Fish Head, Cold Pan

Those who know me. Intimately. Savagely. Know that I always have a trippy poem in my lint-filled pocket that I often threaten to unleash on society at large. Today I make those idle threats move and release a video poem I call: Fish Head, Cold Pan.

Cost Breakdown:
0 dollars, 2 hours
Value: God’s Personal Toilet Hooch.


Fish Head, Cold Pan from Brian Stewart on Vimeo.


with nowhere to go but up
but up
but why
but when the rug
is up and pulled
while you’re standing
waiting for the magic show
to start
there’s no up
there’s only down low
maybe not yet
but when you’re floating
then the ground is gone
the magic is done
you wake up
and you’re falling
up and away
thrown aside
before the sun
before your daughter
before your life
behind the times
behind your eyes
behind a steering wheel
with nowhere to go but up

He’s a Goner

I was digging through my old hard-drive and unearthed some lost song lyrics in need of a song. I wonder what the song sounded like…

He’s a goner.

barelling by went the train on the tracks
inches from my face, I just laughed
nothing left to fear in this world
hope the next one’s still got a few cheap thrills.

all the stars up the in the sky have names
wishes floating in the airless dead of space

I’m full of shit. I’m so full of hope
I want to stay here, to watch you mold
the joyous sound
of breaking bones
an eggshell walk of shame back home

a million years long gone.

a dog howls at the shadows that don’t bark back
macabre puppet shows for those who don’t react

all the places filled in on the map
there’s nowhere left, nowhere just to relax

I’m low on life
get high on death
I’d rather bleed out than live with this
i learned to hate
looking within
but lay the blame on the camera’s lens

look at me now, all of my reasons
laid on the slab for all to see
what an awful, useless person I could be

“he’s a goner”
“pay your respects
wish him good luck
no more regrets
everybody’s got a lonely journey ahead.”

sitting by the river drinking beer,
eyes grow heavy, gonna be a cold year
sitting by the river drinking beer,
throw your arms around me,

it’s not worth the tears.

Poetry is…

There’s as great a description of poetry as I’ve ever heard in Lena Dunham’s movie Tiny Furniture. It goes:

Poetry is a very stupid thing to be good at. Poems are basically like dreams –something that everybody likes to tell other people but nobody actually cares about when it’s not their own. Which is why poetry is a failure of the intellectual community.

I write poems. I share poems. I will continue to do so. That doesn’t make the above quote any less accurate.


Note: I wrote this for my Grandfather (Bampa) for Christmas to go with a photo of our growing family.

I never had much use for math.
Numbers tell you one thing today
That’s entirely different tomorrow.

I used to believe one minus one equaled zero
But then we lost someone dear to us
And here we are,

at minus one.

When my wife and I met,
It was as two halves of the same whole
And together we became one

Following that math, adding one more
Should have made us two, or maybe three
but it didn’t.

It made us infinite.

Time marches past us, individually
But no matter how fast the hands run,
They can never out lap us as a unit.

Forever is in the palm
Of her tiny outstretched hands
As she reaches for stars

that are already hers.

Bioillogical Wonder

Allow me to sum up my feelings upon beholding my new born daughter, Maya Ariel, in the hospital.

Bioillogical Wonder

It was biological
And yet, bioillogical.
Enough mountain dew to fill a pool
And blindness tempted three times daily
Should have killed any chance I had
To behold her eyes
And within them, that infinite Milky Way.
What a curious thing she was and is, and am
All yawning, skinny and small.
Covered in hair, still a chimpanzee
On the wrong side of evolution
But in the cradle an angel,
And in my arms my saving grace
When she raises that voice
And severs my ties to a life gone by
I let it fall away into the pages
To be pressed, preserved and savored
On holidays and birthdays
Because one day, when my heart skips out on the beat
Hers will play lead, and everyone will dance
To the biorhythm,
To the biohymn.

By: Brian Stewart, June 2011