As I tune in

As I tune in

by Christopher J. Bradley

(c)2005

 

As I tune in

The globe arrives

in my ears

all of the drumming and strumming

and saxaphone strains

of the world view

are boiled down

like a Bourbon St. Gumbo

 

I hear the cries

for free speech

in Botswana

 

I hear the sell off of reality television

 

I know that New Orleans is sinking

But I kind of want to swim.

 

Zion is opening the

Digital Subscriber Line Service

And I'm still trying to unlock my mind

and figure out why I'm dreaming of surplus TV's

and wars with forks.

 

And somewhere God is here too

and I know that those aren't pale voices down the corridor

but impressions he is making on me.

 

I hear the musicology of Bob Dylan and Warren Zevon

and Eric Clapton and The Beatles

I hear the Sound of Silence

on my girl's car stereo

while snapping photos of winter trees.

 

I scroll past Gibson with Neo Anderson

in my Corner Window

And Bruce Lee stands like a Dragon

In Sun's Anteroom in Louisiana.

 

       I keep wishing Jesus would come and judge the living and the dead for us so we could tell who was really who. I find myself expecting wisdom of the ages from the Bible and the words haven't grasped me of late.

       I feel like a fish on a lure being drawn into conformity, and even my psychiatrist is saying I'm doing well even though I feel split between two homes. My housing co-ordinator gave me the official drug and alcohol quiz and I answered it decisively. Not that its' anyone's business but mine to begin with.

       One of my friends keeps insisting that we have Chinese for Lunch in the middle of the week this week which I have explained is a difficulty because of the program of things I am involved in. In any case, that will be straightened out Tomorrow afternoon.

        To be truthful, although I know it matters little to anyone else I am doing my best not to be confrontational with anyone, my housemates included. Even at their worst though I think I can sleep through them.

        Right now in the coldness of the 3AM smoking lounge, I am writing to you by overhead soft white lights and listening to the icicles melt and filter out of the gutters. The noise is calming and reassuring that the sun will rise on the Canal tomorrow and that it will sparkle on the water like Princess Crystal Above a flame.

         The ides of march are coming and the lioness will not have this Zebra. I know for a fact that as she consumes her prey she will be feasting on a Capricorn. I am no Astrologer, merely speaking in riddles. I've always preferred the story of the Exodus to any other than that of the rainbow in the Old Testament and I'll tell you why. Those slaves were commissioned to build the likes of the Sphinx.

         I'm going to break for a minute and say a little about my passport friend, my link from Egypt to New York in rich Kodachrome. I remember the Neon palace of Time's square and while I've never been to Carnegie Deli it seems we have our own little version here in Buffalo. My friend the Gaslight poet and carpenter has told me many times to recycle.

         I am beginning to believe him. I have almost all the tools necessary to build not only a photo processing shop, but also a recording studio and I know what I need to do it. This is largely because I have not thrown anything away. I have old technology, new tech, and last year's technology which is all pretty powerful stuff.

         It is thanks in large part to having a reasonable adult figure to talk to rather than drink with on Friday and Saturday nights. He tells jokes and helps me to appraise the things I should be looking for and I very much appreciate it.

 

Christopher J. Bradley
Noisecontrol Publishing
All the Grog That's Fit To Blog!