.50 and final.

It has been quite some time since I’ve been able to share anything with you, this may be a benefit to some, and droll for others, but either way here we are.  I realized recently that this would actually be my “50th” posting and that in mind figured there would be no better time to transition to a new site.  The next chapter if you will, and so active the 1st of Jan, 09, the address below will be my home.  

http://thereturnofsundaymorning.wordpress.com/

I’d love to hear your comments on the two pieces I have placed below, which are up for publication. 

Enjoy your holiday-

bryan.

all the you.

Well I was sad to hear that it was raining

but with you it is always raining

and the world can never move fast enough.

It was summer before and it is winter now

And I try to explain that sometimes it gets dark

but you can’t hear me over all the you.

I just sit and wait my turn while you bleed a little,

folding laundry and shaving while world goes by.

In English class they said that words could make pictures

and I have words in my ear but I never see you, and it never works.

Memories though live beautifully pictures

sitting wrapped in little frames, already cashed in,

because our behavior doesn’t honor the love in them.

It was summer before and it is winter now

And I try to explain that sometimes it gets dark,

But you can’t hear me over all the you.

brooklyn.

The beer is flat and warm and I drink it from the can

with a supper of premium tuna that tastes like aluminum and salt.

“It’s what they eat on the beach.” I say to myself with a smile

and I sit and remember the beach, alone at my kitchen table.

The table is a safe place to sit and remember.

The beach was only a year ago but it seems like ten

I was with my brothers and lively and youth at it’s best.

I have another warm beer for my brothers that tastes like tuna and salt like the sea

and I wonder where they are now, busy making there way to an end.

Nowhere is safe to sit and remember.

I move downstairs and with a pad and I scribble a little bit and lie to the night about my day.

Tomorrow will be the same, I will lock the door and walk away

past rusted iron gates that guard “tiendas,” and mark my way to the train.

Four blocks and eight steps away from my door a big brown mutt will attack a chain link fence.  

One avenue later the gutter will be backed-up with the smell of sulfur that likes to rise and meet you

with all the friendliness of a grenade.

Standing here there is straight shot view of Manhattan, oh Manhattan,

where you can see the skyscrapers looking like a postcard- everyone smiles.

I will stop at the site of children holding hands

they pass through the crosswalk behind their teacher for safety and safe keeping.  

The wanna be’s will watch me from under their low brimmed Yankees caps standing in front of the check into cash

talking about “dolla bills yo” and how “whitey best keep on movin’ if he knows what’s up”

Well I know what’s up and why they travel in groups of three or four.

Wearing puffy jackets like the kids on TV and wanting nothing more then to hate someone the way their drunken pops taught them to hate.

My pops got drunk too but that war is over and I wish it would just end.

but my father says “angels all of them.” and we are

by the streets of Brooklyn.

The concrete steps are worn as I walk underground protected from the wind

and when I finally ascend again I will be locked in that postcard across the river.

For a flash I play important and then I’m back at my flat

beer and aluminum tuna to sit and remember

how we’ve all worked and grown old together.

My brothers, the beach, and the wanna be’s just the same-

our cities our states, our bodies and mates,

may we weather the constant give and constant strain.

And my father says “angels all of them.” and we are

by the streets of Brooklyn.