Brett Underwood will be one of three featured readers at the •chance operations• reading at the Tavern of Fine Arts, 313 Belt Avenue, on Monday, January 27.
Other featured readers will be Sean Arnold and Jim McGowin.
Doors open at 7:30 p.m. Admission is FREE.
Musical guest: David Parker, solo jazz piano.
Open-mic follows the featured readers.
Brett Lars Underwood is a bartending gadabout who writes, promotes and produces happenings and mishaps in St. Louis, Missouri. He's quicker with the stink eye than verbal reprimands and favors the brushback pitch over preemptive warfare. He has the wingspan of an albatross and would prefer cash.
Man's Crisis of Identity
A)
Button the lip but for a daft witticism
disinfecting citified minivan stories
stewed in knotted midsection oven
mittens telling the ancient news networks
with finger signals that fry the nothings and
insist incidents jumped the fence
dense but the dang boss (trafficker of snores)
in the picture was gone dripped off the smile
of the moneymaking pep in the step, fuck the
criticism splatter jism
amidst nomads and their lawn furniture
sin and wetted with snorts from a
sweaty bottle of brown glass flew
over a confirmed tiny sister sitter
on the facelessness of the worker
who poured the gravity of labor and Santa
gave his lumbago to the slelves
yep—slave elves---
not to mention tiny sirs and philanthropic
yuppies gifting guppies to a shark.
B)
Social lacing never quite hinders unseen
in the hump fields of the nevermind.
The stripping of hazy ids that couldn’t
begin to lend abstraction to the expected
bocce ball precedent pretending when
that ditzy sixball’s scent drips on a coerced ditz.
Or maybe the next hit spy rallying for the
invite of a possibility that the Moondaig to drizzle
Mussolini sugarnecktard on the rim of your grinchole low
the cloud working a lunch shift on Wednesday.
Weep easy. Weep long. Wipe the drips from your gentle smirk.
Loosen the reins of your worksteady belch, ye
clodhoppers, ye Gophermenz.
Then, there came at last,
“Old crayon, you grizzle”, from near
the space needle of no syringe.
At the end of the day, his back
aches and she still smells like onions
muttering gravely into the whiskey
and half drunk ales.
Misery in the tea asks, “Why, mystery?”
at the rust in his socks.
C)
Ice Cream, a time void forcing you,
willing you to believe that you're an angel
to let that pouty dictator melt over the cone
to your cunning fingers of bliss that hold the
magic…oh! The magic!
The magic to render that mourning skeleton
into a man who no longer regrets having
butchered his mother’s tongue... or letting you slip
Cheerios into his guitar hole.
-- Brett Lars Underwood
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