Poem – At Last (By Michael H. Brownstein)

The simple lies so easy not to tell,
One hell of ice.
A Hall of Fame for those not nice,
The predator of life.
One cannot hold a flame bare in their hands,
But one can help blisters grow
And lick their bloody scabs raw.
I know.
On the table near the thumbs and eyes,
Fresh pressed buttons, six stenciled lies,
A brand new card, someone’s nose.
The truth is new, a crippled pose.

Author Bio: Michael H. Brownstein

Michael H. Brownstein has been widely published throughout the small and literary presses. His work has appeared in The Café Review, American Letters and Commentary, Skidrow Penthouse, Xavier Review, Hotel Amerika, Free Lunch, Meridian Anthology of Contemporary Poetry, The Pacific Review, and others. In addition, he has nine poetry chapbooks including The Shooting Gallery (Samidat Press, 1987), Poems from the Body Bag (Ommation Press, 1988), A Period of Trees (Snark Press, 2004), What Stone Is (Fractal Edge Press, 2005), I Was a Teacher Once (Ten Page Press, 2011), Firestorm: A Rendering of Torah (Camel Saloon Press, 2012), The Possibility of Sky and Hell: From My Suicide Book (White Knuckle Press, 2013) and The Katy Trail, Mid-Missouri, 100 Degrees Outside and Other Poems (Kind of Hurricane Press, 2013). He is the editor of First Poems from Viet Nam (2011).