Paul Cameron Brown

SANGUINE "The clock indicates the hour but what does enternity indicate?"Whitman Imagine, being told cubism isn't painting. ThatBeardsley didn't die at 26, unheralded as a boy geniusor Corot didn't come to Paris after all. Imagine, The Louvre without a rooftop, theintelligentsia sitting down to a ragged tablesurrounded by sawdust intellects, Proust not beingable to write his... more...

On the night of the rains,water was oozing out fromthe sky's swollen stitches,a rash developed acrossthe meaning of the heavens. The wooden floors of my attic placestrove for a deeper tone,a hoarse callinggrew louder as I pacedtrying to see rain. I followed the gravity of the treasure huntwhere each bounce meant a slapacross a table top of tension,where the window basted winter black rainand... more...

STILLNESS Invitingly, the sea shines her stars,captive flames within an impatient heartas darkness loads the pleasent isles with coarseness,slow sparks rise over a roaring fire. And strolling beaches near dawnwhen the sand fleas & crabs are seen to flee,one catches upon the imperfect stillnessa song of one - wind with seadrawning nearinward, such stars turnas bonds at lastworked free. The moon, at... more...

Not So Much I evaded capture todaywith only a handful of dustto escape that Old Sandman Death. Certainly, those maroon berries,so large & luscious,crowded on their fat stemshad something to do with itas did the ground fogleaving its burrow as so many boll-weevilstheir crowded nests. And there might be something to the factthe moonlight satfat & confidant in the night skyas surelyas my head... more...

WINDFALL Photos along a soft-centred walllike assorted chocolateswith prized centres,tiny miniatures--full portraitsthe young army major, for one,in battle fatigues come full family regalia. Mounting the staircase(tearing back the chocolate paper)shroud hand on the railing,pressuring the cherry liquidinto oozing burst of memory,the nectarine orange of a summer's day.Swing & garden loom into... more...

FLASHPOINT 1The moon has a larderand a kitchen,wears a nightcapas Father in the Night Before Christmas. The moon hoards pistachios,marzipancommands the shadowsis mustachioedsleeps in a sloop(at least when I look)like the boatowl and pussycattook to sea. 3And on country nightsin high summerfishing nets seem drawnabout his face,reveal ribbons of light,eerie panhandlers grubbing quarters;a sinister sailor... more...

The Rake's Progress I borrow De Quincey's Confessionsof an Opium Eater, the aforementionedan account of that singularOriental vice,whereupon misplacing the volumein transitfrom the checkpoint, I attemptto capsulizethe book's misadventures only tosuffer taciturnityon the part of the staff until,the duplicityof a continued numbers game inChinese wearingthin and with lassitude similar tothe... more...

TO CROSS THE BAY "I wouldn't try a crossing in weather like this," warned the old man. "It's a bad time of year, what with the wind and all. Worse still, the lake water is lethal by November. That means if you capsize it will be the chill that does you in." The old man stopped short, conscious of the look of defiance in the youth's eyes. Young fool biting the nose to... more...

COLETTE The waitress mainlinesthe cup under the saucerbalancing it on thewaistband of her armmuch as a junkiemight tie a tourniquet. Wiping the glass edgeof the tableclear of croissant crumbs& watching the barely dryreflection of her ownimage going thru the emotions.the California chicpothouse & gardeniabloom effect ofher work is enoughto leave a dirty smear. And a little fartherthe Fu Manchu... more...