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, After Hours, Free Lunch, Meridian Anthology of Contemporary Poetry, The Pacific Review, Posse Review, poetrysuperhighway.com and others. In addition, he has eight poetry chapbooks including The Shooting Gallery (Samidat Press, 1987), Poems from the Body Bag (Ommation Press, 1988), A Period of Trees (Snark Press, 2004) and What Stone Is (Fractal Edge Press, 2005).
Brownstein taught elementary school in Chicago’s inner city (he is now retired), but he continues to study authentic African instruments with his students, conducts grant-writing workshops for educators and the State of Illinois Title 1 Convention, and records performance and music pieces with grants from the City of Chicago’s Department of Cultural Affairs, the Oppenheimer Foundation, BP Leadership Grants, and others.
All of Brownstein's publications can be purchased for $8.00 (price includes postage and handling) by mailing a check or money order to POB 1892, Jefferson City, MO 65109.
Email: [email protected]
THE SOUND OF FEAR LATE IN THE MIDNIGHT HOUR We talk about everything I don't want to talk about, and that is enough. Quiet sings from beyond windowed walls and earth does expose men gone to pieces. It's just that machine-guns really are that loud and there really is intrinsic value to pain. My daughter asks if blood washes vegetation, if words can come from soil when it rains. I'm afraid I do not know if I will ever understand the answer. --first published in Milk Magazine
After the Moon Fills Itself with Milk the lightning bug tree in the middle of the grove the sand break in the middle of the river the blackened angel cloud in the middle of the noon sky the stone and red leaf, the driftwood and oyster puddle the cold rain of winter, a brown bear waking to the snow a track along the ice in the middle of the storm December, the drought ending, rain washed trees bleeding their color and one quarried house at the edge of the great swamp of snow --first published by Autumn SkyBody Bags Time is not of essence here emptying body bags near the ocean, sand heavy with waste, mud and water feeling for bone. There is quiet now, the quiet of sunset, the quiet of sunrise, the quiet of dance- dance without sound. Fog covers holes gaping at stars, settles the last of the rot in the jungle, forces emergency planes away. There is one image I will never let go: the man builds a casket for his shattered wife and holds her as if he is slow dancing with her one last waltz. --first published by Ommation Presws and Tamil Week @2010 Michael H. Brownstein