The Next Big Thing

Saturday, July 22, 2006

Where is my flying car?

Where is my flying car?
Where is my flying car?

Or for that matter, where is my car at all.

Of late I've discovered that I am a great deal more pedestrian than has often been characteristic. I think there is something to learn from this.

You don't need a car if the other people around you have them. If you are entertaining enough, someone will always provide you with food and a good laugh.

I think I learned a bit of this from my Irish friend patrick, who got along without a car for a good long time before he ever got one, and now that he has one he treasures it, even though it is a Geo Metro. For one, it is fuel efficient, and for two, no matter how many miles he put on it, it was always for something productive that furthered his career.

Now, it would seem, having squandered all of my resources, I'm falling to the same trouble, carlessness. I always hoped I'd have the Mr. Fusion thing from Spielberg's movie. Unfortunately, I'm not lucky enough to have a Mad Scientist next door, I have to do that part all on my own.

So for now, and since the availability of this system is here, whatever world this represents, real or fictional, whether Penguin will ever chronicle any of this seriously, I'll be yammering and hammering away, to try to keep the story going for as long as I can hold out, or at least until something better comes along. Like the next fine young woman with a vehicle, which for all of my best intentions, may never come about.

This is not to say I'm a "gangster of love" like the stupid Axe commercial would tell you, I'd much prefer to play tag. Especially since they had all those twisted "order of the serpent" commercials...Who the hell wants a serpent under his armpit? Certainly not me....

Lithos - The answer indeed is blowing in the wind. - Thanks for that bit of Bob Dylan to help ease the evening a bit. I know where my fate lies already for the most part...I just wonder -

Where is my flying car?

What makes a stones throw ripple?

What makes a stones throw ripple?
Is it two children standing on a beach at 5?
Is it the gift of a jar of collected stones at a sicillian funeral 30 some odd years later?
Is it the stones that were thrown in between?

What sympathies lie for the stones that were thrown? What pieces to the puzzle were never implemented, that left me sitting here on the doorstep flicking cigarettes into the driveway? While somewhere in the vastness of Manhattan he's driving a Jeep and trying to stop the import / export of the never ceasing Narcotics trade.

What gave him the right to escape the rush of the Falls, and enter the Jungle of Urban night...

There are no Honeymoons in Vegas. There are no Honeymoons anymore. The skies darken with the collusions of men and women falling to the darkness of the gaming arena, as though the holographic fighters of chiba might be all that's left once they put the boxing ring up in this town.

The Splash park has been sold. There won't even be water in a city of water. It will all be sand and chips, like that home away from home in the Nevada Desert, so much so, that Art Bell won't be able to lay claim to what once was Area 51. The real aliens are among us, they are oh so near, walking in their Ikons and leisure suits, a stones throw away from that next fix at the gaming table. A stones throw away from that next fix at the bar. A stone's throw away from the beautiful room service prostitute.

What makes a stone's throw ripple like a typhoon? What is missing? Is it the color? The color that we are all to accustomed to having now? Nothing matters in the darkness, of a scannered glow, with swipecards and identifications, and lasers in every grocery mart.

The time is coming in the Lucky Dragon where you'll be able to throw your stones at the loose change machines and scratch off your luck for what amounts to nothing more than a stone. It used to be the penny. Now it will be the nickel stone, the thing that will engraft itself into the next consciousness.

So where are these two children on the beach...
They've gone their seperate ways, one into action, the other into solitude and expression in sand...Perhaps the one is the stone, and perhaps the other is the ripple. The ripple is what will last, the ripple is what will shake the foundations of continents, the ripple is what will cause the tsunami. But as with all of them, the ripple will fade...

But the stone will one day wash ashore again...
Perhaps as sand, or a pebble, or even part of a larger rock. Only to be thrown again, for another birth, and another funeral.

What makes the silence tick?

What makes silence tick?

Is it the heart that pounds in the opening moments of the silver screen, or that just about to happen feeling as the kiss crops into sight at the corner of a terminal? Or is it something deeper? Is it the philosophy of time as aggrandized in the past to make us historically aware of the awareness that we now have that everything has changed, and it has.

Is it the awareness that now that we are no longer riding the clock, but the bitstream into inorganic nights in front of terminalls shelling out our brains into the inner space for our mesmerizing pseudoneigbors in the galaxy that isn't quite there, on the superhighway to nowhere in particular and everywhere all at once?

What makes silence tick?

Is it the cold spaces in front of air conditioners to cool our summers or space heaters to warm our winters? Don't eskimos live in igloos, and don't those in the Sahara wear wool? Really against this backdrop, what makes silence tick...?

What makes silence tick, as a thousand million musicians go unlistened to while ipods are loaded with commercialized farting reggaeton and jabber and even the telephones pump the crap. What happened to all those marching band marchers and cheerleading cheerleaders before the clock went dead and silence ceased to tick?

What happened to all of those avid readers of Asimov and Hawthorne and the Hardy Boys and Encyclopedia Brown when the computer and the playstation stole their minds at age 5. In favor of turning the page, we flip a switch to reboot for the next cosmological tick into silence's grand opera, bringing us one step closer to building the ultimate death machine.

What makes silence tick, when you are no longer here, or I am no longer here to scream with a fist at the unleavened horror of all we have wrought? What makes silence tick when my epitaph says writer, poor...2009? What makes silence tick when you have to live with my consequences or the fact that I plan to take down the planet with one fell swoop...?

Misinterpretation is your enemy as it was mine. Don't blame me when the shrill shrieks of rage come pouring in. Because the acid free paper, which I choose to burn, is what makes the silence tick.

Wednesday, July 12, 2006

The Unicorn

The Unicorn
by Christopher J. Bradley
(c)2006 July 12

The real story of the unicorn
and why she never survived in my ark
had to do with how we met
more than anything else,

It was over Bacardi 151,
she was the perfect specimen,
there was no other like her,
And we played cards and made magic in a strobe light,

And for all I know,
I could have ended up dead that night,
she had a boyfriend too,
For some reason at 19 and with enough liquour,
You just don't care.

She fell into my arms and it was all over for me,
I held on to her for 3 months,
And had to let her go to her ambitions to marry,
It still makes me wonder when I looked into the eyes,
Of those canadian children in the wallet photograph,
brought to me while I was drinking in the Essex Pub,

could I have made that difference?

But then Hillary said they were young,
and so many years later,
That the Unicorn,
Couldn't have had,
my child.

My Michelle?

My Michelle?
by Christopher j. Bradley
(c)2006 July 12

It wasn't everyone that knew
the sorts of things we did
to poison our relationship,
I only hope that so many years forward,
In our times apart,
That you can think fondly,
of one or two things we did,
and not hate me,
for being the lush I was,
so many years ago.

And no - Guns and Roses doesn't do you justice,
You were so much more than that,
and I'd have dropped them so many times,
if they hadn't done themselves in first.

dark lover

Dark Lover
by Christopher j. Bradley
(c)2006 12 July

By todays standards,
and the hate and animosity on both sides,
It was so wrong of me to put you through that so many years ago,
I remember sitting with you in my car,
and we kissed so deeply,
before the end of my time in Niagara falls,
before I went on to find an engagement,
I even kept a picture of you in my wallet.

You were dark and beautiful,
Like the women on the covers of Vibe and Ebony,
and If I had only known what it would take to hold you to me,
I might have made it happen,
But then we got into that ridiculous argument about sinead,
and I realize now that I was wrong,
to the very day I saw you,
In that old department store building,
and then never again.


(c)2006 July 12
by Christopher J. Bradley

for some reason,
I've always kept quiet about the bocce girl,
the one I met and took down to the basement to wash clothes,
she was so intimate with that first kiss at the high school dance,
Of course I'm not supposed to kiss and tell,
but it doesn't much make a difference 20 some odd years later or does it?

I wonder if she still gets hot over me,
Those times we played near the oven in her parent's kitchen,
House was a wonderful game,
They would hardly ever let us get alone for more than a few moments.

Sbe's got lovely kids now and a second husband i take it,
I always think - thank god I wasn't smoking then,
But you never know, she may have really loved me then,
Bocce, Bocce, bring little italy with you when you take your grand adventure,
And for god sakes keep them away from Vegas,

That's the last thing you need.

All my love Bocce...

A Blue Bird

A Blue Bird
(c)2006 july 12
by Christopher J. Bradley

A blue bird,
nestled against me one Haloween,
she was a witch,
and I was indiana,
It was spooky in that church,
For the party that didn't take place,
on exactly the date,
But it didn't matter,
We had some punch and cookies,
and went home,
and then went horseback riding,
I hear she's married now,
To a nice guy,
St. Mary's and living in Ny..
You can't complain to see another one grow up,
And enjoy life...
Enjoy life.

Jennifer Lennox

Jennifer Lennox
by christopher J. bradley
(c)2006 july 12

jennifer lennox,
you must have had orange hair,
and green eyes,
Down in the water,
was where you visited me,
On a boat,
Out there on the lake,
It was as if there was more than one of you,
I don't know how it could have been,
From year to year,

And then suddenly,
Like a scanner darkly,
there were another two,
One dark, and one blond
Making out with me at the same time,
On that porch while I was 15
The onlookers thinking I was disgusting,
I couldn't stop them,
They were so heated.
And I could barely walk that weekend,

Lets review them all

Let's review them all
by Christopher J. Bradley

From that hug in the forest that started it all,
To That hug near the bathroom in Allentown at a place called Nietsche's
To that raver girl's kiss in central downtown buffalo,
To that time in Toronto I met the crystal princess,

let's recall them all,
one more time,
Just one more time,
And think,
And sit back,
and wait,
for the next one,
to return.

Parsley Sage Rosemary and Thyme

Parsley Sage Rosemary and Thyme
by Christopher j. Bradley
(c)2006 July 12

Its 18 years later and I still can't forget you,
Every time I see a flashback from the 60s its you standing there,
swinging your brown hair over the wishing well,
turning around to laugh and kiss me in that instant of sunshower.

You are still there,
So are country joe and the fish,
And hendrix,
and everyone else on those tapes,
Those crusted old cassettes that you lent me.

It was the summer of 69 in 88,
something that I can never duplicate,
And it left - literally left me reeling for years,
Especially over the fact that I don't know you anymore,
not the way I'd have liked to,

Not locked in an endless intimate embrace foreverheld,
while Simon and Garfunkel sang their odes,
To the night of Graffiti,
in the City, of Kodachrome.

The Wikimania I won't attend

The wikimania I won't attend
by christopher j. bradley

I won't attend wikimania this year,
as I didn't last year,
without a ticket to Frankfurt,
without a ticket to Harvard.

I thought I'd be going,
I honestly did,
from the outset last year,
It looked like a hot ticket.

This year, it just looks like a mess,
of absolute chaos,
Harvard is big,
but is it big enough to hold Unwashed masses
from New York City?

This is bigger than a few people,
this is bigger than a cultural following,
it's more of a revolution,
And all sorts of strange stuff can happen in the middle,
of a revolution,
There's know telling what kind of street virus,
I might bring home on my laptop.

In any case,
With all that said,
I still honored the founder with my interview of him,
and I wish them luck and joy in their festivities,
They will just not be mine,
this year,
But that's only this year.

The Dream of the Dollar Macs

The Dream of the Dollar Macs
by Christopher J. Bradley
(c)2006 July 12

I had a dream,
that at a yardsale,
I picked up 3 mac minis for a dollar a piece,
I'm certain it won't be long,
Until some hairbrained collector,
Of old junk,
Comes up with a deal like that for me,
I only wanted or ever needed one,
PowerPC, but 3, for 3 dollars,
now there's a bargain,
Comparable with the actual Mac's,
which are edible,
and you never see again,
Except when you flush!

I'm done with you Raul

I'm done with you Raul
by Christopher J. Bradley
(c)2006 July 12

I'm done with you Raul,
There are certain moments, I will miss,
The whole disconautica of our first adventures,
Your putting me in an Indian headdress,
Or taking pictures with the Sony Camera,
maybe even spraypainting me digitally on a brick wall,

But I'm done with you Raul,
You have nothing more to say when I talk to you,
Than my battery is dead.

Guess what Raul,
mine is dead too,
But there's always the phone,
As in Dali's phones across the mindscape,
there is always the phone,
And you just never did care.

Mr Ohio Where Have You Gone?

Mr Ohio Where Have You Gone?
by Christopher J. Bradley
(c)2006 July 12

Mr. Ohio where have you Gone?
Its been so long since we partied,
so long since we took that walk into Toronto's Ninsei,
Or spent any time in the Latvian Embassy with that Crazy Brit Steve,

While the world glowed in the Frenetic Jungle Ghetto pace,
with people swinging their arms like Cavemen to the beat,
or a girl under the table having sex with him,
God, he told me later that she was bisexual,
What a revelation that could have been if I'd only had the balls.

In any case,
Mr. Ohio,
where have you gone,
You've flown off to Normal,
to have your bird research days,
and hang out with your Doctorate society friends,
and spend time out there,
somewhere I can never be.

Don't you remember sending me that post card from South America,
telling me you'd be coming home soon?
Mr. Ohio, where is home?
You have to come home to your family,
Its just them left now, your mother and your father,
They miss you I'm certain as much as I do.

They gave you the continents of the world, and you've explored most of them,
except for perhaps asia and Antartctica,
and now it is time to come home,
Graduate and come home,
before it is too late,
and the nightmares begin,
so that you don't have to fly that field,
None of us have to fly that field,
a black winged gull,
with a broken back.

Mr. Ohio,
I know you can hear us,
Come home,

Come home.

Why didn't I mention her?

Why didn't I mention her?
by Christopher J. Bradley

Why didn't I mention her?
Its not going anywhere
Its not going anywhere,
Its not going anywhere.

And then it does,
For just a little bit.
It goes,
Just there,
Just to a kiss, or a pat on the behind,
or a hug.

Nothing big,
but there is no heat there,
no heat like before,
no heat in the frozen sheets of our love,

I suspect she's got multiple internet friends,
That keep her satisfied,
I don't think I've ever met a girl so patently sexless,
and yet for so much time I was addicted to her mystery.

I am beginning to wonder,
At times if she is playing on the other team,
Just purposefully wasting my time,
and seeing if I will die before I accomplish my work.

That's why I didn't mention her.

You aren't going to see massive ballads in her honor,
You aren't going to see much of anything happen from my pen,
As relates to her,
The roadside attractions have always been more keen to me,
The ones you meet overnight in the coffee houses,
who's father's threaten to kill you the next day,
those are the ones, that have always appealed to me,
The ones that are roughly my age, maybe even a little older,
That have that killer instinct and star quality about them.

I guess that's why I didn't mention her.

Mighty Taco - The Key

Mighty Taco - The Key
by Christopher J. Bradley
(c)2006 July 12

Mighty Taco,
The place where beef meets taco wrap,
The place where a super mighty,
Can take you away for a half hour of bliss,
with a nice cold Wild Cherry Pepsi.

At least it used to,
back in the days when I worked at Computer City,
the world was so hot that summer,
dreaming back to 96,
when all I had to do was check out boxes,
that held computers,
and cargo related to computers.

Flash forward 8 years,
and Superman Returns is out,
the man of steel makes his appearance on the big screen,
An indelible fixture in Americana,
And i'm sitting across from Andy in Mighty Taco,
worshiping the Taco gods,
and thinking,

There's got to be more to Aztec living,
than american beef with spices,
But then,
I've been wrong before.

Winter 2003

Winter 2003
by Christopher J. Bradley
July 12, 2006

In winter of 2003,
I found a girlfriend,
or rather a girlfriend found me,
In a parking lot,
Outside a coffee shop,
Under the strangest of circumstances.

She had blond hair,
long blonde hair, and blue eyes,
She was named after a song,
I thought it was Rick Springfield,
But it was someone else's song.

In any case,
She was beautiful,
I remember - she was 26 going on 27,
And we felt each other in my car...
She let me brush her hair while listening to techno music,
We called the radio station and told them,
I was brushing her hair...

They wanted more intimate details,
But we wouldn't give them any,
They always want more intimate details.

I took her that winter,
for a ride to a rave party in Toronto,
Thinking I was done with it years before,
But realizing you never really escape that hotel,
Because all there is is drinking, dancing, drugs, and the other things,
Fortunately, I managed to escape the drinking and the drugs that night.

We spent an hour or so making out in a car off the Queen Elizabeth Way,
she was dressed to the nines.

I know she doesn't remember this now,
The women never remember the good or best of times you've had with them,
Not in the ways that continue to heat your single sheets for years after,
As a lonely man, occupied as ever with the day to day of nothing but words.

Blond haired blue eyed girl,
Come back to me...
I know you won't,
But 2003, the place it began,
could be the place where it will end...


by Christopher J. Bradley
July 12, 2006

I discovered IRC the same year I became homeless,
In a way it may have saved my life.
It gave me something to talk about with the other street people anyway.

I wandered the streets for 4 months,
thinking I was saving other people,
when in reality other people were saving me.

Even the guy who hit me in the face 4 times,
may have been saving me,
It was wildly apparent,
that his punches were pulled,
either that, or God stayed his hand.

Following that I lived in a half way house for 4 months,
with some equally creepy residents.
The only one there who made me feel welcome,
was my roomate, named R. Lamar,
who had done his share of Prison time,
and had found the life he had at present to be one of ease.

I don't know how this all fits into the bigger picture yet,
but it hasn't been written yet,
I tried to stay in touch with my IRC friends via wiki and updates,
to the encyclopedia.

I spent some time on the personal computers provided to us,
building a personal profile, while I was on the street.
The profile included links to all of my existing writings,
Even some that have not been printed yet.

Internet Relay Chat

Internet Relay Chat
by Christopher J. Bradley

Internet Relay Chat
or IRC as we adoringly call it,
puts even the AOL servers in their monolithic capacities
To Shame.

IRC is a blazing fast collection of internet servers,
that allow literally hundreds of people to simultaneously,
Connect and communicate.

The set of servers I accidentally stumbled into was called Freenode
Freenode was listed in Opera as was Wikipedia.
How did I discover Opera?
At a friends house. You might remember him,
A friend from American Mohawk.

The Book Re-Opens

The Book Re-Opens
by Christopher J. Bradley
July 12, 2006

Perhaps I was a bit
too ambitious last year
trying to take on Shakespeare
and his sonnet masterworks
and finish them on a deadline.

That can't make me less of
a scribe I hope,
having made it only half way,
by age 33.

I thought I'd be dead and,
Resurrected by now,
Turns out to be quite the contrary.

The world continues,
to bleat out in wild colors,
and the digitization of
the future holds many more wonders,
than can be compared.

So let me take you on this short odyssey,
Of the past year,
and bring the lightspeed of innerspace home.