BRIAN THOMAS SCHULTZ
Brian Thomas Schultz currently resides in Chicago, IL where he is employed by Encyclopaedia Britannica, and writes poetry when there is no other recourse. His work has been published mostly electronically between fits of self-imposed exile and motorcycle salvage. Brian studied Religion and Psychology extensively at the University of Iowa. Concerned with the proliferation of unused human spaces, Brian spends his recreation time renovating severely damaged and previously abandoned houses.
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THE BALLERINA
light in my hand curls and depth
I slept.
feet touching in religious lectures
of fury.
to be a couple we pretended you honored
me in present.
seeing the dance with flowers and your parents
I fled.
a game of magical touch for a love
on the lam.
now a story I could tell of a Delilah who fit
in my hand.
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TECHNOLOGIES ARE CREATED BECAUSE PEOPLE CANNOT WAIT FOR THEM.
The reflection of flourescence brings to mind
A time of nights in the desert
Surrounded by ghostly appiritions,
Recently uncovered from the depths of the shifting sands.
Left alone for weeks, the heat of hell
Dropped to bitter freezing with the loss of the sun
And in these windblown nights my lost neighbors were often revealed:
Some mules, horses, other animal forms, and people.
There is a reaction in bones, left to the air in a dark night.
The phosphorescent glowing hulks dotted the landscape
On the moonless nights where I wandered to contemplate our lands,
These void spaces we raced to conquer with pickaxe and steam.
And reaching a windowless city at last,
Hewn into the rock side of a mountain
I rested in one of the rooms, watching through the fire vent a sky
Of blue firmament for those who never needed to reach the sea.
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I SPRAINED MY ANKLE
I saw a shooting star between the limbs
While my fingers wiped blood across my face.
How our bones seemed like the hardwood trees,
As I watched them both burn.
Earlier today I fixed an aged speaker
With a lead iron I borrowed from old Nixon.
Now I am waiting for the wound on my finger to congeal
Like the flux paste and solder of six hours past.
Patent pending September 7th ninety-seven,
And that's 18 hundreds my friend.
I lost my focus looking at the old typewriter,
Cauterizing my thoughts of thirteen.
I have seen this old Laurel, but--
You should hear her preach God by campfire.
Now with my dearest, I realize
All you need is to close some doors to get a little warmth.
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SIGNIFICANCE OF THE CALENDAR
Tripping up stairs on the way home,
These Chicago falls cold on my face
When The Fish were boiling, I
Went drinking and thinking.
Images from the past containing me,
My parents not so much older than I,
Now,
Not so long ago.
Look to disagreement and meet silence,
Vehemence is a completely human undertaking
And my attention is too filled with
The rustling of the dead leaving.
So much warmth and loss,
We've all seen the Universe expand and contract.
Of all our dreams of houses, rooms recently left empty
never a soul but y(our) own.