Flying into 65
Both hands on the wheel,
flying into 65.
Watching the splatter pattern
of the trucks and the vans in front of me,
I gauge the runoff of this highway.
Will I hydroplane again today
like in 1982 or 2007?
On the Bay Bridge moving
sideways into other lanes
or on the Parkway,
up on the center divider,
nearly not missing a power pole,
but hitting it.
Now to slow down, to feel the squish
beneath these tall rubber boots,
rolling on rain-slicked highways.
Bay Area events, me flying into 65,
satisfied, breathless even
to be alive and smartly slowing down
to maintain this life, precious as it is
and fragile, vulnerable too.
Anxious eyes on the sidewalks,
chickie and then a mother and child,
me into the underground parking lot.
Things to do, not to hydroplane today,
but work. Flying into 65.
©Peter Bray, 1/25/08 All rights reserved
Minor Poet
He was a minor poet
though he was legally of age.
The best part of his stuff
was always on some other page.
He never won a Pushcart Prize
or a Nobel.
His greatest ship
was a little dinghy,
and his trolley had no bell.
He nearly lost his poetic license
in an auction for $8 bucks,
but he renewed it every year
in a Benefit for Homeless Ducks.
He stirred his coffee with great passion,
he met his pets with glee,
the sparrows honorably mentioned him
on birdfeeders in his trees.
His destinations were often underplanned,
his locks had too few keys,
he was an artist and a craftsman
with knee protectors on both knees.
Daily he got older,
weekly he got wise.
He said his greater poems
were probably underwritten under skies.
And probably undervalued by their size.
©Peter Bray, 12/29/07 All rights reserved
Ripped on a Tuesday/Leave that Chainsaw Alone!
I was born on a Saturday,
ripped on a Tuesday,
you’d think I could leave that new chainsaw alone.
Bought on a Friday, sold on a Monday,
you’d think I could leave that pawnshop alone.
Deals to the left of me, leaves to the right of me,
why don’t you leave my raingutters alone?
I thought I was doin’ just fine.
Corporate life buyin’ this fine bottle of wine.
Goofballs to the left of me, dingalings to the right of me,
think I’d better pick up my last tools and run.
Guess things turned out OK.
Me, I’m a Handyman today.
Lady wants her new shed, I got my tools,
others want fine water in their new swimming pools.
Deals to the left of me, leaves to the right of me,
why don’t you leave my new raingutters alone?
Born on a Saturday, ripped on a Tuesday,
you’d think I could leave that new chainsaw alone.
You’d think I could leave that new chainsaw alone.
You’d think I could leave that new chainsaw alone.
I remember you, lookin' so fine.
Better than a breadtruck at Woolworth's five and dime.
Goofballs to the left of me, dingalings to the right of me,
think I’d better pick up my last tools and run.
Think I’d better pick up my last tools and run.
Born on a Saturday, ripped on a Tuesday,
you’d think I could leave that chainsaw alone.
You’d think I could leave that chainsaw alone.
You’d think I could leave that chainsaw alone.
©Peter Bray, 1/30/08 All rights reserved
The Whale Bones & Tar Shop (To PSH)
1.
We all worked in a previous place,
in a previous time.
The technology was far simpler
though the artistry and craft
were just as deep.
Oak drawing boards
gave way to computer consoles,
PageMaker to Quark,
cut and paste and airbrushing
to PhotoShop.
Art layout boards, waxed galleys
and marked-up tissue overlays
became hard drives and megabytes.
But we were all artists then
and still are.
Looking at your most recent stuff,
glossy and impressive as it is,
those earlier days were the days
of whales bones and tar.
2.
The lady said she wanted
freestanding shelves in her shed
and then she introduced me to
her winter woodpile of fence material
under the wet and fallen leaves
of her apple tree.
Yes, I could turn those
redwood 2x4s into 2x2s,
rip them to size,
bring in my powersaw
on the tailgate of my truck,
hose off the dirt and leaves,
rip those suckers to size and length.
Turn their freshly cut faces
to the inside of the shed.
The first impression being
that they were freshly cut wood
having flown in from
some lumber yard,
mine and hers.
Her second woodpile inside the shed
held drier, flatter recycled stock
from some other event.
Yes, they could be the flat-sided
holders of all things.
I drove long, steel Makita-driven
deck screws into freshly wood joints.
One point determines a pivot point,
two points determines a straight line
of irreversible rigidity.
The whale bones and tar shop
is still alive and doing very well.
Thank you for the opportunity
to report on our progress.
Art remains where we are
or where we can find it.
©Peter Bray, 1/25/08 All rights reserved
Barking at Each Other
Maybe all the governments of the world
are nothing but a bunch of dull pack animals
running wild, barking at each other.
And maybe Darwin was right,
maybe the biggest and dullest ape
with the most money or bananas
stands in the middle of the highway,
directing or blocking traffic
just because he can.
And the first fool sells
the second nuclear device in the planet
to the third fool and now they all want one
because who can trust a barking dog,
running in packs or standing in the middle
of the road blocking traffic?
©Peter Bray, 12/20/07 All rights reserved
With Leonard Cohen on Highway 24
You will spend all day in some tired toilet or a tub
or looking up into some tired and debilitated
bathroom ceiling fan, fixing it, but right now you’re
flying down the highway with Leonard Cohen
and Suzanne and Marianne,
and it’s a good day still, the afternoon will be
even better still with a paycheck in the mail
in a few days:
“Suzanne takes you down to her place by the river
and she feeds you tea and oranges that come
all the way from China...
“Come over to the window, my little darling,
I’d like to try to read your palm.
I used to think I was some kind of gypsy boy
before I let you take me home.
Now so long, Marianne, it's time that we began
to laugh and cry and cry and laugh about it all again...”
©Peter Bray, 12/13/07 All rights reserved
except those © by Leonard Cohen
Your Handyman...
If you put on your lipstick
but miss your lips,
if your parakeet is too wide
at the base of his hips,
call me, I can be your Handyman.
I can fix your toilet, fix your sinks,
I can fix the world when the world just stinks.
Call me, I can be your Handyman.
All my ex's say, "Experience pays."
I can turn the night into a brighter day.
Call me I can be your Handyman.
I spent my youth in a hardware store
listening to the squeaks in its wooden floor.
Counting the threads on 1/4-20 bolts,
knowing 110 was a helluva a jolt.
Then I spent some time in the corporate sphere,
happy as hell to get out of there.
They've got a left-handed way of doing things right,
couldn't waste myself there another night.
Now when the world is all in a tizzy,
I just call up my customers who are askin', "Where is he?"
"Everything I own is squeaking or leaking..."
So call me, I can be your Handyman.
©Peter Bray, 8/24/07 All rights reserved
The Boom-Boom Room
Two old codgers lived in the attic
above the Boom-Boom Room
across the alley from the Alamo
in Small Waterfront Town, USA.
One had been a retail manager
during the 2nd Coming of Christ
and the other was a wandering minstrel
who ductaped poems to people’s doors
with announcements that read,
“Sale Today, $20.”
They had been served their coffee
and eviction notices,
but the two cats that ran the place
didn’t seem to mind their not reading
or abiding by Municipal Codes
211-6, ABCD&E.
As our story opens...
(to be continued)
©Peter Bray, 6/27/07 All rights reserved
The Candidates Debates
They rolled out the fossils
for the candidates debates,
some came on rollers, some on hangers,
some on dollies, like yesterday’s
mannequins with their lips pursed
and their hands gesturing in wild
if not random directions: liars,
child molesters, intelligence manipulators,
offshore hooligans, pedophiles,
and those were just the members of the audience.
All the polls said that margarine was up
20¢ a pound and it was anybody’s game.
Members of the Red party were going to vote for Blue,
Blue members were going to vote Red this time,
and the Greens, Progressives, and Independents
were all looking for signs of Global Warming
on the Moon.
It was the same old stuff, different year.
Locally, our City Council couldn’t pass
a meaningful limit to major corporations
spending their life’s blood on 8¢
candidate’s nights, and winning a Big Box Store
and flattening the hills above town.
Yippee!
No wonder those without means
or ambition, choose to buy guns, join gangs,
and look for other opportunities
to eat one another on the streets.
Darwin must have had a headache
with all his research.
©Peter Bray, 6/27/07 All rights reserved
www.peterbray.org
www.sonador.com/pedro
Old Poet 1 & 2
1. The Old Poet returns to the mobile home park,
they shipped him in a couple of hours before dark.
He arrived inside a pinewood box,
no doors or windows, keys or locks.
The shipping label was recycled but said BULK RATE,
with advancing age, he’d lost some weight.
He was mummified in every old poem he’d wrote,
some still not bad, and others worthy of note.
But he wasn’t dead, he was just asleep,
with customer promises he’d still have to keep.
Outside in his garden he posted a future epitaph,
“This guy was always good for a coupla laughs.”
2. The Old Poet crawled beneath the kitchen sink,
(this wasn’t the time to eat or drink).
The 1-1/2” ABS black plastic kitchen drain line
was broken at the connection to the wall,
a river of putrefying wastewater had leaked out
over time to the cabinet floor, rotting it out,
and then it leaked further down and through the wall
and onto the garage ceiling below.
He surveyed the scene, unplugged the garbage disposal,
laid his thick, absorbent towel into the murky fluid
and stuck his keyhole saw into the deteriorated sheetrock
and carefully exposed the drain pipe in the wall.
As he did it he thought to himself:
“The Mac guys say they can increase the RAM in my G3,
install a System 10.3 from a DVD, and then I can download
an upgrade to 10.39 for free wirelessly, and connect
the new HP color printer with a USB cable as well.
How cool.”
He returned to his plumbing work,
cleaned, dried and reglued the broken joint,
realigned the garbage disposal, the exit line and p-trap
and installed new seals, and when dry,
he will cover the hole in the wall
and build a new cabinet floor as well.
He tells all this to the tenant and then
calls the owner with the same information
and then goes on to his next customer.
Eventually, the day’s over.
Different technologies have been handled
but not mixed. Yeehaw!
©Peter Bray, 6/6/07 All rights reserved
Mish, Miners, and Open-Toed Sandals
Michelle was sometimes fragile as a ping pong ball,
and the world seemed like a friggin’ tennis match.
Then the pots and pans of medical knowledge
intervened, like a blacksmith shop of things to try.
Kaiser did a really good job of it,
technology abounding, but in the end
we realize we as humans don’t know shit
about Shinola except that it’s black as ignorance
and comes in a can, but so does SPAM,
so are we supposed to eat it,
or what do we really know anyway?
150 years ago Pasteur discovered germs
while the medical profession took their surgical knives
unwashed from house call to house call
and Pasteur’s peers said he was nuts
when he first proposed germs on the planet
could be the root cause for multiple sicknesses.
We haven't been on the planet long enough
to have all the answers.
That should be our first clue.
We survive in a boot of darkness,
and then the sun rises and we think
we’ve discovered light.
We have miles to go before
we discover the end of the boot
is not a two-way street
and that an earlier U-turn
might have been real smart.
Another bridge falls down
and hopes for the survivors
are as wet as the river they once crossed.
Whose technology was being followed
like a solid line of approval
all the way across that bridge
and for how many years?
Question the authorities
that approved the bridge
and then approved
the death certificates
for those they never found.
Miners are lost down some dark hole
because profits said everything
was just fine but it wasn’t.
Maybe all boots of ignorance
should be open-toed sandals
to let the ignorance out
and the sunshine in.
Maybe the war in Iraq
is just Jack Shit from Shinola
on the march again.
©Peter Bray, 8/12/07 All rights reserved
Berkeley Engineers/Chapter 2
There was something weird
about all Berkeley engineers,
it was like we didn’t fear anything.
Like we’d passed our concrete slump test,
and had given our calculus a run for its money.
But after graduation, things weren’t that funny.
It was like a zoo out here.
One engineer I know grilled me so hard,
it felt like he augered through my chest
until I addressed every detail of my daily workload
and then he went away and my chest healed
miraculously.
Then every bozo in his face he addressed
and then they all got out of our collective faces
and my chest healed one more time
and everytime thereafter.
And, we went on to do many things
including all the benefits of having been
to and through Bezerkeley, standing.
Whatever they are, were, or will be.
We ain’t done yet, the sun is still
waiting for ethanol, a really bright administration,
and whatever else is in Chapter 2.
©Peter Bray, 7/21/07 All rights reserved
When Stupid People Get to Washington, DC
When stupid people get to Washington, DC
it's just proof that money can buy
mediocrity and a lot of it.
And then he invents a war in Iraq
to give you oil-polluted skies
and disappearing ice for a lifetime.
And says that stem cells are against his law.
So the next time you see a real dumbass
waving his stick at a brick in Crawford, Texas,
tell him to stay there.
©Peter Bray, 7/21/07 All rights reserved
Bill The Lizard
I was thinking about a John Prine rhyme scheme,
a Bob Dylan CD, a Paul Simon song lyric,
and Neil Diamond’s “American Popular Song,”
when the neighbor on the hill above me said,
“Your pine tree needles are in my swimming pool.
Can we do something about it?”
I told him that that 40-foot tree
had once been an 8” living Christmas tree
one Christmas years ago and I stuck it in the ground
long before he ever moved in and dug his pool,
but I agreed to trim it for him and I’ve been doing that
for the past several weekends.
While I did it today, I sang Paul Simon’s song lyrics,
“...I get slandered, libeled, I hear words I never heard in the
Bible,
and I’m tryin’ to keep my (neighbors) satisfied, satisfied.”
Before I did that I was watering the side yard
with Miracle-Gro plant fertilizer when Bill The Lizard
ran through the garden trying not to get wet
and I thought about squirting him with Miracle-Gro
but then I realized that that wasn’t such a nice thing to do,
so he snuck under the side garage door just in time,
and made a U-turn and then peeked back out to look at me
like that was a really cool thing for a lizard to do.
That’s when I named him Bill the Lizard, and realized
he’s just trying to make it through life also,
eating bugs and whatever else a lizard does in the garden.
“I’m just tryin’ to keep (Bill The Lizard) satisfied, satisfied.”
©Peter Bray, 7/15/07 All rights reserved
(Except Paul Simon lyrics)
No Prizes Here Lately...
Something about my poetry just sucks,
like the diesel wind from a thousand trucks,
or the molting feathers of migrating ducks,
something about my poetry just sucks.
The latest poetry event we attended had 248 entries
in 8 categories, one grand prize, and 49 winners in all,
or 19.75% of the entries were winners, 1st, 2nd, and 3rd prizes
and 3 Honorable Mentions per category.
After we sat with anticipation through dinner and dessert,
we heard 49 names applauded as winners, some poets
repeating their walk to the podium for multiple prizes...
Hmmm, interesting I thought, I remained in my seat...
I said the F-word at least 18 times...
something about my poetry just sucks.
Last year, different contest, different restaurant,
different dinner and different dessert, I won nothing also...
Hmmm...something about my poetry just sucks...
Like the diesel wind from a thousand trucks,
molting feathers from migrating ducks,
something about my poetry just sucks....
But that’s OK, I’ll wear it like a further scar tissue on my arm,
giving me dash and a bit of charm,
I’ll send the junkyard dog back to the farm,
untie my hostages from the fire alarm...
I’ll send out more flyers, with notable quotes,
find out what it takes to fuel the judges’ votes,
more erudition, esoterica, insight, similes!
Metaphors! Onomatopoeia!
But I’m not yet ready to leave this poetic region,
or join the French Foreign Legion...
but something about my poetry just sucks...
Maybe I should become a highly-quoted brain surgeon,
or fish in the deep, coastal waters for prehistoric sturgeon.
Or search the Atlantic or Antarctica for quotable mammalian voices,
or give better thoughts to my poetic choices...
Naw, something about my poetry just sucks...
©Peter Bray 3/23/07 All rights reserved
Poems and Tools
I feel like I was born
with these tools in my hands
and the poems just came along
for the ride.
You can travel as a passenger
or shotgun, but keep an eye on
the diversity of the road.
Keep your strongbox well hidden.
As age advances
try to find safe places to nap.
Never leave a pothole
for the unwary.
Enter often but always knock
and pay the piper.
He or she too may have
to sing for their supper.
Applaud the audience
and try to keep them
coming back for more.
©Peter Bray 3/14/07
All Rights Reserved
Wingnut(s) – No Wrench Required
The wingnut is a clever invention,
consisting of a threaded nut with
protrusions on the top much like a
Mickey Mouse hat with ears which allow for
the turning of the nut with the fingertips,
no wrench required. Also an endearing remark.
It also implies a certain ease of access or
assembly/disassembly or one who might easily come
disassembled or change one’s direction or viewpoint
quite easily, one’s occupation of rotation
being no difficult matter. Right, left, forward,
backward, being no problem. Hence the expression,
“No problem.”
In the plural it also implies a certain loose fabrication
wherein a pilot might want to check his wingnuts
quite often, and avoid the mishap of having
his or her aircraft tumble from the sky
and make a mess on the countryside,
one having lost one or a few too many
wingnuts in passing. Hence the expression,
“Keep your wingnuts tight.”
I just checked mine, three have lost
their threads completely and need replacing,
one has one ear only, two are corroded
beyond recognition, 6 have been stolen,
misplaced or traded for gold,
and 37 are tight and ready for flight.
I have NOT been cleared for takeoff,
which is OK, it’s raining today,
and it’s a good day for repairs.
How are yours?
©Peter Bray 2/8/07 all rights reserved
www.peterbray.org
www.sonador.com/pedro
E-Mail: PetrBray@AOL.com
When Your Love Arrives
You may be baking cakes in the corporate sphere,
and wondering how in the hell you’re ever gonna get out of here.
When suddenly they open a brand new wing,
and the new Frosting Lady there makes your heart just sing.
You never know when your love will arrive,
you never know when your love will arrive.
You may be fishing alone at the wrong end of the pier,
and wondering why no one else ever fishes here.
When suddenly Miss Foxey arrives and shows you
how to remove all those old knots from your old fishing line.
You never know when your love will arrive,
you never know when your love will arrive.
You may be crossing the street when your eyes collide,
with someone you know who should win First Prize!
You follow her home and sit on her porch,
and wonder if the sun is starting to scorch,
everything you ever thought about being so cool,
and maybe it’s not so bad to be such a fool, but...
you’ll never know when your love will arrive,
you’ll never know when your love will arrive.
You may be bathing in Bermuda or where the sun don’t shine,
thinking about a beer or a glass of wine,
when up drives a Porsche and a well-feathered good friend
and asks you to sing that weird song of yours again.
You never know when your love will arrive,
you never know when your love will arrive.
You may be working in Fresno or catching a train,
never knowing all the corners or the back of your brain,
wondering if things could be better or worse in Tahoe or Spain,
when up gallops Kemo Sabe with a brand new chorus and refrain,
it’s amazingly fresh, not repulsive or strained,
and you settle for your half in cash and it’s plain
that you never know when your love will arrive,
you never know when your love will arrive.
But send me a Valentine and I’ll do the same,
and we’ll do it by e-mail and pocket
all the money we’ll save.
©Peter Bray, 2/7/07 All rights reserved
Raised by Wolves/A CD Can Sing
"I was raised by wolves..." she said,
and it hit me like a freight train
on the trail of long Saturdays,
doing Christmas cards late while
listening to The Essential Leonard Cohen.
I'd been to Manhatten and then Berlin,
been to the Tower Song and then her
e-mail said she was "...raised by wolves"
and Leonard sang, "...there ain't no cure for love."
I recalled myself being a lead dog on the trail
for a thousand days in a thousand ways,
and my arsehole being nearly frozen over,
always sucking or pulling at the winds of progress;
leaving potholes of brain-dead debris behind me,
my tail always providing a scenic cover
to the intrusions or failures
of loose eyes behind me.
Being raised by wolves keeps us humble and aware
of our animal virtues and our kindred behaviors;
always knowing where our tails have been
or gone before.
Leonard Cohen is always a good one
to take along for a ride
anywhere a CD can sing.
The wolf pack endures.
Jack London in or out of town
would agree.
©Peter Bray, 12/23/06 All rights reserved
Bob Dylan, Jokerman
He's a prophet, a poet,
a musician, an artist,
a seer and a sage.
Gives you the feeling
he's been on the next page
and has returned to
tell you about it.
Observer, philosopher,
comedian, rhymester,
story teller. Icon of his
own generation.
Wears a long coat and
guitar strap over his back.
Sometimes looks like
he's uncomfortable
in his own skin.
Bob Dylan, Jokerman.
©Peter Bray, 11/30/06 All rights reserved
Phase 2: Crohns Disease, Cause and Cure
Before we say there’s NO CURE,
have we analyzed adequately for a CAUSE?
Did we acquire this malady
on our hooves or on our paws?
Did we acquire it from a parasite
travelling through an orifice to the south?
Or catch it in the winds and edibles,
entering through a northern orifice or mouth?
Have we surveyed the scene,
and microscoped the tissue?
Raised any parallels, long-term patterns,
epidemiologies, or other issues?
Was it acquired from Divinity
arriving at night from a far-off star?
Or delivered by some pathogen
from a source not that far...away?
What did Dr. Crohn have to say
before and after lending it all his name?
How many lanes, bridges and roads
have we gone down trying to ascertain the blame?
How many seconds of pasteurization at what temperature
would it take to have ALL our maladies go away...?
Tell me what ALL you know,
and I’ll tell you what LITTLE I’ve found out to date.
©Peter Bray, 12/25/06 All rights reserved – (It’s Christmas!)
Lime Green Motorsickle
After the poetry reading
he came out to the parking lot
and climbed on his
lime green motorsickle.
That which wasn’t
lime green was chrome.
That which wasn’t chrome
probably stayed home.
This was a piece of highly
functional road art.
I don’t recall whether he
kick- or button started it,
but when he left, his lime green bandana
followed him in the wind waving.
If I die and make it to heaven
I want to go in as a lime green motorsickle,
my global warming events
all in order or minimized,
and ride on the solar winds
near the seashore forever.
©Peter Bray, 11/16/06 All rights reserved
Second Families Abounding
We meet at the library or at the cafe
on the waterfront, this waterfront and that waterfront,
this second family of Intensity, Obscurity, Shape Changers,
Kahunas of Zinfandel Smiles & Melmac Plates,
Infamous and not so Infamous,
The Handy & The Willing, Lady Underwear and Here & There,
Lady Benevolent & All Good Things & Tidings,
The Night Won’t Change Either Dear,
Traveller’s Egypt and the Nile Too, Shutter Writer,
Bang on My Drum and Watch My Lemonade Parade,
and The Natural Waterfall Too, Butterflies Make Up Her Dresses,
Evil Candies and Sugar Cube Offerings,
Veteran’s Day Parade and Scottish Feast and
One More Over the Bowline,
Loose Cannons Crashing Upon the Decks,
Design Me Anything, and we do our thing, our thing, our thing,
one more time our thing, and the time becomes
Tahiti time, manana time, yesterday time, tomorrow time,
eternal time, reflections and projections in a mirror grandly,
rhyme time, sublime time, one more time,
and we advance by twosies and onesies,
and sneak one in one more time,
and then we go home again
to prepare our reserves, our preserves,
our just desserts for just one more engagement,
in town, out of town, around towns, all towns,
some towns, no towns, in between towns,
across and on county lines, refined, defined,
planed, strained, retrained pines,
softwoods, hardwoods, stolen goods,
’57 Chevies remembered,
and one more engagement,
just one more engagement.
Oh, how this beats 10,000 nights
of the same old crap on TV.
Novels could be this much fun
if they weren’t so damn long,
and we can color inside
or outside if not beyond
all our own lines of sight,
night converging upon the daytime.
Seagulls, raccoons, possums, nightowls,
leopards in tight skins, hawks and ducks all sing,
and we can too.
©Peter Bray, 11/15/06 All rights reserved
Upside Down Cat
You can learn a lot from any chosen one,
and you can learn a lot from most everyone.
But the most you’ll learn beats all that
when you learn it from an upside down cat.
An upside down cat knows a lot about trust,
and it rarely causes anything to rust.
An upside down cat really knows how to relax.
And an upside down cat doesn’t pay much tax.
It often enjoys a much better view,
when watching TV than either of you.
And it’s not offensive to its other peers,
and it often extends its health for years.
It gives a much more even shine to its coat,
and doesn’t effect the way it votes.
It’s the balance we’re after and an even keel,
and it’s soft underside is still really great to feel.
You can go upside down most any time of day,
and it’s precise, concise, and rarely gets in the way.
You’ll rarely hear its colleagues complain,
and the birds of the air are likely to explain that,
“We eat over there and we’re often entertained,
by the safety from that cat with the unexplained
inversion of its body through a gravitational pull,
that defies while complying without a lot of bull.”
So I suspect it has aspirations for a higher degree,
or at least public office or a candidacy
to erase poverty, neglect and disease,
when it goes upside down with the greatest of ease.
So if I’m ever missing in action or an appointment time,
I’m probably just conferring with this friend of mine,
taking down notes most religiously from an
upside down cat who’s a mentor to me.
©Peter Bray, 10/29/06 All rights reserved
www.peterbray.org
Pukes for Nukes
Everybody wants to have their own nukular gun.
All the little pukes want their own nukular fun.
“If the big guys get ’em, why can’t we?”
“Nobody wants to be bombed pre-emptively.”
So Elvis The Impersonator in North Korea begins to shout,
and The Windbreaker Dude from Iran struts about,
sayin’ “I deserve my nukes ’cause I can’t trust you.
I wanna be a player in the Nukular Zoo.”
“All ways are always fair to all religions and all zealots too.
Who cares about the ragtag, starving masses, or those who can’t vote,
when you’re in the Nukular Zoo?
All we need is a Nukular gun and a Delivery system too,
even a cardboard box or a missile will do,
then we’re BIG GUNS on the Global Block just like you.”
If you’re stupid or a warmonger, it’s a great arguement.
But if you can’t recall Chernobyl or Three Mile Island, it’s even more
stupid.
But if you’re blatantly stupid, you’ll even think it’s a viable alternative
fuel,
especially if you were alcoholic and half-awake and not reading the
NEWS then or now
when Chernobyl and Three-Mile Island nearly went south forever.
Check the radiation still at those sites, then tell me about
THIS BEIN’ NUKULAR stuff, while I go puke.
©Peter Bray, 10/15/06 All rights reserved
Studied Then I Went to Bed
After Berkeley, I studied Neil Diamond,
Paul Simon, and Leonard Cohen.
I studied Robert Frost,
Walt Whitman, and Jack London.
I studied John Hartford, John Prine,
Graphic Design, John Fogerty, John Lennon
and the Beatles. Jim Stafford, Joni Mitchell,
Joan Baez, and Mary Chapin Carpenter.
Paul Williams, Roger Miller, Pete Seeger,
Billy Joel, John Denver, Carly Simon
and Jim Blake.
Then all my local poet friends.
Then Bob Dylan.
Jesus, I’m so tired I’m going to bed.
It ain’t easy trying to figure out
who you are. Some of this stuff
is so far beyond me, I’m an antelope
looking for a merry-go-round.
And got my own ticket too.
©Peter Bray, 10/22/06 All rights reserved
Poet’s Ad For Tide (At Peace With My Poetry)
I’m at peace with my poetry,
and I use Tide at the laundry.
Dispensed in small boxes
from the vending machine,
it keeps my work rags clean.
There’s no Coke machine
or magazine rack,
I toss my rags out
my truck’s back.
Then I bring them in
like a load of trash,
no credit cards or checks,
I always pay cash.
Inserted into the change machine,
it’s a Las Vegas sound,
but my rags come out clean.
I do them here and not at home,
(that’s a long story) and this is just
a short poem.
I write these words on a religious flyer,
no doubt my words will go even higher
as I push my quarters into the
washer and dryer.
But if I don’t win any prizes for this verse,
that’s OK, my clean rags come out first.
Because I’m at peace with my poetry,
and I use Tide at the laundry.
©Peter Bray, 10/24/06 All rights reserved
Minor Cowboy on the Last Bus to Wherever
A minor cowboy choked on hubris
and his devisive architect
made their way to the nation’s capital.
They macheted their competition
with caustic remarks and attacks
until no one with any brains
was left standing in the central hallways.
After inauguration, they continued their charade
pasting superlative titles on flaky legislation that gutted
anything that was previously left standing.
Kyoto Protocol among other things
was dropped from their vocabulary.
Old intelligence recipes were reinvented
turning floordust into caviar.
Many said, “Wow, this is great, who needs
a surplus, anyway?”
In time, more cronies were stacked in office
than old root canals in need of extraction.
The odor in the beltway smelled like old, tired belts,
yesterday’s ideas, and decaying hubris.
Wars were invented and called freedoms.
Press conferences were called but fewer and fewer came.
Towards the end credibility and competence
sank like two stones thrown at each other.
The ochre and green Kharma truck
slowly arrived and a single hand slipped in
and turned off the last light panel.
At first no one really noticed.
The new fresh darkness was a real treat
after all that putrid wind.
In time new seeds were sown
on the empty lawn and fresh ideas
began to sprout.
The minor cowboy and his devisive architect
were seen on the last bus to wherever
selling each other to no one
to raise their last gas money.
Ethanol fuel had been invented, big time.
The Mideast became a Disneyland attraction.
Oil was now old hat.
Osama and Saddam forgave each other
for mutual transgressions and opened a satellite TV station
in Jerusalem selling low-cost home, college, and
entrepreneurial business loans
to women of all ages.
The applause was deafening.
Everyone stood and took a bow wave.
©Peter Bray, 10/16/06 All rights reserved
Reading Bukowski on the Waterfront
While Blue Panels Rest Upon My Rooftop
Earlier in the summer we transported the kids’ blue art panels
No chance. The school district parking lot had closed promptly at 4
pm, not 5 pm
as I was led to believe, so the ropes went up on the truckload afterall.
I will complete my mission tomorrow morning. For now, I’m headed to
the waterfront
to roll down the window, inhale some seabreeze, sip some pink lemonade
from a can,
and read some Bukowski while blue panels rest upon my rooftop. This
day is over while
seagulls fly in ever random patterns known only to them, and Bukowski
adds his own
shades of blue to the panels resting above me. Art remains all things
to all people, seagulls,
and Bukowski included. Rest in peace(s) to all.
