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Jordan Brown
ChicagoPhotographer & Poet
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My bruised feet and the riverbed
a man from my childhood called me–
he wasn’t a man when i last knew him
outfitted with baggy suit pants,
his clandestine desires of men
and women and forbidden fruit
to talk about his father—
a man i looked up to for some time,
a firefighter and hypnotic speaker—
about his unwavering ambivalence
for blood and things unseen
somewhere along the 700 miles
of rugged terrain and twisted
telephone lines, i misheard his
voice like a peace treaty
for the fouls afoot
there is a cannonball that lives
in my gut, shot across the crusading
doctrine of blamelessness
by some settler’s manifesto
i have been running
from my past for some time—
long before i set foot in the Midwest
or my mother stowed her lover’s
ashes in the closet under the stairs—
across interstates and riverbeds
an open wound that has since
gone septic and numb
my shadows have grown tired
on a desperate quest —
beyond kingdom halls and recollections,
beyond the whispers of failing fathers
pleading with lives I led
wrapped around my hand
and leg, like a cowboy at a coleo
tracking down the lies i told
just to hold them close
now i reckon with its reflections
through fragmented glass of skyscrapers
or secret meetings between cell towers
fading into static like flickering faith
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two kestrels fight over the west side (the brothers’quarrel)
along the way we held our breath at a rest stop one hundred ninety-two miles outside of town.
i told you i was leaving for good, like the summer of 2007, in that scorching hot room while you became a man and I was still a liar.
you felt it leave your body when I apologized for my petulant nature and lack of empathy the night they strung you up in front of city hall.
laughing about the ground we’ve covered. crying to songs that sound like art galleries through my busted speaker.
stranded in the past with all of our dead friends.
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two kestrels fight over the west side (the brothers’quarrel)
along the way we held our breath at a rest stop one hundred ninety-two miles outside of town.
i told you i was leaving for good, like the summer of 2007, in that scorching hot room while you became a man and I was still a liar.
you felt it leave your body when I apologized for my petulant nature and lack of empathy the night they strung you up in front of city hall.
laughing about the ground we’ve covered. crying to songs that sound like art galleries through my busted speaker.
stranded in the past with all of our dead friends.
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october 19th
from underneath
the honey locust
hiding in plain sight,
like rising sea levels
or your conspiracy theories
about the end of the world
a cadaver burned in
the basement
of a funeral parlor
spread across an expressway
that was once a home
my body lies to me
about its size and courage
saying i cannot still
be so brazen and so
selfish
today, i stopped myself
from writing you
in fear of the implications
such closure can bring
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(Untitled) Derecho | Jordan Alan Brown
#poetry#poem#spilled ink#creative writing#jordan alan brown#spilled thoughts#poet#writing#tumblr poetry#original#photo poem#photography#exlpore#vispo#visual poem#fujifilm
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lately, the world has reminded me of all the emptiness that exist.
in physical spaces, dominated and overdeveloped by man, just to be left abandoned. in people, behind their busy gazes and lonely meandering—living for duty and nothing more. in the values of capitalism—the excess that we thrive for, that is just survival, that is wanting a place to sleep, and food to eat, and a purpose to feel.
somedays i find myself grappling with this concept, staring straight into it, like a mirror, reflecting the numbness of trauma and pain onto my brown skin and wirey beard.
somedays, i am the light—a beacon of connection and hope. community pumping through my veins. presence shot from my eyes, cascading though my body and spirit.
here are some photos about the former.
📸: fujifilm x-t4
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some winter shots over the past few years
#photographer#photo#photo of the day#chicago#streetphotography#street photography#fujifilm#black artist
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lately, the world has reminded me of all the emptiness that exist.
in physical spaces, dominated and overdeveloped by man, just to be left abandoned. in people, behind their busy gazes and lonely meandering—living for duty and nothing more. in the values of capitalism—the excess that we thrive for, that is just survival, that is wanting a place to sleep, and food to eat, and a purpose to feel.
somedays i find myself grappling with this concept, staring straight into it, like a mirror, reflecting the numbness of trauma and pain onto my brown skin and wirey beard.
somedays, i am the light—a beacon of connection and hope. community pumping through my veins. presence shot from my eyes, cascading though my body and spirit.
here are some photos about the former.
📸: fujifilm x-t4
39 notes
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Text
lately, the world has reminded me of all the emptiness that exist.
in physical spaces, dominated and overdeveloped by man, just to be left abandoned. in people, behind their busy gazes and lonely meandering—living for duty and nothing more. in the values of capitalism—the excess that we thrive for, that is just survival, that is wanting a place to sleep, and food to eat, and a purpose to feel.
somedays i find myself grappling with this concept, staring straight into it, like a mirror, reflecting the numbness of trauma and pain onto my brown skin and wirey beard.
somedays, i am the light—a beacon of connection and hope. community pumping through my veins. presence shot from my eyes, cascading though my body and spirit.
here are some photos about the former.
📸: fujifilm x-t4
39 notes
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View notes
Text
lately, the world has reminded me of all the emptiness that exist.
here are some photos about the former.
📸: fujifilm x-t4
#photographer#photo#photography#street photography#fujifilm#moody#chicago#lonesome#midwest#aesthetic#trending#fine art#black art#black artist
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While You Were Away | 11/19/2015
Jordan Alan Brown
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Kinder Words From Beneath My Yellow Knit Cap | 12/3/2015
Jordan Alan Brown
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Untitled (Derecho) | Jordan Alan Brown
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i’ve been dreaming of the house i grew up in. my chest tightens when i sense those crumbling ceilings and feel the dry air from the radiator and the ever zealous eyes of guilt. i don’t who i would be without any of that. i don’t know where i’d belong.
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