Study My Brain, Please
Study my brain, please.
Dreadful final request,
Flower’d consolation,
pitiful politeness
upon misunderstood iron graveyard.
What vulnerability—
this hopeless plea for relief.
Study my brain, please,
Invitation to explore
the inexplicable.
Though, what physical constitution
can dare explain origin in forever?
An infinite cosmos,
whose severe blackness
declares every starry constellation,
pebble of sand on the shore.
Study my brain, please,
inverted trojan horse
to NFL, Not For Long,
from one, amongst many,
who didn’t make it,
whose simple trot
still stamped violent footprint
from sport that injects love’s delayed poison.
Study my brain, please,
like young gold jackets
who ignited private insurrection
against only culprit
of their undetected demise.
Lawsuits settled to perpetuate one deceptive enterprise,
whose future relies on addicts
who cannot turn their eyes.
Study my brain, please.
As if he already knows the answer,
trigger pulled,
misdirected on innocent,
with returned vitriol on his own heart,
what power brain holds,
when his heart ends his life?
Where does discerned desire arrive
to recommend suicide?
What pain to see death through
when desolate landscapes
hold nothing to remind?
Study my brain, please,
like study rotten fruit
that falls from rotten tree
with shallow roots
settled in pool of reddening mud,
constricted by thorns.
What study on fruit
can cure Eve’s reach for its shine?
And what good would persuade
her away from paradise?
Study my brain, please.
As if this request would end the travesty,
where mothers hoist their sons
in some grand lottery,
and plead to be saved
by broken branches.
***
One of the Lucky Ones
When coaches spoke free education & football, I salivated,
& when they said eat, don’t mind if I do. Where are the plates?
Endless buffet: custom-order omelets, chicken enchiladas,
pan-seared, medium-rare steaks, free tutors, classes, books,
room & board, and for dessert, ample cake, & boy, was I hungry.
I over-consumed often, rarely starving, but there were vacancies.
I heard every complaint, complacency, pompous decadence, insufficiency,
imperfection, preoccupation & excuses when they didn’t get reps,
still demanded more, banked on initial allure, NFL-bound,
eyes locked on future, captured, waited for their lucky number,
even discouraged to feast now, simply graduate, with what degree,
what time, what foundation, daily brutality, convinced identity
depends on accolades received, empty mind besieged.
But, lucky me, detected warning signs, lucrative soldier factory,
before lofty cliff arrived, below darkness pleaded yearly feast,
& even though I fell, terminal velocity, lucky me, I knew the end
only the beginning, a flicker engulfed egoistic filth
which condensed me, effervescent buoyancy, but fatal regret,
fasted during holy banquet, entrained routine, plunged victims into void.
***
Sports Talk
At least we fight, proud of us, we just can’t finish,
we are this close, we have potential, play the back-up,
what if they cared, tried, for once, recruits are not here
for money, no, they do care about us, loyal, one stepped
on an opponent’s hand, on purpose, apologized, we still adore him,
captain. Coach, won games here before, raging tyrant,
quarterbacks terrified, wrecked motorcycle, definitely not his wife,
team ecstatic when fired, program disintegrated, resurrected,
new dawn, lesson learned, we still love him, admirable comeback story,
as long as we win. But did you hear about the tragedies:
three former stars died recently, under 35, mere coincidence,
another hit a tree, 36, once leading tackler near paralyzed, one brain cancer,
another cardiac arrest, 25, another arrested, psychosis and gun,
never touched a dollar here, never mind, money will solve it.
They broke my heart again. I do not want to be delusional,
we should settle for about six, sometimes seven, eight, if we’re lucky.
Maybe next year, if they fight, but first, more money, for recruiting.
***
Golfing
If you swing the club like this: chin tucked, eyes down, locked,
white dimpled ball propped, chiseled wooden tree,
grip in perfect position, like this, your hands close upon collision,
internal rotation, on impact push through the ball, like this,
broom sweep, stay focused! even after the ball transports into outer space,
the ball may settle exactly where you want it, center fairway,
rare experience for me, they say it approximates climax, but it is not
just about the swing, but minimum four hours, golf course, blazing summer,
licorice-colored coolers, defeated ice, angry beer, white nicotinic lozenge,
extreme infuriation when the ball doesn’t land exactly right there, middle,
drive cart through mud, adjust the ball a bit, over and over again, then
return to clubhouse, crush a sandwich, more beer, blue-ish, and talk about
how the ball betrayed you, thermostats, how many lives lost, how time flies,
how focus flies, how your money was robbed, and by then the white paint has dried.
***
Christmas in the Fall
Game day, like Christmas morning, amplified: at least twelve times per year,
maybe more, if you’re nice. Patient torture, all year hyper-obedience, all night
potential outcomes replace sound sleep: Quarterback waits in the pocket,
like milk & cookies, then CRACK! flattened, but what if you miss
the running back, behind the center, SMACK, 75,000 collective “Oooo’s,”
stare above stadium lights, where stars dance, awaken drowned in sweat.
Followed by an extravagant routine, wade through sea of drunken tailgaters,
jean shorts, Hog hats, mint edition Peter Millars, they expect a win, remind you twice,
selfies with grown men, kids high-five, quick rehearsal of last night’s nightmare:
don’t forget to look there. Locker room tension resistant to knives,
jerseys insulate pads like paint, I’m the statue birds defecate on, run out anyway.
Fireworks, flyovers, pompoms, somersaults, WOOO PIGS, one last amen.
Whistle blows, like cannonball explosions toward battle lines, bodies fly, helmets crack,
does it makes you wonder? Not now, I’m ravenous, what logic is this:
tackle human powerhouses built like trucks, F1 engines, so am I, lucky me,
what a gift: we win, which only lasts a second, forget it happened, then repeat it.
***
Aaron
Where does blame fall in deplorable situations?
The boy raised without a sire, with a unique gift,
who never grew up, every coach salivated, he could be lifted
out of the muck, they plucked him from the high hill before most
would give credence, he was the kingpin to their ascension, rarely lost even,
a dazzling sun in the night sky, he could fly, stumbled often,
he wasn’t fathered still, unrefined, green-lighted, lest their championship
momentum festered, but when their interests misaligned,
he was abandoned, too immature still for next-level’s northern lights,
reckless, rules broken, self-protected by his aura, ill-prepared,
but they knew he could help them, he was lifted again, lately taken.
They weren’t incorrect, they were champions, they encouraged him,
for good measure, but when he was handed the keys to the rocket ship,
he exploded in the sky, a hell-blazing comet; they denounced every critic.
So, tell me, who’s to blame: the kid looking for a north star, lured to chase
the flames of his mistress, could nobody see this outcome on his horizon,
or those who watched as he burnt, for them, and didn’t bother to extinguish?
***
Altee
Five-star smile, since birth, thorough-bred,
North Little Rock native, recruited,
every school in nation, wanted, published
in newspapers every weekend, five-star
to his core, Saban arrived at door, knocking,
bound for greatness, bound for upper-
echelon, signed to Crimson Tide,
ran with ultra-talented, competed,
first-time he’s had to work to stand out,
troubled, congested with substances,
coaches tried to help him, couldn’t
be contained, confusion, what role if not
on field contribution? always best, never waited
in line, left to play, another school, rogue,
again, caught in loop, restless, wanted,
talented, undisciplined, another school,
guns, police, suspended, traveled home,
lost control at the wheel, gone at 20,
onus on entrained ravenous lamb.
***
Surfing
Surfing, almost a fairytale, too good to be true,
abuse white-peaked blue barrel, rages behind you,
off Nosara’s coast, pink-orange streaks on western sky,
image itself almost enough to reach nirvana. I never once thought
I would suffer from paranoia, poly-urethane floor-board,
salt water waves propel me toward shore, like everyone else,
and fearless five-year-olds who haven’t been brainwashed yet,
risk it all, regardless, until my bold attempt, and the entire two-hour session
I bank on that rose to blind me from budding thorn, maybe,
this isn’t what I came for, because in reality, it’s more like
I am a pile of soiled laundry, the objective is to escape the machine,
pure, but I can hardly realize I have not progressed toward vanishing point,
where the waves are born, instead, nose dive every three seconds,
board and limbs flail, nobody noticed, avoid white-wash that staunches nostrils,
and they recommend waiting for the perfect one, but that’s a fairytale too,
and after just twenty minutes of white-wash, I just want to go home.
***
Comic Relief
Undrafted free-agent, New England, spring 2017,
six banners, Hall of Famers, Belichick & Brady,
twenty-six rookies, doubtful I’d make top fifty-three,
true surreality, and nausea, suffocating pressure,
clenched, wound extra tight, best describes routine,
daily try-outs to remind disposability, head down,
yes sir! team first! no one above the team, like I could be
one of them, inches away from every kid’s dream!
until they haze me, I pray, do not to call my name, then again I do,
then they do, I wish they didn’t, ask about the game,
instead I’m comic relief, say something interesting or funny,
I started a t-shirt company called Big Rock. Coach Pat
blurts, F*** your t-shirt company, checks sparse
auditorium for approval, crickets, thumbs down,
half-apologizes, now I know we’re not friendly.
Then I stand in front, with misbehaved, dull, humorless,
instead of reviewing practice tape, I’m not recorded anyway,
I’m no part of this team, I’m supposed to want to be.
Late nights, internet searches, funny jokes, playbook unopened,
I settle, another interesting fact, Grandad had 5 daughters,
what do you want from me? Flatline— what I wished my heart
would do, carry me on a stretcher, away from this hellscape,
I just want to play football, wait, no, go home, why am I here again?
***
David Brooks Ellis is a poet, speaker, and former NFL football player. He holds an MS from Georgetown University in Integrative Medicine and Health Sciences, and BA from the University of Arkansas. Ellis was born in Dallas, TX, grew up in Fayetteville, AR, and currently lives in NYC. He can be found on X @ellis_davidb or on Substack: davidbrooksellis.substack.com.
