FANDOM


Dancing Over The Fury Edit

1st Revised 5/21/04

2nd Revision 11/3/06

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/18/2003 11:03:07 PM ©2003

Dancing Over The Fury

Dancing Over The Fury is my second book. In actuality, it is both finished and a work in progress. Each Day I will be uploading more work from within the work itself to The Starlight Cafe, where the work can be embelished. I intend to keep a table of contents here, with links to the works that have been uploaded. Feel free to give me your thoughts, expressions, or criticisms, I would definitely like to hear them. This is a public journal, but not yet to the point of syndication or registration. For those of you in the HTML world, you will know what this means. In any case, enjoy your readings, and I expect a full report when you are finished. The Doctor is signing out. -Chris

Chapter 1 Edit

Culture Jam

Why Netscape Radio Plus Is AwesomeEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/2/2003 3:29:15 PM ©2003


The thoughts just noodle into your brain

While you sit there typing or surfing

Or whatever.


I’ve been enjoying this thing for days.

Spiraling trip hops of jazz

Spinning around chordbeats

And little synchronized sample drops

And the fun never stops.

The Spider CrawlEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/4/2003 3:13:01 PM

©2003


Peter Parker

Doesn’t know

How Good

He’s got it.


To be able

To crawl up walls

Spin webs

And drift through

Thin air

On a silken

Tensile

Rope.

He jumps

And Hurdles

From building

To building

In his grey Nike’s.

And I gather

That he’s even

Quick minded

With the science

And Stuff.

Wall St. DaysEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/6/2003 3:54:41 PM ©2003


The days passed quickly

Up-tempo and bleary

Discussions of garment racks

And the K-Mart crisis

Pitched in my ears.

We talked of

Buyer stratification

And market segmentation

And delivery of goods services

And content.


We studied the Super Bowl

The year the Patriots won

And broke down the

Commercial statistics

In the USA Today.


And we learned

to manage our pocketbooks

And determine our financial position

So that maybe one day

We might buy stocks


And Bonds.

The Gentle Voices of Bossa NovaEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/5/2003 12:44:37 AM

©2003


Poetry is a shared experience.

As I write

The Gentle Voices of Bossa Nova

Tingle in my ears.


I am treated to the sounds

Of a dynamic jazz flute

Over a standing Bass

And some quick drum snaps.


The meandering quick

And uptempo gestures

Of the rhythmic sounds

Vibrate against my melodic spirit


And then

A slow intermission

Introducing Piano

And guitar.


Could there be more exciting variance?

Thank You MichaelEdit

5/10/2003 4:22:13 PM

©2003

by Christopher J. Bradley

Dedicated to Michael Jordan

Dark Buddhist Angel

Of The Sphere

Mover of the winds of the Globe

By the Achilles of a Nike you fly.

Even now that you have

Moved into philanthropic ventures.


How I mourn you

The loss of your father

And the hours of regrettable journalism

With regard to the Sox

We know it was spirit healing

Never Bull.


Thank you for inspiring us

Through your return

A political wizardry

And reminding us

That even as the years pass

We remain inspired.

The Fire Hydrant DogEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/4/2003 2:45:06 PM


The Dalmation sat upright

On it’s haunches

On the t-shirts

Of a hundred

Club Kids

In the flickering embers

Of the night-time glow

Inside the retrofit


Parking ramp.


I heard DJ Megabitch

Spin a terminator track

So I danced around

Dreaming New York Spots.


That was the night

I met David

Eating Oranges

In the Room Full of Remnants

And other cushy fluff.


And I went home

With my very own


Fire Hydrant Dog.

A Fallen BondEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/8/2003 8:20:06 AM

©2003


It was seven o’clock

When I heard of Roger Moore’s collapse.

His paroxysm struck on Broadway

And no doubt in a whirlwind of outburst.


The thought of it all

My hero from age seven

A novel relic from the age of Flemming

That would nourish me with finesse

And not heresy.

It would enlighten

Even the finicky film watchers

To see his name stretched across the heavens.


I pray that he does not go too soon.

Pow Bang Flap Boom!Edit

By Christopher J. Bradley

4/27/2003 2:20 PM


The Riddler Joker Penguin and Catwoman

Have all set their snares

For the notorious Adam West

Man turned Bat

Bat turned Hero.


They are on a collision course

With the gloved fist

That will find them all in stripes

Arch enemies locked behind bars


Isn’t it uncanny that

We would find them lurking

In the dark corners of morning

On a tiny black and white image box

Behind the terminal that often crashes

Next to a filing cabinet

Where the old goods are kept.


It is good to see that

At least across times sands

The old Batman reels

Have Survived.

Life in the fast laneEdit

5/10/2003 1:36:14 PM ©2003

by Christopher J. Bradley


They moved like greased lightening

The finger strokes of Henley and the boys

In the licks on the string tool.


The guitar hummed in the darkness

And a car sped away in the night

Headlights blazing on the corner of Packard

And the Boulevard.


It reminded me of younger days

When I watched videos

Of “All she wants to do is dance”

And “The boys of summer.”


Miami Vice was all the rage

And Crockett and Tubbs were

Large and in charge

In their three piece detective suits

In the heat of Miami Sun.


But then we all knew that Henley

Had been to California and back

And from that

Well it kind of becomes

Home.

A February Kiss in The RainEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/6/2003 3:44:29 PM

©2003

Thank you Marvel


I cannot see you

Until your eyelids glisten

In the harmonics

Of the pattering rain.


I try to speak

But I am enrapt

By the sheer and utter

Beauty

Of simply

Hearing your face

As the wet pearls

Of water

Dance upon

Your cheeks.


And I am so taken in

When we at last

Kiss

And the journey

To this rooftop

In the Manhattan night

Is fulfilled.


Thank You.

Can you see what I see?Edit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/6/2003 4:16:50 PM

©2003


May 15 2003

They drop the second

Bomb on

The Matrix.

And the spiders

scatter

It’s the end

Of human cocoons

Everywhere.


It’s almost time

For the

enslaved masses

To arise

And make

Their Exodus

With Neo

As their guide.


The albino

dreadlocks

can phase shift

and Trinity

Still has her kicks.

All that I

Can Wonder

Is will it

Have the same

Punch

That

The Zen Differential

Would have?


Or will it

Just be

Another

Pase sequel?


Only time

Will tell.

washington st matrixEdit

by Christopher J. Bradley

4/23/2003 3:35:59 AM

©2003

for all telecom people inspired by Gibson


Multi-Media

BigTime

The journey into everything corporate

Retail phases out behind steel rims

I am standing at the 3rd floor elevator

Escorted to Paul’s cubicle


It’s all ties briefcases and planners

Deskwork headsets and terminals

Flowcharts graphs reports and schedules

The timepieces are on the walls

These are the days of 3.1


February 95

Seven months and counting

Until the big change

The personal computer

Will never be the same


The interview was last week

I’ve been hired

The project he outlines for me is Disney

The Lion King Animated Story Book

A public relations nightmare

From a technical perspective


Two weeks training commence

A customer service M.A.S.H. unit boot camp

All of the rigors of DOS and Windows

And an Access composite Database

A quick introduction to Microsoft Mail

The precursor to modern Outlook


For three months the Callmaster was my overseer

I punched keys and executed clicks with precision

I pasted notes and scanned faxes

I learned cool down tactics

And rewrote code without paper or machine


With the headset locked on my temples like a vice

I was a verbal relay, a conduit

I rattled out execution orders for driver updates

I reconstructed autoexec and config files

And depressurized the callers en masse


One Saturday in May the ice broke

I went to the McDonalds for lunch

On the way back I peered into

the cinema window

There was a slick posted for

Johnny Mnemonic


Keanau in sharkskin grey against The Matrix

After my shift I called home

To let my parents know that I would be late

The entire spectrum of the bizarre

had hit pay-dirt

Internet 2021 had opened for me

in the Voidspace

The Washington St.

Market Arcade General Cinema

With the projector alight beside my employer

was a home to Gibson.

opening the mnemonicEdit

by Christopher J. Bradley

4/23/2003 3:56:27 AM

For those who know


The title flared and phased away

An alarm clock flickers in his iris

He sits up to the vidphone

With a prostitute black silked at his side

He makes a bad attempt to bargain with his fixer


The sequence is Beijing hotel

Gate crashing protesters revolt as he wades

In and through the shields and batons of riot cops

A silence counterpoints in the lobby

Twin girls and his head refracted in a fish bowl


In an elevator he unwraps a fake cigarette pack

The dial whizzes past red digital digits

While the gigabyte expander taps his mind

The doors open and he squares off

Delivering a nonexistent pizza to armed research defects


He jacks into a minidisc and they feed him the data

Three images click click click

The minds eye opens and he’s in the bathroom

A nosebleed into a chrome sink reflects mirrored

Laser flare – The motion sensor trips

Canceled Tai Chi becomes re-arrangement of the towel rack


They enter the room with trauma guns

Blue anime shrieks with the meeting of lead and red plasma

The laser whip cuts fingers and color photo fax

A bald head meets steel piping crashing to bathtub marble

Those left clear him a tight path to the door

In the elevator Johnny dons a Lennon wig rose colored lenses and a topcoat


It’s a quick step back past the fishbowl

No more twins – A quick turn – He’s back in the riots

The NAS signs flood like driftweeds into the China night

The plane arrives on a Jersey industrial runway

The digital inspector reads his implant as dyslexia prosthetic


It knows that it is seeping

A deadly consequence of his masking of the truth.

Chapter 2 Edit

Politicking and Coffee

The man going off to warEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/2/2003 2:45:48 PM


The man going off to war

Sat quietly among his friends

Not a hint of a tear

In the corner of his eye.

His friends are brothers

Of the Lambda Phi Epsilon fraternity

A true brotherhood of proud students

From the University

It stands to their credit

That they are sending him off

As a United House.


Through their memories

And tellings of his legacy

They make him a hero

Today and forever.

The Anniversary of a TragedyEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

Dedicated to those lost in the

September 11 attacks.


In one year

Our family has lost a member

And I have gained a sister

We have lost one dog

And found another.


A friend has lost a mother

But gained a nephew

Another has come home from Peru

And moved to Illinois.


I have traveled into the Big Apple

And Been visited 3 times

By my relatively new friend

From New York Manhattan Queens.


The globe has spun 365 times

Traveled around the sun once

Bringing Winter Spring

Summer and now Fall.


The World Cup and The Olympics

The Stanley Cup Superbowl

PGA and Baseball seasons

Have all commenced

Many have completed

And are ready to restart.


I personally have lost a job

But gained employment

Sold a Saturn and Bought a Ford

Written a book and published a web

page.


I have met people of all sorts

From the users to the pushers

And Every Manner In-Between

And those who’ve somehow managed to

avoid it all.


I have composed my treatise on peace.


When we do remember the dead

Let us not forget

That they have not only departed from

this earth


But from the living

Breathing

Artists Scientists Doctors

Lawyers Firemen Teachers

Police Armed Forces Poets

And Actors

Who will carry on their hopes

And dreams

In the works of their hands

And minds


Each year from now

Until the history books

Of all living memory

Are closed.

Why I now think Linda is an excellent waitressEdit

By Christopher Bradley

10/10/02 Dedicated to Linda at Toms


At first I didn’t like Linda

I think I just hadn’t got to know her yet

So I decided to get to know her better

I asked her if she had kids

And whether she was Italian.

She has an Italian demeanor and dark hair.


Over the course of weeks

I learned that she has a romantic interest

And has been through a divorce

For some people I have learned that

That works out best anyway.


All of these things together

Help me to see her as human

Someone with potential

Someone definitely worth more than her wage

For care-taking us night-owls.


I have now just today learned

That she has worked for some classier restaurants

But chooses Tom’s for convenience.

She has told a few of us regulars

About her friend the Safari hunter in the Philharmonic

Who has rooms full of taxidermy.

And she knows her worth

And how to put her foot down

When she needs to.


And so I am happy to leave her a tip

Even when I am in the “Red Zone”

Because I know she works hard

To keep the establishment clean and comfortable

When I am around.


And she keeps a weathered smile

Because for all the troubles she encounters

She knows that a better road lies ahead

For those who can maintain their dignity

In the face of adversity.


Upon further reflection

That smile isn’t so weathered after all

Let’s just call it

Genuine.

Bankrupt in the USAEdit

by Christopher J. Bradley

(c)2003


I am in Bankruptcy

Das Kapital did none for me

I am in Bankruptcy

Driving to the edge for free.


God save the President

He cuts taxes

While they raise rent

And guns only make butter.


I am in Bankruptcy

And the Greek Feta isn't Free

I am in Bankruptcy

But I can still afford Dragonball Tea.


Monopoly on Channel 23

Headroom's got his camera on me

And BMW's got hi-def

Footage Stream.


I am in Bankruptcy

And this red horse

is on white lightening

while I'm seeing stars

come over me.


I am in Bankruptcy.

2020 A Man Steps DownEdit

by Christopher J. Bradley

(c)2003


In the year 2020

The president resigned

He was unable to fulfill his promise

To bring prosperity

In a time of peace.


He was confronted with the fact

That by 2014 the threat of

global terrorism

had been eliminated

by three consecutive terms

of Republican predecessors

In all three branches of government


There was no one left to kill

To stimulate the economy.

Which had been weakened by the draft

which had eliminated

Some of the most creative minds of history.


He had been left

To serve a nation

Of sedate television and webbie audience

carefully drugged and surveilled


What possible scandal could harm him?


Beside that

The machines could do as good a job.

The Gaslight PoetEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

4/16/2003

©2003


It is in his nature

That he imbibes fully in life

Seizing the proverbial night

In a hotel lounge.


Lighting cigarettes

Gradually

Over Martinis

With friends of Sinatra.


By day

He pushes rubber and steel

Iaccoca’s revitalized Detroit Dream

And beyond the hotel


I go to him.


I go to him to share the news

I go to him to laugh again

To find those parts of myself

That I hope not to seek


Beyond the grave.


I share with him that place

Where Israel meets Bethlehem

Finding the waters of the mighty

Niagara.


At 3AM I find solace

In caffeine and smoke


The light glows a pale yellow

In our souvlaki garden.


And the keys to iron horses

And german engineering

Rest on a poker bet

Against those forces

We cannot control.


So we must pray for serenity

To endure.


For a time is coming

Where Blackhawks will crash

Dropping Chicago

On useless hardware.


And those blue eyes

Of Memphis

On New Years Eve in Egypt

Recorded and Timeless

At the turn of the Millenium

Will crash the virus of September

On Bloody St. Patrick.


And so we sit

Idly praying

Lighting on a new tomorrow

Where the beaten women

And tread on children

And cannon fodder atheists

Might not not have to go gently

Into that good sand


Without the nobility of knowing

That the honorable battle

Was endured.

The fade a quiEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

4/28/2003 ©2003


The fade a qui

May be wielded

By one hand alone

The hand of Paul Maudeeb.


Paul has been trained by the sisterhood

And has aquired the voice.

He is waiting for the storm to come

Waiting for the proper time

For the revelation to fall upon the Emperor

That his time is passed

And that he can no longer interfere in

Family business.


Dune Desert Planet Arakis.


When we have enough we shall change the face

Of the Desert Planet.

MaydayEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/2/2003 2:35:15 PM ©2003


“Mayday Mayday

This is Snowden

Calling Sgt. Bilko

The Commander and Chief

And Governor Patton. “


“I’m on the 100th Meridian

Moving Northward

Into Hostile Fire

I remember Buffalo.”


MacArthur’s got them on the line

“Captain Klink where’s the Pyro?”

“He’s with Magneto and X-Ray sir.”

”May Dante and his Inferno save us all.”


“I’m sorry sir I’m not understanding you exactly.”

“They’re with the French Foreign Legion 151st.”

“You mean the Somali’s”

”Yes The Somali’s.”


“John’s at the wheel”

“That bloodthirsty Reveler eh?”

”That’s exactly the one.”

”Tell him to come down off the mountain”


“Yes sir”

”We need to strengthen the Golden Gate Bridge”

“Everything’s Spectacular.”

“Your Kung Fu is Strong.”

Chocolate Macadamia Nut CoffeeEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/5/2003 12:33:49 AM

©2003


I still have some left

And I’m drinking it now

Cold.

Chocolate Macadamia Nut Blend

From Wegmans.


The coffee was excellent.

My mother and I shopped there

Just this morning.

Bringing home a wealth

Of grocer’s goods.


The thing I remember most

About this coffee

Other than the fact

That they used to brew

It at the Topic Café’


Is that a Fraternity Pledge

From Hawaii

Introduced me to Macadamia Nuts

When I was in Chicago.


They were interesting

And he said

Very expensive

Being that they are imported.


He was a Bob Marley fan too

Said Marley smoked trash bags

Full of pot.


Must have been

Some kind of serious

420 Moment.

Portico del PoliticoEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

4/16/2003 12:12:09 AM

©2003


Oh Mighty Boston!

Home maker to the Kennedy’s

I have walked your sea-salted streets

In daylight and in darkness.


I have read the news

And spanned the Globe

Searching for a deeper meaning

In a book on your trains


I have walked the halls

Of Haymarket Square

And contemplated on the graves

Of our forefathers.


I have played and lost

A hand or two of Poker

And shared many a beer

With Irish Spanish English and the like.


I have driven through your dig at night

And awoken to a new day.

Campaign ConfidentialEdit

by Christopher J. Bradley

5:40 AM 2/26/03

(c)2003

Her consultation involves

Exactly four transmissions

Her successful and professional

Unsecured solutions

Are similar to his approved confidential.


Unsecured debts

Are actually promptly collected

In discreet

At her request

The procedure having completed

And the campaign minimum

is approved


In unbelievable

confidence.

To Be StimulatedEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

©2003

4/16/2003 12:18:49 AM


In the pool tabled room

The juke-box is playing

Much thanks to Scott

And his Yankee glasses.


The readers of The Beast

Have all left

And Dylan’s a wailin’

And he’s actually singing.


The traffic passes

As the unhappy parade commences

And the ashtray fills

While a quarter rests


On the mottled tabletop.

A discussion with a writer.Edit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/5/2003 12:39:41 AM


A writer today

Told me that he was there

When the Huns sacked Rome.


Interesting

Seeing he’s about 30 now.


Anyway

His argument was

That given a choice

A writer would rather be elsewhere.


Where exactly is elsewhere anyway?

If I want to write about poolsticks

I can write about them here

Same as anywhere else

Or at least

Open up a dialogue about

Foreign poolsticks

With Foreigners.


Isn’t that what this whole T-Mobile

Revolution is about

Anyway?


I guess that’s too much power

For one pocket.

As a Fifth of WhiskyEdit

Sends a mathematician to his grave.

By Christopher J. Bradley

4/28/2003 4:02:20 AM


A mathematician sits

Slowly drinking himself away

In his study.


Don’t get me wrong

This is not his only

Poison of choice.


And I have time

More than a few moments

To write of the pain of

Watching him

While he met all the people

That would lead him


To his large

Grey

Headstone.


Here lies a mathematician

Who studied

Just a little bit of the world


And lived to tell about it.

Thank You CanadaEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

4/28/2003 4:08:33 AM


Thank you Canada

For the girl in the hot pants

For the existential experiences and the Tall boy

For the Casino and the CN Tower.


Thank you Canada

For the Blue Jays game

And the great awakening

To the importance of our moms and dads.

And for a professional dental cleaning.


Thank you Canada

For the nights under Argon

Selling drinks to the kids of tomorrow’s establishment.


Thank you Canada

For a good look at myself

When I had no other mirror to look at.


Thank you Canada

For making me a hockey fan

And inviting me for a sub with Don Cherry.


And Thank you Canada

Most of All

For giving me a radio station that listens sometimes.


Thank you Canada.

Downtown at the Ground RoundEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

4/27/2003 2:06:49 PM


We haggled with the bartender to change

The television channel to a hockey game

That was ending.


Scott ordered some God-Forsaken draft

I ordered by Default a Guinness.

If you’re going off the wagon you might as well.

I am still drunk a day later.


We ordered the outrageous nachos w/chicken

And they were outrageous.

It seemed like I would taste them

For days.

The Nachos were a molten mountain

Of cheese and bean

With hot green peppers

And chicken bits

That kept slipping through

My sticky fingers like a sauce.


We played six games of Quick Draw

And won back 3 dollars collectively

Scott said the bouncing ball was taunting us.


As we staggered into the car

I complained about the other customer’s use of the phrase

“B-A-N”

And asked him if he’d ever had a

“Good Hot Beer Shit?”

Referring to Burroughs from Poetry in Motion.

Think About that one for a second.


We laughed about Burroughs

Most of the way home

Although for the most part

He has gone ignored by us.


And I do think


That I have discovered that place

Where the pen does at last


Meet the page with the strength

Of a thousand men.

Native American CigarettesEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

4/30/2003 4:45:56 AM


I earn my cancer slowly

Measure for measure

These dueling spikes of paper

Unravel in my hands

In the darkness

While my nose runs

My heart speaks.


It sings in silent rings

To the memory

Of a black stockinged

Girl from the past

Who strung out with me

During the first days

Of the Chesterfield Anarchy.


She was a Londoner

Making a game of the party

In the Indian Summer

October of the Adventure Club

And she looked into my boyhood’s eyes

Knowing that I would never possess her.


So we shared Coffee

At the Arts café

One summer afternoon

Before she shuttled

Back to the airport

And I saw her face slightly saddened

As she rode on to Penny Lane.

The Tracking Hum VeeEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/6/2003 3:41:07 PM

©2003


I drove casually down

The highway

Smoking

En-route to meet Scott

At Stimulance

A quiet café.


I had the radio on

And suddenly the bright red vehicle

Snuck up on me

On the left.


It was huge

Like a tank on CNN

With monster wheels

Flattened out

Against the black top turf.


The road was definitely

His.

Isolated isotopesEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/5/2003 12:49:19 AM

©2003


They found it

Back in the 1930’s

The solution

For the isotopes

Of Uranium 238.


If they could only

Pack that much punch

Into the education system

So that students

Might know

What Uranium 238 does

And what it can mean for them.


Are we still at 100 times the net

Capacity for the utter annhialation of the planet?

Or have we backed off considerably

Say to 10 times?


Who knows. I’m sure NATO and the UN have it

Entirely under control.


Maybe we could convince

A poet or two

To lend a hand

And spread the word

That the word

Must be

As strong

As the Kernal

It represents.


I’m boycotting

Heavy Metal.

Spangle Me BabyEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/4/2003 3:31:01 PM

Tatoo the flag

Across my forehead

I am one hundred

Percent

In love

With the American Dream.


Take me across

All Borders

No Visa Required

Where my Cold Hard Cash

Is Good as Gold.


Rise on my voice

To The Highest Mountains

And Sing My Songs

To The Fruited Plains

Send My Seeds

To The Valleys Below.


And carry

My bloody

Stripes and Stars

To the Apex

Of the nations


United.



Chapter 3 Edit

Polite Thoughts about Romance

Coastline Slam (notes from Typhoon)Edit

by Christopher J. Bradley

4/15/2003 11:59:53 PM

©2003

A wind swept-love

Begins with the twist

Of a forked tongue

The lovers unite

And are parted.


While one claims it a non-deed

She is left in stricken horror

Of what is to become of her

With her unforgiving father

And a child to come.


Driven

She fires the lead hammer

And kills the wretched

Wouldn’t be father of her child

And turns the weapon at first opportunity

On herself.


Is there merit in the headlines

That haunted her from within?


I do not see it.

A Rotterdam Moment on PearlEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

10/17/2002 5:13:24 AM


I walked down the corridor

Of Alleyway Theater

A passageway from an empty bar

Into a clubzone like

No other I’ve ever experienced in Buffalo.


The lights and music

Actually synched up

And the DJ wasn’t far off

From the days of Oribital on Queen

The sounds of “Groove” took me back

To Atlantis the lost city.


And it was only a small party

But the young girl was there

Without her ruby slippers

Wearing a white elven gown

Over blue jeans

With my arm around her waist

A manic groping in the dark

And we introduced ourselves

And she danced to another.


And I owe my re-indoctrination

To the vibe

To a new friend

Named Jay.

Sex in the raftersEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

4/30/2003 8:23:24 AM

©2003


Sex in the rafters

Was a terrible mistake

Don’t get me wrong

It was really really great.


But when the bed fell

On my roomate’s head

A couple of days later

I might as well have been dead.

Her eyes shone through me like blue irisEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

4/28/2003 12:30:21 AM ©2003


Her eyes shone through me

Like blue Iris

On a sandswept Sunday night

At the end of April.


She was reading Madame Bovary

In the café’

And she told me of her friend with the feather

From Washington State

How they had just gotten to know each other

That first night I recognized her

From the café downtown.


She looks like destiny

But I can see in my minds eye

That I did not look like much of a prince

In my toaded beard.


But she did leave me a single shred of paper handkerchief

To rescue for her from the table.

Oh Lord if this could be true

I would be the happiest man alive.

Showering These months in the basementEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

4/30/2003 4:37:26 AM ©2003

You lured me into the shower

The tiny basement shower

The two of us could barely fit

It was a long night out

We were both filthy

With street dirt.


So I soaped you down

Got all of your fuzzy parts lathery

And kissed your neck bone

While the soap slid between

My fingers.


The water pattered over your

Slippery breasts as though

You were a marble fountain

In a Roman bath

My lips could not resist them

As my fingertips

Glazed your eyes.


I desired no satisfaction

What we shared in bed was enough

But you helped me to get clean

Nonetheless.


Thank you

My Angel of the café.

Dancing The Waltz Of Northern SpringEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

4/28/2003 3:52:47 AM ©2003


She is on my arm

Beneath the maple trees

Dancing in the moonlight

All of the flowers of spring are sleeping.


The cooking

Upon the table

Was delicious at dinner

An omlette with vegetables

The meal we shared.


She writes letters to all of her friends

Telling them of the secrets of our romantic endeavors

While I secretly plant my rose in her crystal vase

In the morning’s dew.

Punk Rock HeatEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/6/2003 ©2003


It was Saturday

And it was Punk Rock Heat.

The park was crowded

With every kind

Of Vendor

And Performer.


There was

A giant

Half-Pipe

And I was

Walking Slow

With my

Rock and Roll

Betty.


We sat at the

Top of the Dirt Mound

In the brutal sun

And the air

Was like a windbrush

Painting Mirage.


I took a walk

To buy water

And paused a moment

To listen to Jazz


Some nice smooth

David Kane.


And when I returned

We held hands.


Moby played the bongos

So unlike I’d

Ever seen him before

And we bounced

In the back of the crowd.


Someone threw

A plastic bottle

And he stopped

To scold them.


We looked

For his tent

But he had left

Directly

From The Stage.


In the

Punk Rock

Heat.

The Kitchen ManagerEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/10/2003 12:46 PM


The Kitchen Manager

At the coffee &

Always greets me

With a big cheery smile.


Her hair is perfectly curled

In a brown tuft of permanent

And her demeanor

Is always kind.


She always invites me to return

And I always feel welcome here

It’s a nice dreamy

Woodgrain feeling that I get

While writing on her

Neat clean table.


And the food

Prepared under her direction

Is always fresh and delicious

She served me an orange juice

Just this morning.


What will come of the future

Anyone can tell

If I keep calling on her

Friendly visage


Can I get an “Amen?”

The Gardens In The CityEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

©2003


The unforgiving city

Houses gardens

Where precious memories

Of promenade lace

And tuxedo silk

Were required


It was an innocent time

Yet now in retrospect

Strange and unforgiving

As the screaming rainbow

Of the journey

To pure entertainment

Yielded a combination

Of plentiful frustrations


Tomorrow I will feel

The returning ambition of those days

As options

Re-adjust

Their symmetries

In the rose colored

Mirror shades

Of the familiar

Landscape

Of the void


In the Matrix.

To my international friendEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

11:04 AM 4/27/03

©2003


Ohio Gozaimas

Konichiwa

Doitachmachte.


I would definitely

Like to see you

Sometime again

My international

Friend.


Take all my best wishes

Home with you

To the country

Of your ancestors.


And rise again

From the ashes

In a phoenixes

Brilliant plumes


In the land

Where the sea

Travels west

To set last on Hollywood


Bring your family

Into my melting pot

And dance under the arm

Of Liberty and her torch.


Find your spirit

In the sheeted

Stripes and Stars

On the mast

Of the tall carriers.


Join your game makers

With our scientists

And draw your anime

Upon data’s shores

While the hamster runs

Through the horns of the ram.


And take me at last

To Nissan Village

Where I will walk hand in hand

With the Honda Robot.

On How I Want Them All BackEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

4/16/2003 12:56:08 AM

©2003


I want them all back

Not one

Not two

All of them.


I suppose my efforts in large

Will be in vain

And so I will not begin

Except to put the word on the street

Through these simple words.


I want back my childhood playmates

Who shared hugs with me

On innocent days in the tall grass

And on horseback.


I want back the sixties girls

From Dramatic Arts camp

Who drew Peace Signs on my shirt

And brought me to realize

The cruelties of war.


I want back the one who taught me poetry

On the cool summer morning

On her front porch

In her shredded journal.


I want back the African princess

Who traveled with me

In my father’s Shadow

And through the water park.


I want back my ex-fiance

The girl I vowed to marry

Who shared bliss on that promise

I will always regret my failure to keep.


I want back the Canadian girl

Who taught me the treasures of lust

Under the laser-light of modern-disco

From Club to Club from here to Detroit.


I want back the jacketed assassin

The nuclear age raven

In bleached blue jean street gear

Splotching the Buffalo daybreak

With crossbow darts and candy.


I want back the Congressman’s Daughter

Who called me the Buffalo Soldier


At the Fraternity Dinner in Chicago

Where I smoked my first Menthol Cigarette.


I want back the radiant dawn

The girl who with a smile

Could say a thousand worlds

And litigate my soul.


And yet for all the wanting

I cannot hope for a tomorrow

To include any of them

I must move forward

And read into a new day.


And let the dream I have

Of discovering my value to the world

Through the hands of His words

Printed endlessly in the voices

Of those both dead and alive


And moving over the airwaves

Of both video and audio

And through the archives

Of human contact and mysteries of

handshakes

Drift into my own pages and spaces.


For as I said I want simply

To have them back

Even a word

Would do.


Chapter 4 Edit

Introspections


The philosopher sits and writesEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/4/2003 3:20:15 PM ©2003


The philosopher sits

And writes

His thoughts

Of times in the distant past.


When Socrates Questioned

Plato Formed

And Aristotle Taught

He was the mentor of Alexander.


Butterflies and cocoons open

In his angled hand

And Promethean fire

Dances on Papyrus.


All of this

He does in solitude

While the humble clerk

Punches a clock


In awe

At his wakeful dream.

On being hauntedEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

4/16/2003

©2003


Being haunted is not

Quite the same as being hunted

You can feel the eyes more

But they hover.

And do not attack.


One time I was haunted in the daylight

Unable to seek out my grandfather’s grave

For the flowers had moved.


But this time it is different.


Sitting in relative comfort

In a place that I like all to well

While my pen scratches

In my nerve sprung hand.


One day their eyes


Will find mine in the darkness.

Beware The Man In The MirrorEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

4/16/2003

©2003

The man in the glass

Can take you there

Every which way

But the way you should have gone


Until even he looks like

Your worn out smoking

Grizzled grand dad.


And the spirits aren’t far off.

The Cold RoomEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

4/16/2003

©2003

Ice hangs from the ceiling

In the cold room

The people are frozen

About to become


Adjuncts to history

Cogs in clean society

Moving forward

Americans all


And the ice hangs on the wall

In the cold room.

The bus is not hellEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

4/16/2003

©2003


I rode the bus

2 weeks ago

And saw young and old

And all types.


Share the seats

On a sunny afternoon.


And now they are offering me

an opportunity to ride free.


If I could only work


If I could only work…

Today Is Money DayEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

4/16/2003 12:49:31 AM

©2003


So After All of The Paperwork

All of the losses

And lost causes

Of the past several weeks


Today Is Money Day.


I will be able to buy at a whim

Once again

With no regard

Or responsibility.


Keeping only those things

Turned on

That turn me on.


So Today Is Money Day.


And I won’t soon forget

How they kept me in the gutter


This long.

Why I have not yet captured the whaleEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

4/16/2003 3:35:52 PM

©2003


I am reveling

In catching up to the present

And I do not desire

The stripes of a Captain.


Today’s world

Is complex to the point

That I might never accomplish

This mighty task.


Without the aid of the enterprise

And a car salesman

Who is no longer there

In certain ways

Joining the council

Is a poor excuse

For getting lax.


And so I think

I will probably buy

A copy today.

Riding to 10thEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

4/16/2003

©2003


The glorious wonders

Of Main St. await

As we cruise

In my father’s chevy


We pass the Library

And Video Store

And Supermarket

And Hospital


All in pursuit

of one aim


To at last

help me to secure


Freedom

Independence

Wealth.

Dreadlock BambaclatEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/4/2003 3:28:33 PM ©2003


I like the Jamaican people

In fact I love them

At times

I have been a disciple of Marley’s wisdom.


But there is one

Dreadlock Bambaclat

Who I will never

Know or find love for.


He’s the one

That ruined me

With street poison

And muddled up my mind

So Long Ago.


It is a good thing

I never knew


His Name.

CrapsEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/8/2003 7:30:49 AM


Ten dollars on the Pass Line

An old man throws the dice

Seven Front line winner

I collect my chips.


Six Easy six mark it

Place the eight twelve bucks

Nine pay the field

Place the hard six five.


Eight pay the eights

I collect fourteen

And take odds on the six

Six easy six take down the hards

I collect twenty two

Could this get better?


Five nothing for me

Just the anticipation for the next roll


Seven Out


You can’t win them all.

The Stonefaced BartenderEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/8/2003 7:16:36 AM ©2003


The bartender at the Seneca Casino

Had a cold stone face

His eyes were harder than granite

As he poured me my orange juice.


Knowing the answer to the question

Before I asked

I questioned when the

Busiest time was.


He told me that it began

To pick up Thursday

And that on Saturday

The bar was standing room only.


I tipped him a dollar

And resumed inserting

Ten dollar bills

In the video poker machine.

I know I am one of those BuffaloniansEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

(c)2002


I am one of those smokers

In the fishbowls and bars

One of those sporting hat wearers

Sitting at the counters in donut shops.


I am one of those dancers

In the discos and the Latin clubs

I am one of those socialist democrats

Listening to Jazz.


I am one of those manic street poets

Throwing my words at the universe

I am in newsprint and on local TV

Complaining with the masses

And praising our politicians

When praise is due.


I am a worker

A brother a son

Not only of a father

But of America.


I am a musician

A DJ a producer

A Promoter.

I have thrown parties of all sorts

And attended them as well.


I am a recovery case

And the recipient of help

And I know the Father

Who surpasses all nations


I have been

The racquetball softball

Bowling croquette soccer football

Lawndart volleyball and baseball player.


I have discovered my scars

And covered them as best I can

I am the new generation that Pepsi sold to

And I am the old generation that buys Coke at McDonalds.


I have seen the Buffalo Roam the streets and the stadium

And the Bison graze at Oppenheim and War Memorial

And I know at least that my hometown

Is a little bit more than metropolitan.

I know I am one of those Buffalonians.


Chapter 5 Edit

Fantasy


These words are dancingEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/4/2003 ©2003


These words are dancing

Through space and time

With not enough

Paper to rest upon.


Dear publisher

If you should

Find this scrap

Take it

And move it

If you please

Into the hands

Of the millions

Without a functional

Telepresence.


Thank you

A modest poet

In moderation.

Riding Carroll’s CoattailsEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

4/27/2003 1:49:27 PM

©2003


Never even having read him

It is yet another merry merry unbirthday to me.

I shrink down with the magic mushroom

And open the door towonderland

Where Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum

Sit gawking and chuckling aimlessly.


The eyes and smile of the Cheshire

Noodle into the distance

While smoke rings burst

From the Caterpillar’s Scrabble pipe

Among the singing tulips

And the jaded well preened roses.


The white rabbit shuttles himself

From the windmill house

While Alice explodes through doorways

To be confronted by the Pelican and the Walrus

After she chases him

Dragging the mushroom cap with her

As she shrinks.


The deck is dealt by the master shuffler

The flamingoes are straightened

And bop headed for croquet

On the Queen of Hearts

Fresh Green Turf


Until the call “Off with Her Head!”

Awakens me to a book

Spelled out in Rhyme.

Astrological SignsEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/8/2003 ©2003


You will have to forgive me

For being skeptical of

Astrological signs

And their interpretations.


Just the other day

A guy asked me for mine

And I had to think twice

I didn’t want anyone hitting on me.


I am beginning to realize

How appealing words can make

Any person with integrity

And while its nice to know them

It can be a little annoying at times.


So I’ll share this once

And the poets can do

The metaphysical hand-off

My power animal is the Zebra


And my sign is Aries


In the year of the Ram.

Castles Upon the SandsEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/4/2003 ©2003


You write of castles upon the sands

And I dream of the sands

Drifting to clouds of purple hue

All of our fantasy realms are merging.


In random spaces

Realms are defined

By loose

Association.


I walk like a conquered hero

Addicted to your loving graces

Searching for the floating kingdom

The palace

Where you compose

On high.


A veiled princess

In disguise.

Sun AppleEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/6/2003 5:56:43 PM

©2003


Do not go gently into this good drift.

The sands of time are upon us all

yet the waters ripple at its touch.


I am too a burning brook of lava

on a high mountain

far from the valleys

of the sea of icarus.


I swim to the sun

to only find rainbows

for your efforts and affections

and place within them a golden apple

won for a princess.


Great work.

Blue China DragonEdit

5/5/2003 12:56:17 AM

©2003

by Christopher J. Bradley


The Blue China Dragon

Dances

On the Skin

Of the Powerlink worker.


He is grafting Tatoos

As he can afford them

He says.

His goal

A full Back Tatoo.


I’ve never wanted a Tatoo

But I can see the Razor Dragon Dance

And it is edgy.

Like Something out of


Hong Kong Kung Fu.


Keep Looking For


A Better Tomorrow.

ObfuscateEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/4/2003 1:06:09 PM


The clouds obfuscate

The blare of the sunlight

As the birds

Soar from their nest

In every direction

A tsunami hovers.


The concern of the people

It will remind their children

Of the day

That they were scared

Straight.


Listen to the cries

Of the raven

In the dusk


The water spouts

Hover gently in the lake.

Crystalline DreamEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/8/2003 7:35:03 AM

©2003


I want to apologize

For not being able

To enjoin your fantasy realms

Unfortunately this Crystalline Dream

I have been building

Is something of a selfish one.

While I am not immune to sin

I must absolve myself

When and where I can.

I am deeply moved by

Your affections

And they ring true

They even taunt and thrill me

When I am away.


I apologize again

For leading you up these mountain peaks

Only to see you grapple

With their stone faces


But I can assure you

That if your grip

On the world of the real

Is strong


You will not fall

Alone.

Dancing ElephantsEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

4/27/2003 2:29:01 PM


The dancing elephants are not white

They are translucent in the multicolored night

They only think they will be saved

When the hatchet is buried in the grind.


Let them play with their silly

Balls

And Wear their funny

Head gear

For tomorrow they will fall like

Dumbo from the burning Sky.


In this room I see a spider plant

That is not real

And American flags

And a poster from a horse

Called Abdullah

I see the raining stars

And an Eagle with a tear at it’s cheek


I see an Elle magazine

And a rack for more

And I wonder what life is like in Chicago

Florida is still cold in March.

The Deconstruction of The Wizards TableEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

(c)2002


The wizard worked for days

Slowly building his corner table

With candlesticks and books on alchemy

And without a word spoken

His magic in this sphere evaporated.


Now he is a nomad

A cause beyond lost

And in my black plastic hat

I grin like the Cheshire cat

Into the evenly mirrored glass.

He was a space cadetEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/2/2003 3:10:26 PM ©2003


He was a space cadet

My friend with the crutches

So I bought him some bologna

And he took the pack home with him.


His apartment was down a dark alley

On a Hindu mission’s doorstep

But that didn’t make him any less of a friend.

He was a sufferer of the syndrome of the fatherhoodness of the street.


He liked his candy as much as anyone

And they came to him

He called them Angels

So I bought him Christmas Cards.


He was a weary tired old man

I couldn’t afford to buy him shoes

So we shared day old pizza

Donated by the local vendor.


And we brewed

Oh we brewed

A lovin’ for the sunshine

In a big pot of molten guru junk.


One day I saw his place

With a fishtank in the center

Propped up by the legs of a chessboard

And his Kung Fu was strong


While Jinx and I ate Tostitos in the streetlight.


And the nights were harvested

Like rain on Arakis

And the Russian

Played his game like Prometheus from afar


And the Jazz


Was pure Acid.

As Perseus Great Warrior of The CosmosEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

4/30/2003 8:14:58 AM

©2003


As Perseus Great Warrior of The Cosmos

At the behest of the Greek Council

I will ride upon Pegasus into the night

To converse with the Centaur

On how the great deed must be done.


On the great winged steed I fly

Into the stratosphere

with the owl and the dove

To learn that I must conquer the Gorgon

Before taking up arms against the Kracken.


So I sew her in

In her dark domain

With many shields

And behead the face

Ringed With Snakes

She goes with me in the sack.


And the huge beast rises

From the waters of the Mediterranean

I need only to wield her ferocious head

To conquer this Juggernaut


And make him fall in Stone pieces.

Good Night Sweet PrincessEdit

by Christopher J. Bradley

4/28/2003 1:16:28 AM ©


Good night sweet princess

The Dawn awaits

For You to shine your rays

On Another bird songed morning.


This night has been luster filled for you

Full of color and splendor

Another eve among the plants

Has done you well


And now it is time for rest.


Dream on Sweet Princess

Go to the lightening world

And ride a thousand Unicorns

Across the chasms where the spirits lie


Traverse the juxtaposing corridors

Of your Phaze Doubt

The game is afoot and your legend

Stile The Blue Adept

Awaits.


Dance into his magic realm

Like Agape the free spirit

And find a way to share your Amoeba of Love

In the silent ecstasy of daybreak.


As the purple hues of morning’s dew

Rest gently in the skyline.



Chapter 6 Edit

Refreshing Thoughts


The minature wet rock gardenEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/10/2003 1:31:40 PM ©2003

The wet rock garden

With its miniature stones

Stands in the corner

Of the café’s serving space

Endlessly drizzling

Into the hot spring night air.

A Midwestern ballad


Drones into the ballasts

Of my resting ears

While a mixed cup of coffee

Tantalizes my nose buds

The spoon stands to the size

In the ovular white mug.


The wetness of the water

Trickling in my ears

Reminds me of days

Sailing in the sun

In a two-man sailboat

With a girl I adored.


It was given to the café

By the kitchen manager.

Tropicana Vision QuestEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/5/2003

©2003


The White Ambassador

Blazed down the freeway

In the dust of Georgia

With Armadillo season

Hot and Heavy in Atlanta.


We were headed for Disney.

I was 5.

I remember sleeping in the night

Wrapped in the owl blanked

That my grandmother knitted.

She was with us

Up in the front seat.


My brother and I

Played games

And I threw

My grey elephant

Out the window

Somewhere along the way.


It was crippling to my demeanor.


We met up with my father in Florida

And went to Disney

To run into another relative

My uncle

The groove slinger


In a wicker straw hat.


He bought us plastic Tropicana Oranges

That we drank from in the hot summer sun

On the blacktop

Just inside the main gates.


We enjoyed all of the rides that summer

The Spinning Teacups

The Flying Dumbos

It’s a Small World

The Pirates of The Caribbean.


We stopped in the street

To watch a unicyclist

And acrobat

Dance on the wires.


We watched the fireworks

And searched for the princess

And shook hands with Mickey and Donald.

Every Kid’s Dreams.


I remember after we left


Going to a hotel

Where we spent several days

Enjoying Water Wings

In the deep end of the pool.


On the way home

We stopped to visit Navy friends

In Arkansas

Where I interrupted a card game


To ask for Soda.

Dad had been playing find the glasses

With me.


My last image of that vacation

Trapped in an unreadable

8 Millimeter Film

Was of my brother and I

Dancing in the Sprinklers

One Sunny Summer Day


On The Tropicana Vision Quest.

The DeerEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/4/2003 3:07:06 PM ©2003


The deer kick up

In my headlights

On a narrow

Stretch of road

In the darkness

Of the first

Of many spring nights

Under the frosty sky.


I slow with my brake

And steer left

To let them

Scamper back

Into the thicket

At the right

Of the path.


And we continue on

To my friend’s house

Remembering

The winters


Of so many years past.

The Beauty of a Woman’s HeartEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

11/12/2002(c)2002


There is a reason that a woman’s chest is larger than a man’s

It houses a heart of goodness and security.

It houses a heart of wisdom and beauty.

It houses a heart of color and grace.


A woman’s heart allows for the ego of a foolish man

Even when he doesn’t deserve his measure.

A woman’s heart allows for the storminess of youth

In the eyes of a teenage son.


A woman’s heart is home to the eyes of infants

Bringing them life and health and home

And a woman’s heart is home to her husband’s breath

On a cool winter evening before the fire.


A woman’s heart is filled with the dreams of young daughters

Growing to be one with their mother’s dreams for them

An ever-expanding beauty following through generations

From Athena and Agape to today.


May God and men protect the hearts of women everywhere

For we have not one to spare now or ever.

Tom’s After MidnightEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

9/23/2002 2:02:58 AM


It could have been 3 weeks

It could have been 6

Or it could have been like months

That I was spending nights in there

A man with a home

But not wanting to come home.


Afraid that there might be something there

That he’d have to see

If he were awake.

During the light of day.


And so that’s how it went

For months at a time

In the darkness in the cigarette chamber

I met them

Peeking out from the edges

Of the city


They were

Some good

Some evil

The night dwellers

Of Amherst.


The waitress had her own agenda

Trading coffee for knowledge

Telling me all about how she

Had a boyfriend of sorts

An invisible man

That must have been very disinterested in the place.

The drunk car salesman had a thing or two to say

Often more than a thing or two

He was explicit and historical

And full of concerns about the world and politics

And and a repeat of the late 30’s.

And I couldn’t have agreed with him more.

And so I told him happy hunting

And went my way


To be introduced to another player

Who I met speaking to him for quite some time

A man with an eagle’s feather and a cut finger

And a knife-blade attitude.

I will to this day call him eagle claw

As he is to be protected

As are all in his culture.

For his people are the true founders

of the freedom of spirit.

Sky the RetrieverEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/6/2003 3:29:14 PM

©2003


Sky the Retriever

Is a golden bird dog

He’s a pointer too.


Sky likes to clean my shoes

And nuzzle my feet

Especially when I lay on the couch.


Sky means business with bones and toys

He’ll make a meal of a pig’s ear

In half a night easy.


Sky likes digging up grass

With his big clawed paws

And then tracking mud

All over the wood floor.


Sky is the number one lover man

He comes right up to you

And expects a full body massage.


Sky leaves big balls of hair

Under the refrigerator door

He likes to beg for scraps.

And Sky almost breaks a window

If he sees anyone unusual

Around the house.


Sky’s bark is loud

But it’s a happy kind of bark

Because


It fits his disposition.

All of the Saints of MaryEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

4/16/2003 3:30:01 PM

©2003


They travel today

In a clockwork mini-car

From West to East

To find her on the sea-shore.


The star

What wonderful things she found in him

The man she married

They are making a life in splendor.


If Michael and his parents

Do not return

I might find myself

Without angels.


In this sinful city

Not far off from Lot’s not looking back

But I feel now

That I can withstand the pain.


Of not knowing

When they will go to join her


For the madness of eternity

May God’s peace be with them.

Chocolate Easter Eggs in CoffeeEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

4/30/2003 10:03:52 AM

©2003


It is a week and a half

After Easter Morning

And I am still thinking

About going fishing

And the Passover

And dunking chocolate eggs

Into Millstone coffee

At the counter

Between several other upset customers

Whose only goal

Was to smoke.

At least new life

Kept its promise

For one older woman

Who lives on

Thanks to the strength

Of her sons’ faith

In God.


I believe

I saw

The Stone rolled away

At 3 AM Sunday morning.


The Tomb Was Empty.

April ReturnsEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

4/16/2003 12:05:45 AM

©2003


April Returns again this year

With the cries of the survivors

And the heart punished

Who must plant the dead.


For it is the season

Where dust in the hand

Must yield to new life

As foliage takes bloom

Upon the ashes of the frost.


May the turnips and the rhubarbs

And the squirrels and the possums

And the rainbow trout and the sturgeon

And the rock and the goose

Dance across the skyline

With the birds of the sea.


For in every close

To every season

Is a hand-hold

To that which is born-anew.

Lewiston LandingEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/6/2003 4:28:16 PM

©2003


Lewiston Landing

Is a great place

To go

To feed the sparrows

And the seagulls

On a lunch break

With a car

Full of McDonalds

Or a bag

Full of Popcorn.


One night

I took my lover

To sit under the trees

And watch the

River rapids flow.


At times

I have been

Given to

Playing chess there

Under the

Picnic Tables


At midnight.

Orca and Sea-WorldEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/10/2003 1:46:56 PM

©2003

When I was five

Going back to the whole vision quest of Florida

My father took my brother and I

To sea world.


We had a chance

To pet the dolphins

In the big circular tank

And watch Orca

The big killer whale

Rescue the seal at play.


Dad took lots of pictures

And we got up close

So that we could get

All wet and drippy

In the spray

Of the bursting sunshine.


After we visited the poolsides

We climbed into the bleachers

On the concrete terrace

And found Mom and Grammy

In their summer sunglasses.

They Call To Me From BeyondEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

11/11/2002 4:18:59 AM


I am all too aware as I pass by

On darkened streets

On fall nights in November

That I am not alone as I pass the cemetery.


Their voices whistle against the smoke filled air

At my damp car window

As I drive by

The voices of their spirits.


The spirits of long dead electricians plumbers

Carpenters masons electricians

Farmers factory workers and the like

The spirits of mothers fathers brothers sisters

Uncles aunts cousins grandparents and grandchildren.


They weep to me from heaven and say

Live long and stay well

For we miss you desperately

We can only look at your progress in astonishment.


And yet I wonder

Even in this metal fixture with gripping traction control

And a cell phone in hand

How long will it take me to earn my Wings


That the voices might be those of the living.

Withering Spring LilliesEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

4/30/2003 10:09:37 AM

©2003


All I may remember

Of this life

And its’ untold stories

Is that he was a father

To my beautiful Aunt.


If I were not already mourning

My Aunt

Whose funeral I also could not attend

Because of the almost unending chain of them

Through the Winter

And the past Fall

I might have been able to bring myself

To cope better

And wear a clean kind of black.


But I will resign to my muddied green

And contemplate

On the fading life of this Lilly

Which was never meant to live in perpetual shade.


Perhaps it’s bulb will bloom

Once more


In the garden.

How the sparrows dartEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/4/2003 3:17:47 PM ©2003


The sparrows dart

In the early morning

Sunlight

From their nests

Up in the garages

Along the long sides

And then under

The rigs

Of the eighteen

Wheelers.


And I stand

At attention

From the top

Of my perch

Watching them

As the uniformed officials

Search


A flashy

Onyx

Sports Car.

Why I cannot believe that the underworld is worthwhileEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

10/17/2002


The underworld is all gnashing of teeth

And ugly crimes against humanity

Of all forms and consequences.


The underworld is composed of the denizens

Of dark misery and sorrow

Those who make company a despair.


The underworld is a place

Where beauty does not shine

As through the faces of the innocent.


And though I walk talk and find myself in contemplation

In the darkness of night

I know that I am not alone

That God The Holy Spirit and the Son

Are here with me through it all.

On Forgiving ChrisEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

4/16/2003 3:09:08 AM

©2003


I sat around the table with them

They drank coffee

And smoked

While thinking of Ernest

And chattering about solar houses

And drainage issues.


Eventually the hardest of them all

Told of his dictates

Of a firing

And what came to mind for me

Was that God would forgive

This man.


And so I told him.


And we went in our

Separate directions.

Little Fuzzy DogsEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

4/28/2003 4:16:24 AM


Little fuzzy dogs

You mean more to me than a thousand wars.

The genuine smiles in your little round eyes

Light up my days like the luminous candle of the sun.


Little fuzzy dogs

I love to pet you

And have the shopkeepers

Bring you out with the French Roast.


I love to see you

Little Fuzzy Dogs

With the college girl from around the corner

With painted toenails in her sandals.


Or riding down the street

In a carriage

Just like someone’s

Real little baby.


Little fuzzy dogs

There are more words in your eyes

Than a single human

Can express.


Chapter 7 Edit

Family Musings


Cajun Chicken GumboEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/6/2003 ©2003


I remember the first time

I had Cajun chicken gumbo

It was at Montana’s

With Dad

On a Saturday Afternoon

After going to see

Legally Blonde

With Reese Witherspoon.


The gumbo was excellent

It was red pepper spicy

With tons of shrimp and chicken

Over sausage and ziti

All in a thick Alfredo sauce.


I can’t remember many meals

That I liked this well

So I formulated my own

Special recipe for it.


And now I make it

At home with

Mom’s nimble assistance.

To be hungry for pizzaEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/4/2003 3:23:10 PM


Mom and I

Are still sitting

Here at work

Hungry for breakfast

Pizza.


We are hungry

Because the

Girl who was

Supposed to be

The morning relief

Probably

Went out

And got

Either

Drunk

Or Stoned

Last Night.


Oh Well


I guess

I could be more forgiving.


Nah!

Delivering the NewsEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/8/2003 7:25:49 AM

©2003


I would get up

To my radio alarm

At five AM

And walk down-stairs

To the living room


The papers would

Be waiting there

On the front porch

And for a half hour

I would insert ads

And roll them up


Then I would wake Mom

If she wasn’t already up

And in the winter

We would drive the old

Chevy station wagon

With the radio

On oldies WKBW


And I would run

Across Ice and Snow

Flying like a swooping sparrow

To wake the groggy poodles

And get them barking

And nipping at the doors


We were always finished by seven

Sesame Chicken Shrimp & MushroomsEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

4/15/2003 11:52:35 PM

Tribute to my Parents 31st Anniversary


Of all the foods

I like best

At the local China Buffet

My favorites are


The Sesame Chicken

The Chicken and Mushrooms

And the Seafood Combo

Including Shrimp.

My family

Able to relax after dinner

Sits

Cub-Scout Uniformed

Breaking fortune cookies


And cleaning up

After mussels

Onion Rings

And other assorted desserts.


We are truly blessed

To enjoy the fruits

Of this alternative culture

All together

Again.

Fighting with the movie listingsEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/2/2003 2:51:48 PM

©2003


My telephone lets me

Do amazing things at night

And then sometimes

They aren’t

Quite so amazing.


Trying to get a simple movie listing

Can be a hell all its own

Now that they’ve made it easier.


You don’t key in listings any more

You say them.

This can be a true nightmare

In a crowded room.


Tonight the thing thought I wanted

Stock Quotes.

And then


It just plain hung up.

SoupEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/10/2003 1:51:03 PM

©2003


Nothing says love to my stomach

Like a good hot bowl

Of Mom’s tomato and beef soup.


I love the tangy sweetness

Of the rich fruit

Of the thin green vines.


A perfect complement is

Always a grilled American cheese sandwich

Or a couple of slices

Of French bread garlic toast.


This dish is best served in the winter

To warm up a cold runny nose

With dry frozen cheeks

While my glasses are still steamed up

From smoking out in the ice.


Nothing says love to my stomach

Like a good hot bowl

Of Mom’s tomato and beef soup.

In what kind of strange world am I?Edit

By Christopher J. Bradley

4/30/2003 8:29:54 AM

©2003


In what kind of strange world am I?

Where Spongebob haunts

Even this my humble writing table?

At first I found it amusing

A great Nickelodeon show


But then I began to see

The Jelly Pops

And the fisherman caps

And the bottles of Bubble Stuff

And everything that reminded me

Of the slime time of my youth.


And then I think

Maybe it’s not so bad

If Adults love him too

After All


Everyone needs someone

To look up to.

Midnights with MomEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

4/27/2003 2:00:20 PM


I’ve spent hours and hours here

In the early morning floodlights

Of the bridge

Not far from where I attended my very first school.


Tonight I had an Egg Sandwich

And a Chicken Souvlaki in a Pita

Damn the Greeks for being so Beautiful.


I found out that Jerry’s mother

Has done well through her heart surgery

And is now up and walking and about

He says she’ll be home tomorrow

Did God trade prayers for life?


A fool I am

Watching this green punch clock

Bidding myself not to play with the stapler.


Mom is going to wake a driver

One way or another


And I am left to solitude

Perhaps the radio would do some good.

Naval ParkEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

For Robert Alan Bradley (my father)

Revised 3/29/2002 3:45 AM


I saw it once

As a cub scout.

The Naval Park

In Buffalo New York.


Then one time

Dad You took us

The whole family my Brother my Sister and Mom and I

On a ship.

You were a reservist in the Navy.

You must have loved your time at sea.


We cruised the edge of the city

In a new War Boat.

It was gray painted

And manned with many sailors.

It was a kind of transport

For delivering troops and vehicles.


Back then you were working

As a Petty Officer on Weekends

A clerk with stripes

And for a research outfit that made

Aircraft radar jamming devices.

I still have posters and stickers of the simulator project.


Someday I will show you

Someday I will show you

How I can work

And turn letters into

The fuel for my battle ship

With these fingers that only type

Because they are a gift from you.

Shelling Pistachios with DadEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/4/2003 2:42:39 PM ©2003


Of all of the

Common experiences

I can remember having


Dating back

To my farthest

Of being

In my current home.


I can remember

Sitting at

the kitchen table

And shelling Pistachios


With Dad.

The Pen The Pad The InkEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

4/16/2003 12:43:28 AM

©2003


To Blot New Verse

In Communion With The Past

In A Conspiracy With The Future

Is Oh So Engaging.


Many Little Feet Will Sprout

From These Dipping Digits Of

My Contorting Palms

As The Black Blood Of My Flex

Wrinkles Yet Another Page.


But For The First Time

I Can See All Of Them

The Ghosts And The Eyes Of The Past

I Can Interpret The Voices

As They Speak Of Times And Places

I Have Yet To See.


From My Dining Room Table

Under The Tips Of My Plants

Next To

A Nice Jug Of Kool-Aid.

Safety PinsEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/4/2003 ©2003


You can do

All sorts of things

With Safety Pins.


One of my friend’s brothers

At a high school dance

Wore a denim jacket

With a safety pinned

Anarchy sign

On the back.


And we danced

In A Circle

To the beats

Of Information Society

“Pure Energy.”


And fell down

Together

To the strains

Of Rock Lobster


By the B52’s.

The Microwave SwitchEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

10/17/2002


It happened instantaneously

Or overnight anyway

The old microwave was removed

And a new one took its place


It used to be so simple

You could tell them apart by color

But these two

Were both white.


Every time I try to open

The cold plastic door

I press below the keypad

To no avail.


Now I have to pull the handle

And the switch pops

Unlike the switch

on the other microwave.


Which vanished

With yesterdays news.

Can I borrow the car?Edit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/4/2003 3:04:36 PM ©2003


Can I borrow the car

Tonight?

Tomorrow?

Or Any other Day?


See I need one

Because I don’t have one.

And things are getting desperate

I think.


It is difficult to get around

Without a car

So All I can do

Is ask you politely

In quiet agony.


Can I borrow the car

Tonight?

Tomorrow?

Or any other day?

Cat ScratchEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/10/2003 1:42:23 PM

©2003

Last night I was playing with Tobey

I was taunting him with my writing hand

It is easy to forget

That these cute little furballs

Have little sharp tensing claws.


I jived left and right

And before I could react sensibly

His paw struck my thumb

And his little toenail was stuck in it.

The poor thing must have been terrified as

I gently shook it loose.


I was mad at myself

For playing this stupid game of chicken

And I will try to remember

Not to do it again

Lest I catch the fever


And begin to howl

At the moon

Like the foolish

Canine in me.

Country and Western GospelEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/4/2003 3:02:37 PM ©2003


Yesterday

I made six copies

Of a Country and Western

Gospel CD.


I didn’t know it was

Country and Western

But now

Listening to it

It is somehow soothing

In the early morning

Sunrise.

The Genius MouseEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/6/2003 ©2003


For my sixteenth birthday

I asked for one gift

And one gift alone

I wanted to experience

The miracles

Of computer painting.

My parents drove me

All the way to

The other end of town

To a little corner

Computer Shop

On Buffalo Avenue.


We haggled on price

With the more than

Generous vendors

Who sold me

On sixty five dollars


For the Genius Mouse.

The Buffalo Bison WonEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/4/2003 3:09:42 PM


It is May 2

And the weather has improved

Considerably

And I am watching the news.


This was the day

That the Bisons played

In the hot sunny

afternoon.


And with a 3 run

Home run

That popped over

The fence

Out of the glove

They sealed up

A victory.


And now I listen

To Mom tell

Of a real Bison

Encounter

At Yellowstone

Last summer.


When she bought me

The old Ford postcard

In South Dakota.

Coffee in a BookstoreEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/6/2003 ©2003


From my resting place

Here at the window

In the bookstore

A cup of coffee at my left


I can see a Buffalo on a rooftop

An Instant Oil Change sign

A sports-card store front

And a Big Orange Bull’s Eye.


I can see a Mexican Restaurant

And the favorite computer store

Of the farm stock

And a Pier 1 imported goods shop.


I can see all of the cars parking

Mobile and immobile

They track like metal ants with riders

If seen from the air.


I can hear a coffee clerk

Ringing up orders for a Vanilla Chai

Discussing making soup with his peer

And the din of a cellular phone tone.


Not much has changed in five years

Except maybe the fact

That I can probably now

Spend my time in places

Where it is more comfortable


To write.

Where are all those cars going?Edit

By Christopher J. Bradley

5/2/2003 ©2003


Where are all these cars going

On a Thursday at Midnight?

They must be traveling

Somewhere.


Maybe some dark smoky bar?

Maybe some center city café?


Their Taillights Zip

Like firecracker blasts

Twisting through the night

I suppose only

The men in black hats

Will know


For sure.

A Day For Mothers Everywhere…Edit

By Christopher J. Bradley

4/30/2003 9:47:11 AM ©2003

Dear Mom I know that Mother’s Day should not be the only day that I write to you.

It makes me feel all guilty and emotional to think that this is the first time I’ve taken the time to sit down and write in years.

The truth is I’ve been trying to speak to you but among all of the misgivings of our lives of work scouts sports and politics the meanings get lost.

Mom there’s no one in the world who can cook up a dish of pasta a pot of soup or a vegetable casserole exactly as excellently as you. You are truly good with food. You are a tribute to my big healthy stomach.

There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think about you in some way shape or form. At present I see you much more often than in the past. And I am grateful for that.

I would like you to know that I don’t sit up nights with you because I am lonely.

I could pretty much do that anywhere. I think I sit up with you because I need someone to share my love with. Even in the dead of night it pulses from my heart. The heart that you gave me. Through my own mistakes the fire in my heart has gone unquenched but at least I know that I can share a moment or two to thank you for giving me the beat in my pulsing chest.

Thank you Mom I will Love You Forever Barring my Stupidity And may that Stupidity be crushed By the Praying Hands of God.

-Christopher

The oval framed photographEdit

By Christopher J. Bradley

4/30/2003 6:59:19 PM ©2003


My Ancestors are with me

My Grandmother

And the aunt of my childhood

Look out at me from the oval.


It is always in the corner of my piano

She is the grandmother who

Traveled with us to Disney

And brought back towels

From her amazing travels to California

With my uncle.


My aunt is her daughter

My mother’s sister

Young and thin and blue jeaned

She is so full of spirit.


They used to let me sleep over

And read Dr. Seuss stories

And watch wrestling

And every Saturday Morning Cartoon

And The Tonight Show and Letterman.


We used to visit my grandmother

In her small office

And play with her paper clips and rubber bands.


My grandmother liked Wendy’s and the Casa for Lunch

Her taste in Spaghetti was excellent

She was the impetus behind

Canning homemade tomato sauce

Every year for close to ten.


I remember scavenger hunts

My aunt used to draw out for me

And how we would do word finds

Whenever I would ask.

She was a grade school teacher.


There are so many things

That I know will come to me

As time passes

Until then

I patiently write.


Why Does Mom Make Christmas Cookies Year Round?Edit

by Christopher J. Bradley

4/30/2003 8:35:12 AM ©2003


Why does Mom make Christmas Cookies Year ‘Round?

I’m beginning to think I know

I think Dad really likes them.


There’s nothing quite like

A nice hot red and green sprinkled cookie

It doesn’t matter exactly when it is

And little fingers and fists

Always gravitate toward the still warm baking pans.


Even the dogs get a taste

They go after the treats

Like any pair of

Self respecting pit bulls

But they always grin

Just like themselves.


So I guess all in all

She isn’t just making them for Dad

She’s making them for me too

Because I’m munching on a star now.

Ad blocker interference detected!


Wikia is a free-to-use site that makes money from advertising. We have a modified experience for viewers using ad blockers

Wikia is not accessible if you’ve made further modifications. Remove the custom ad blocker rule(s) and the page will load as expected.