiled tip
Of an island fenced off by the gov't.
For one brief, clumsy weekend
Fucking away from the glare of the city's
Shiny hallucination

The Sacred Life of the Future (1974)

The sacred life of the future
Will be personally architectural and more
Finely spaced and carefully tuned than ours.
And when something new finally does
Come down to replace it we'll be left
With more than the tall shiny "Go Fuck
Yourself, buddy" of today.
In the future, fine.
In the past, not so good.
At present, its paradise.
Life inside the sexual tin can.
I lift two fingers and its a man.
The fingers walk and its a women.
In the future such constellations
Will become ingredients
Dissolved in the space between each other
Instead of from on high, as it is today, in outer space
Pounding the other person into oblivion
With a big white rubber foot.