Dancing Over The Fury
From Poetry
[edit] Dancing Over The Fury
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
[edit] Chapter 1
Culture Jam
[edit] Why Netscape Radio Plus Is Awesome
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.
[edit] The Spider Crawl
By Christopher J. Bradley
5/4/2003 3:13:01 PM
©2003
Doesn’t know
How Good
He’s got it.
To be able
Spin webs
And drift through
Thin air
On a silken
Rope.
He jumps
And Hurdles
From building
To building
In his grey Nike’s.
And I gather
That he’s even
With the science
And Stuff.
[edit] Wall St. Days
By Christopher J. Bradley
5/6/2003 3:54:41 PM ©2003
We talked of
And market segmentation
And delivery of goods services
And content.
We studied the Super Bowl
And broke down the
In the USA Today.
And we learned
to manage our pocketbooks
And determine our financial position
So that maybe one day
And Bonds.
[edit] The Gentle Voices of Bossa Nova
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
The meandering quick
Vibrate against my melodic spirit
And then
Introducing Piano
And guitar.
Could there be more exciting variance?
[edit] Thank You Michael
5/10/2003 4:22:13 PM
©2003
by Christopher J. Bradley
Dedicated to Michael Jordan
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
And the hours of regrettable journalism
With regard to the Sox
Never Bull.
Thank you for inspiring us
Through your return
And reminding us
That even as the years pass
We remain inspired.
[edit] The Fire Hydrant Dog
By Christopher J. Bradley
5/4/2003 2:45:06 PM
On it’s haunches
On the t-shirts
Of a hundred
In the flickering embers
Of the night-time glow
Inside the retrofit
I heard DJ Megabitch
Spin a terminator track
So I danced around
That was the night
I met David
Eating Oranges
And other cushy fluff.
And I went home
With my very own
[edit] A Fallen Bond
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.
[edit] Pow Bang Flap Boom!
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.
[edit] Life in the fast lane
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
But then we all knew that Henley
Had been to California and back
And from that
Well it kind of becomes
Home.
[edit] A February Kiss in The Rain
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
Of simply
Hearing your face
Of water
Dance upon
Your cheeks.
And I am so taken in
When we at last
And the journey
To this rooftop
In the Manhattan night
Is fulfilled.
Thank You.
[edit] Can you see what I see?
By Christopher J. Bradley
5/6/2003 4:16:50 PM
©2003
May 15 2003
They drop the second
Bomb on
And the spiders
It’s the end
Everywhere.
It’s almost time
For the
enslaved masses
To arise
And make
Their Exodus
With Neo
As their guide.
The albino
can phase shift
and Trinity
Still has her kicks.
All that I
Can Wonder
Is will it
Have the same
Punch
That
Would have?
Or will it
Just be
Another
Pase sequel?
Only time
Will tell.
[edit] washington st matrix
by Christopher J. Bradley
4/23/2003 3:35:59 AM
©2003
for all telecom people inspired by Gibson
The journey into everything corporate
Retail phases out behind steel rims
I am standing at the 3rd floor elevator
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
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
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
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.
[edit] opening the mnemonic
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
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.
[edit] Chapter 2
Politicking and Coffee
[edit] The man going off to war
By Christopher J. Bradley
5/2/2003 2:45:48 PM
Not a hint of a tear
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
Through their memories
And tellings of his legacy
They make him a hero
[edit] The Anniversary of a Tragedy
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.
[edit] Why I now think Linda is an excellent waitress
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.
[edit] Bankrupt in the USA
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.
[edit] 2020 A Man Steps Down
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.
[edit] The Gaslight Poet
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.
[edit] The fade a qui
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.
[edit] Mayday
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.”
[edit] Chocolate Macadamia Nut Coffee
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.
[edit] Portico del Politico
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.
[edit] Campaign Confidential
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.
[edit] To Be Stimulated
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.
[edit] A discussion with a writer.
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.
[edit] As a Fifth of Whisky
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.
[edit] Thank You Canada
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.
[edit] Downtown at the Ground Round
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.
[edit] Native American Cigarettes
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.
[edit] The Tracking Hum Vee
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.
[edit] Isolated isotopes
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.
[edit] Spangle Me Baby
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.
[edit] Chapter 3
Polite Thoughts about Romance
[edit] Coastline Slam (notes from Typhoon)
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.
[edit] A Rotterdam Moment on Pearl
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.
[edit] Sex in the rafters
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.
[edit] Her eyes shone through me like blue iris
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.
[edit] Showering These months in the basement
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.
[edit] Dancing The Waltz Of Northern Spring
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.
[edit] Punk Rock Heat
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.
[edit] The Kitchen Manager
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?”
[edit] The Gardens In The City
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.
[edit] To my international friend
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.
[edit] On How I Want Them All Back
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
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