After Troy

Saturday, December 11, 2004

After Troy by Christopher J. Bradley

After Troy
By Christopher J. Bradley
12/11/04 12:29:01 AM

Noise Control Publishing Ink

I am Niagara because
by Christopher J. Bradley

I am Niagara Because,
I am a raging waterfall of letters, notes, and music.
My splinters fracture like liquid drops,
On the cathode ray of the earth.

I blast to Australia and Japan,
Like the audio crashing,
Of falling tides,
And the typhoon rages,
In my sensory perception.

I hide behind sunglasses,
With my camera at the brink,
Snapping pictures like a tourist,
And floating them across borders,
To make them rest,
In the Mighty Ontario,
As the Native Women,
Endure their sacrifices,
In the Barrels of Beer,
That The Brotherhood Ship In.

I am Gambino and West Herr,
I am Northtown and Ceconi,
I am Fuccillo and Jim Ball,
I am Webster and Greece,

I am Holodome, Best Western, and Comfort,
I am Radisson, Marriot, and Hyatt,
I am Super 8, Motel 6, and Knights Inn,
I am Top 'O the Falls, Clarion, and Microtel.

I am Public Enemy Number One,
I am Rage Against The Machine,
I am Killswitch Engage,
I am Front 242.

I am Gibson, Stephenson, and Sterling,
I am Tan, Erdrich, and Hedges,
I am Vonnegut, Baldwin, and Fitzgerald,
I am Ellison, Whitman, and Melville.

I am a powerhorse for cable,
I am an avid watcher of hughes,
I am a moonshot baby,
I am a rocketship camper, with dues.

I am a regatta watcher,
And a vert fiend,
And a wearer of addidas,
I am a holder of the brass ring.

I am a McDonalds and Burger King Flipper,
I am an eater of Spaghetti,
I am a wine taster,
And I can find my way to cheese.

I am a new millenium Yeti,
I am a next millenium Sumo,
I am a fourth Dimensional traveler,
I move through space, with the spice, as my guide.

I am on the government payroll,
And I'm in the LOC,
I'm splattered all over google,
And Yahoo and the Babel.

I am running game with athletes,
And actors,
And fiends,
And believers.

I live amongst the tall and the low,
The prostitutes and the pristine,
And the taxers and the taxed,
And the lawyers and the liars,

I live in a town,
That is too small for the both of us,
And too big for one fish,
I live in the new Arcadia,

I am Niagara,
I am Niagara,
I am Niagara,
I am Niagara, Because,

I am.

Earth Shoes
by Christopher J. Bradley

A new door opens,
An indian walks in,
He sets down his tomahawk,
And welcomes Columbus,

Columbus responds,
And builds up the Coast,
Then returns to Spain,
And brings with him Portugal.

Another Door Opens,
And East India walks to America,
And the Buffalo welcome him,
And he rides the American Dream,
His batmobile a Mazda Prototype,
He engineers the future,
In the secrecy of his basement,
Where cold politics run amok,
And the vicious blond bombers,
Try to push their asses against headboards,
But he is smart enough to know,
That wine is not the solution,
To the puzzle presented by Rubik and Big Green.

And so the Indian Moves with Columbus,
To topple the tower of Babble,
And Make the world,
One Big Video Game,
And Buy A Big Hitachi,
While Takahashi Spreads the Virus,
To infect the unclean,
With the dope that keeps them in Darkness,
Just for a time to prevent an uprising,

And then gradually,
As the sun shines on an Ellis Island,
Long missing from our land,
Share the freedoms of America,
And buy a McDonald's Happy Meal,
For Every Kid in Ethiopia,
And Fundamentally Change the world,
For the better.

The dreams of this power child,
Will be realized,
In the scripting of the future,
And the apostles will see fire again,
And speak the language of the people,
Through the open doors of the Alta Vista Babel Fish,
On the morning that the shark burns chrome,
And the children of tomorrows children,
Come to learn,
That the pen is mightier,
Than any sword, known, to mankind,

You can take that to the bank,
And set me up with a loan,
Through the dragonfly,
Whose relationship to me,
Is sounder than the fury,
And warmer than a summer day,
At the skydome in Toronto,
And who doesn't mind,
That her cousin, sometimes,
Has to cry for help.

Tom Cruise is on the big screen now,
And Ray will be out soon,
And if you can put the two together,
In Hollywoood,
You know exactly where I'll be resting,
At 11:30 this morning,
While the ships sail out from port hope,
And St. Catherines,
And the race of the century,
Is unleashed from its moorings,

And the people of the mighty Niagara,
Are so in tune with Brooklyn,
That it matters not what we say or do,
Because they are in fabulous love with us,
The spirits sing from beyond the grave,
of 400 years of enslavement,
And Jazz, Hip Hop, RnB, Techno,
Detroit, Chicago, and Boston,
Montreal, and Daytona,
Huntsville, and Monte Carlo,
Paris and London,
Are on Eastern Standard Time,
And Grenich Mean is Serious,
No single human can grasp my meaning,
Without 2 humpback whales,
And a journey back to 1969 with Spock,
And a girl with a notebook that plays,
Knight Rider and Speed Racer,
And James Bond's Mother,
Because we're taking it to the foundations,
And they are made of Tensile Concrete,
Strung Across Synthetic Cement,
And these Shoes,
Are 100%

72 Seconds
by Christopher J. Bradley

Already, the modern shuttle,
Is in bloom,
As days gone by,
Exclude our memories,
and discontent,
At the link broken,
In the chain of risk,
As the seperation,
Of the solid rocket boosters,
That never happened,
Caused the ultimate tragedy.
This swan,
Will never again fly,
As I attended Space Camp,
With my head turned down,
Like Kennedy,
In the hall,
Of the white house.

36 Crazy Fists
by Chris Bradley
11/22/04 9:43 PM

Welcome Home Pat,
It's Thanksgiving time again,
And this is about the best time I could have had,
Watching some outlandish Jackie Chan Kung Fu.

36 Crazy fists blaze across the screen,
And I think back to the night before,
When I felt like Johnny Mnemonic on the front porch,
"I want room service!"

But the thing is,
I expect that things will improve as days go on,
And the world shrinks for me,
And I get used to living as an adult on my own.

I should have figured this whole thing out sooner,
I know that from everything that has transpired to this day,
I have certain requirements for living,
And they have to be taken into account.

So blast with your fists,
And blast with your kicks,
And take out the travellers,
Like marks on a hit list,

And make dollars,
Like Dre and Z,
Cause time's precious,
And I know,

You'll be back next year.

Chicago and Back
by Christopher J. Bradley

I'd just about reached Chicago,
When my uncle called,
And told me I couldn't,
Stop in to see him there.

I decided to drive in,
To see the sky scrapers,
And bridge work,
And train trestles.

I ended up in mid-day traffic,
On the outskirts of Chicago,
The buildings,
Looming up on the left.

I had my sound machine,
Hooked in,
To B96,
The killer B,
With the speakers,
Hanging over my shoulders.

Boston for a paper
by Christopher J. Bradley

One morning,
I decided to drive East,
I followed the 90,
Into Boston, and The Dig.

When I got there,
It was dark,
The city was asleep,
I was one of a few cars,
Roving the gentle paves.

I drove in circles,
Through the three dimensional maze,
For hours,
Searching for Davis Square,
And the supermarket,
Of Days gone by.

I found it,
In the early morning light,
And took the long walk,
From the lot to the square,
Where I discovered,
A new cafe, had coffee,
And read the papers.

Good Morning World
by Christopher J. Bradley

Good Morning World,
The Birds Are singing your songs,
As the rain wept your tears last night,
Another child was born,
Born into a you,
Your graces unfold on a war torn civilization,
That has promises unkept.

Beside the strugglings are the many,
Are the few for whom life is but easy game,
They shine in their luxiourious cars,
As they glisten down the highways and thoroughfares,
Without a care in the world.
They dominate with their pocketbooks and pens,
And no one would be wise enough,
To realize that it is nothing,
But matchbook covers, and cheap saloons,
The bar brawl for the ordinary man,
Is but entertainment for whores.

Good morning world,
There is no life left to be lived,
That hasn't been lived before,
From Egypt's enslavement,
To the present day,
We are shackled,
The promises of a new day have not been kept,
When I speak of David, I am cursed by all,
Yet wasn't he the King of generations?
In line with the bringer of peace, the prince?
The prince of peace is to be realized by the young,
And forgotten by the old,
And re-discovered by the apocalyptic philosophers,
Who redefine their search for justice,
In the one and only book of law.

And dare I continue,
For I know, these words are fighting words,
As are any spoken against war and toward pacifism,
There is no benefit to killing,
Regardless of the Economic outcome,
For money, for fame, for glory in battle,
Children weep and their mothers cry,
And we sit in humility,
Waiting for the end to come,
Because we have already been made non-players,
In this turf war for resource.

I cry as they did in 91,
And as they do in 2004,
And as they will,
The nearer the electronic car driven hydro powered change,
Finally comes,

No blood for oil.
No blood for oil.

Good Morning From Club Med
by Christopher J. Bradley

We are among believers here,
The people of God are all around,
Lifting me up from the underground,
Bringing me out of a completely medicated state.

The morning is rising,
On a new day,
When the comprehensive consistencies,
of this weeks destructive tendencies,
Have been disengaged by the heartlessness of the digital age.

The morning is full,
And the clouds while gray,
Are holding their rains,
And the day could possibly be fabulous,
On a new journey,
Into the Buffalo evening.

8 Trip
by Christopher J. Bradley

I am on an 8 trip,
Brought on by a handshake,
With a joker,
From around the bend.

My eyes are googling,
My mind is getting wide,
My pulse is thinning out,
Billy Joel is talking to me on the radio.

The Pepsi Cola sign is vibrating,
In the glass paned window,
For the first time I'm noticing,
The label on the Jelly holder.

Cars are milling about outside,
The overhead lights are brightening,
As my shadow crosses the page,
The ink pours forth,
Like the blood,
In a chalk outline.

A bird in hand is better than two in the bush
by Christopher J. Bradley

A bird in hand is better than two in the bush,
I walked into the minimart today,
wanting to walk out with a pepsi,
But the lotto tickets made me curious,
I began to have a desire to be a winner,
To my willing satisfaction,
The lucky sevens paid out seven,
And I walked out,
With a pepsi and a full wallet.
A bird in hand is better than two in the bush.

by Christopher J. Bradley

I've spent the day,
Reading over 500 poems,
And all that I can say,
Is Gadzooks!

There is some talent,
Shining on the tensile strands,
Of the spiders web,

Am I a spider,
Or a fly in the ointment?

Time will tell.

Time will tell.

Like a wishing well.

By Christopher J. Bradley

Happily married with two sons,
Somewhere in Vermont,
What I would have done for you,
Had I not been out of my head.

Somehow I wish I could have put that ring,
On another finger,
But then with Nicole,
I begin to think that things couldn't have worked out better.

I just remember your sweet voice,
Singing Bette Middler in my left ear as I stroked the keys,
And on Eagles wings,
We flew through graduation.

Beau Ideal
by Christopher J. Bradley

I was speechless as I stood on the dock,
I could only call her depeche mode,
Fast fashion,
As I stumbled over my spanish,
In the hopes that it could exchange with her french,
Her hair spiked out in pigtails,
With international written all over her overalls.
She sailed with the techteam,
In the youngstown level regatta,
And I was stunned,
Because she was everything,
My exchange student fantasies could muster,
For certain,
The beau ideal.

Luanne's Blues
By Christopher J. Bradley

This is the story,
Of a girl,
Who could be so much more,
With the true love of a real man.

If I hadn't committed to this point,
Maybe I could make something work for her.
But She'll be singing the blues,
Like a lounge singer on a piano,

For a few nights ahead now,
At least until the windows open,
And the flowers bloom for her,
And she can find her fires.

She doesn't need a will,
Until the time comes,
When she can make her story lifelike,
And get that pearly white smile,
Shining like the sun,

Once again.

The Bridal Pattern
by Christopher J. Bradley

If the shower will make the roses bloom,
won't it make the bride all the more beautiful,
for June is the month,
For the Bridegroom's uniting,
With arms for holding,
Not arms for fighting.
So with my pocket full of poesey,
I offer my bit of prosaic,
As this kaleidiscope unfolds,
Yet again,
Yet again.

To Kiss a Beautiful Woman in January
by Christopher Bradley
1/11/00 4:08:11 AM
Dedicated to JC

She was cleaning her car when I arrived,
Guiltily I watched her back out of the driver's side door,
Thinking that she looked incredible in jeans,
If I could only have something more to offer than my complications.

Her beads pressed against my ears as I entered her room,
A quiet basement with two cats,
And the couch I had slept on so many times before,
On Barrington.

I was thinking, while we played Scrabble on the Playstation,
How bright she had become in the last few years,
And yet I hadn't noticed until then, because of my friendship with her boyfriend.
I was afraid to like her too much then, because I was concerned I would lose him as a friend.

We went to see Anna and the King that night,
With some of her many friends,
And then to the Princess,
Before running each of them to their many destinations.

After renting movies at Blockbuster,
We went back to her place, and watched one.
The film had me thinking about the impending doom that befalls all men,
I massaged her foot through the sock, thinking of how a woman grows with her toes.

The movie ended and we went to sleep.
All I could think about was my complications at first,
I stayed awake while she slept, and tried to drown them out with television,
I was awake until five, when I laid down on the couch.

Her soft voice on the telephone brought me to consciousness,
And we started off for church,
Picking up a friend in sandals on the way,
A friend quoted a famous author's lesson in love, while we were there.

The tall ships
by Christopher J. Bradley

The tall ships,
while sitting at anchor,
In the night breeze,
complement the jumping fish,
In the irridescent blackness of the lake.

As the sun slowly brings forth light,
Their posts become visible,
Over the tents of the campers,
And the sleepers sleep late,
While the morning coffee brews.

The kitchen is cold,
And a cat is nearby,
While I lean against the picnic table,
Watching him work on a dead fish.

The birds circle in the fluid currents,
Of the air all about them,
And I can feel God guiding my steps,
As I walk for real,
For the first time in years.

And I am not aftraid,
And the people around me are his,
And the world is a different place,
If only for a few sacred hours.

The Youngstown Level Regatta - An Experience on Wind
by Christopher J. Bradley

While I was not fortunate enough to own or be a member of a crew of a
boat this year in Youngstown, I have to remain in awe of the motions
of this sea going community from beginning to conclusion of events
this past Saturday. The water and the wind, and the birds and the
insects, and the sun and the sky itself, could do nothing less than
bring me one step closer to God.

I spent this time in contemplation of the tall ships whose anchors
kept them buoyant upon the waters off the point of Williams Marina for
most of the early morning. My drink of choice was Diet Pepsi. The real
exposition in my opinion was the preparation for launch. I watched the
local and foreign competitors emerge from their tents on the bank of
the lake and come to meet me at the picnic table that I'd chosen two
days earlier with a friend. They shared their breakfast with me,
polish sausage, poppy cake and dill pickles.

The polish team, fored by an engineer, was on a ship with Music notes
painted on the side, whose back was slooped like a violin's body. I
asked him about the dynamics of water and wind, and he called them
fluid dynamics. I cannot pretend to understand everything he said,
but, I am enjoying the competitive atmosphere and the tension in the
air, as more and more of the shipsmen come out of their tents and
begin toying with the riggings.

Another of the competitors was a beautiful red headed Canadian. She
and her boyfriend, with spiked hair, who looked like Johnny Rotten
from the Sex Pistols exchanged a few lyrics with me. I showed them my
earth shoes and hoped that they would spread the word. The girl and
her team looked like a team of ravers straight out of Atlantis when I
was young. I am glad that I had a chance to meet them briefly, I would
have liked to see them place third or better, unfortunately, their
place was about sixth.

A lot of the situation has to do with wind, and weather the sails can
handle the stress. More than one sail was ripped this afternoon, and
one Mast was even cracked and bent over completely. And these boats
are not small, and by far, not weak. Most are two or three minivans
long. And they are tethered six or seven deep on the docks because of
the sheer number of them that turn out for the race. The spirit is
purely American and Canadian in nature. It is possible that this
happens in other countries, but the people here, tended to mention
free trade quite a bit.

For this weekend at least, Youngstown was Americas city. Even the
children participated, some young girls maybe 7 or 8 years old were
industriously selling ICE along the docks to those ships that were
coming and going, and the fishers casting out into the open waters. I
spoke to three of them and they told me of a medical business they
were in. People from Lockport passed by and introduced me to the
sheriff who invited me to get a pass for the Yacht Club itself. I
couldn't have been happier to share in the good times starting there
around five o'clock when the ships returned.

I met the captains of Pennies Five and the Green Machine, and a team
from Port Hope. I met the Canadians and the Polish team again. The
team from Port hope made me an excellent pineapple daquiri and told me
about their flower and furniture businesses. Placing well in the races
seemed to most, less important, than enjoying the sport of sailing
itself. Everyone wanted to win the flag though. The Youngstown Level
Regatta happens once a year, and I am sorry myself for never seeing it

Earlier in the day when I was still sitting and watching the ships
come in, I spoke with a woman and her daughter. They were from Ottawa
and own real estate in Florida. We had an extended conversation about
the political platform that I would challenge either candidate to take
up. The platform is Housing Education Literacy Medicine - HELM. We
were both fairly confident that John Kerry will be the next president.
This is a viewpoint I espoused to several of my new friends, and I
hold it with pride.

Another woman and her son from Niagara Falls spoke of her concerns
that the war is affecting America adversely. I could not disagree. And
her discussion brought me to a new idea of my own. This idea stems from
the possibility of the revision of the United Nations to a version
2.0. My idea was that the United Nations could expand the Security
council to include rather than 5 countries, 20 countries, so that the
United Nations might become more egalitarian and equalized in the
increasingly globalized human condition.

Back at the Yacht club, I learned that there had been four races on
the wind, separating the boats by size class, for fairness and
effectiveness. One ship called the Quantum Leap was particularly
impressive set upon the dock. While I did not have a chance to step
onto any of the ships, I took several pictures with my digital camera,
while they were at sea as the wind swept them about off of the point
of Fort Niagara.

All in all, Saturday was one of the best days I've ever had locally,
it was enough fun to draw me back to Youngstown on Sunday for a game
of chess and a cup of coffee with my friend Scott Ansel at Brennens
where it is particularly affordable. While we were there, I learned
that the new Tom Cruise movie Collateral starts August 6th. Just in
time for my next paycheck. I enjoyed myself thoroughly, and I will
definitely be around for round 2 in 2005.

Should one wonder
What its like
To come into money?

Drum and Bass
And acid Jazz
Amp Me Up

Tomorrow, is a sacred day,
Like any other,
The sun will rise in glory.

by Christopher J. Bradley

Flatulence in public,
Is an awful crime,
That I will often perpetuate,
In rhythm and in time,
Especially with on-lookers,
As they stop and stare,
It happens all so often now,
That I simply do not care.

I'd like to think,
I'm blessed with it,
I've got some awful guts,
What business is it of anyone,
What's stenching from my butt?

Too many people think,
They're all pristine and mink,
But I assure you twenty fold,
We're all cursed with this kink.

So if you're prude or popular,
Beware my awful stench,
You're probably right where I was,
Sitting right there on that bench.

Andy Capp
by Christopher J. Bradley

Andy Capp sits at the bar,
more often alone than not,
he says it takes a will to drink,
he's looking for a whore.

He thinks his lines impress the girls,
He likes to smoke and spit,
He left us all 4 years ago,
He's back and then he's quit.

His poisons are green apple shots,
And countless pints of beer,
You need not look twice,
You'll always find him here.

He'll dirty up your vehicle,
And never bat an eye,
And then he'll buy sub sandwiches,
At four o'clock at night.

He's proud and bold and boisterous,
He likes to share his jokes,
He'll tell you he's a writer,
But its hard to find his notes.

by Christopher J. Bradley

Roadkill is never nice,
It's not nice to look at,
It's not nice to think about,
And it's not nice to do.

If you have any compassion,
For the furry creatures,
That live among us,
Scurrying for just a little bit,
Of plant food,
For their children,

Keep your tires to yourself.

Don't be my Love Slave
by Christopher J. Bradley

Don't be my Love Slave,
I don't want to see you,
Handcuffed or bound,
I don't want to see you,
In the pain of this violence.

I don't want to play,
Master and Servant,
I only want your,
Unconditional Guaranteed Love,
And I am willing to work,
To Earn that.

But don't expect me,
To be your Love Slave,

For the aunt who gave me 2.00
by Christopher J. Bradley

Thank you very much,
My aunt has been gracious,
In giving me 2.00,
With which I will prowl the streets of Buffalo tonight.

Her name rhymes with Kerry,
Our soon to be elected president,
As the nation falls to rumour and Jest
Over Rumsfeld's indiscressions,
And the poor leadership of our commander and chief.

The aunt who gave me 2.00,
Often rides with me around in the morning,
And we have Big Breakfasts at McDonalds,
And our Dunkin Donuts Coffee.

And we sometimes feed the birds,
Old breadcrumbs or Bagels,
On the landing in the Village beneath the escarpment.

She has given me 2.00,
And Office Max has given me grief,
On this day when I have discovered,
The Blood is thicker than business cards,
Printed with the Blood of slave customer service reps,
Who can barely speak english,
Let alone manage the switches on the callmaster.

My aunt is a rock and roller,
She loves Led Zeppelin and Shania Twain,
And she'll be there when I need her most,
And she'll love me till the day I die.

Thank you,
You are better than Blueberries,
On a delicate summer evening,
In the sun.

Riding the Horses
by Christopher J. Bradley

Last year,
My uncle was due,
To have heart surgery,
My aunt was going to,
Make him pay,
A hefty rent,
To live in her house,
During the month,
Of his surgery.

I disagreed strongly with this,
I wanted to alert my other uncles,
To the seriousness,
Of his condition.

So I got behind the wheel,
Of my Mustang,
And I drove,
And drove,
West on,
Highway 80.

Before I got out of Ohio,
I was stopped by the police,
They took me in,
The back of their car,
And interrogated me,
And told me,
That a missing person's report,
Had been issued.

I explained the situation,
And told them about,
My fraternity brothers,
In Chicago (lying somewhat),

They let me go,
With a crossing the line,
Warning ticket,
No fine! Phew!

I drove on to Chicago,
Across Indiana,
Where I bought,
A new cell phone,
The cops had kept my first.

A striking bit of history
by Christopher J. Bradley

I've been put,
In the know,
By Alan Cross,
That Tom's Diner,
By Suzanne Vega,
Is the first ever,
Compressed MP3 file.

That's an interesting fact,
Being that at present,
I am wrtiting at a table,
In one very similar,
Diner called Tom's,
Where the Gyros,
And Souvlaki,
Are second to none.

An Afternoon of Hermitage
by Christopher J. Bradley

It is only fitting,
That I spent,
This Memorial Day,
On the toilet.

I decided,
That rather than,
Spread the virus,
I would kill it,
And skip Monday's,
WIth my brother,
And his wife.

I read a couple hundred e-mail,
And wrote one or two replies,
And spent some time surfing photos,
From the web collage.

The twin dogs kept me company,
They shared my leftovers,
And I let them out to play.

Metaphysical Winds
By Christopher J. Bradley

The wind doth blow today, my love
Unlike yesterday, when the metaphysical you know what
Hit the you know when.

Children were of primary concern.
It is not in some adults' priority scheme,
To keep theirs properly leashed.

I will not say more.

Claymore Tate Rocks Like Semtex
Noise Control Publishing ©2004
Sunday, November 21, 2004

Drop the TNT
Cell in the C4
Claymore's Back Freaks
Be Ready 4 More.

We don't Jack,
We just blow up,
Like 'works in your eye
On the fourth of July

We were born for this shit
Believe you'll get torn for this shit,
When we come correct,
You better pass respect.

From the Streets of the Mission,
To deep in Hell's Kitchen,
Claymore's Deep in your frame
Like a predator plane

My legs cast Shadows
Over Skrapers and Ho's
Every District and Burrough,
Every Area Code.

The Bridge
by Christopher J. Bradley

Last night,
The fireworks swept over the bridge,
In a lightening storm.
The parking meters were all red.

Our dog was unable to jump the fence,
We'd previously secured it,
Because she kept getting out.

This morning,
My aunt and I had a coffee picnic,
By the river,
And watched a man,
Walk his dog,
Near the picnic table,
In the Art Park.

I remember nights,
In front of the fireplace,
At my grandmother's house,
At Christmas,
As the holiday candles were lit.

But then,
There was a time in the field,
In the shade of a soccer net,
Where I am in a photograph,
With her.

In the trees,
on our get-a-way,
We made promises,
To one another.
Before the manor,
Where we had food,
Spaghetti, and Bread.

We spent the evening,
In a bottom lit pool,
Hoping no one would see.

But now I am here by the river,
On this windy afternoon,
Where they go fishing,
And I say goodbye,
To my adolescent fantasy.

No need to go out
by Christopher J. Bradley

It is finally here,
A day when I have no need,
No interest,
In leaving to go out.

I am reading,
And writing,
Without a need,
For more.

I have a car to drive,
Yet the cost of driving it,
Seems prohibitive.
Why touch the globe for real,
When you can put your hands all over it,
From the crispy clicking of keys.

I have no need to go out,
Plain and simple,
I'm tired of the bars,
And the casinos,
And the loose women,
That were but a short tantrum,
Of my youth.

The time is now to put my affairs in order,
For tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
May not be an option of length,
For one who has put so much stock,
In late night dining,
On deep fried chicken.

I pray that I can complete my life's interests,
Within the span of what I have been given,
And astonish the dwellers of the city streets,
Of the year three thousand,
With the works,
Of these grinding fingers.

Magic Kingdom
©2004 by Christopher J. Bradley

Ah Bunion,
Ah Parsnip,
Will you find your way,
Into eternity,
In the hedgerows,
At my feet?

Or will you simply be complete?

Note: Bunion and Parsnip, were 2 monkeys with razor sharp claws in the Magic
Kingdom for Sale novels of Terry Brooks. He's a very commercial but
well thought out writer.

Open Skies
by Christopher J. Bradley

For a splitsecond,
A seagull,
Cut across the savory horizon,
Beating its wings,
For all that is true and good.

I sat and watched,
Wishing for wings.

Portrait of Chris Bradley as a Young Man
by Christopher J. Kerouac

As I emerge,
Like Orpheus,
From the covered sheets of history,
Like a Young man,
Vastly Older,
Than the Order of Homer,
A Perseus of Valor,
Scattering the Sheets of Ovid to the wind,
I am a Rock,
Commanded by the Holy One,
Walking on Water with the Lord,
And I am at the same time,
Meek as Cervantes,
My Windmills are Tall.
Someday I shall draw my sword,
From the Stone,
And Slay Mickey Mouse,
While He Waves,
His Wacky Wand,
At the Stars,
And Tries To Hold Off The Magic Buckets,
And Stave Off The Flood,
Of My Parted Waters,
Of The Red Sea.

I am an Omnibus,
A trip Into the Future,
Known by Few,
But Loved By Many,
A John Elway,
And Brett Farve,
And Mr. Brady,
Of The Silver Egg.

For Tomorrow's Days Are Mine,
As Were The Days Of The Past,
And My Fututre,
Is Coming On,
Like A Pocketful Of Sunshine,
On a Cool,
In Niagara's Falls.

Sometimes there are clouds of gloom
by Christopher J. Bradley

Sometimes there are clouds of gloom,
Like there are today,
Over my sodden back yard,

But I never let them get me down,
Not like the war does,
Because the birds still sing,

And the butterflies,
Still fly,
Quakeing the earth,
Like a monsoon in Ecuador,
While the sun razes Tokyo.

On a cloudy morning,
I can feel myself,
Staring through cathode ray,
But then out at the roses.

Why Officemax Cannot Be Trusted
by Christopher J. Bradley

Officemax cannot be trusted,
They have bounced my checking account,
By splitting my bill,
For items ordered on-line.

They billed me half in April,
And half in June,
While declaring on their statement,
That the order date was in April.

I purchased products from them,
In the good faith,
That I would get quality,
For the price I paid.

And what a price it was,
I now have 100 dollars,
Worth of Bounced Check Fees,
Accounted on my Debit.

And to make matters worse,
I had to spend 2 hours on the phone with them,
So that they could tell me,
That flat out, they will give me no refund.

Their customer service on the website,
States that they will resolve issues,
Up to 50 dollars.
I asked for 30.

So I'm going to talk about them,
And I'm going to talk about them large,
You can bet I won't be in there,
I'm earning my old name Sarge.

I'm going to tell doctors,
And lawyers,
And Congress members,
And Senators.

I'm going to tell teachers,
And preachers,
And all wholesome folk,
That they are just another Fort Worth Joke.

They can take that money and burn it for all I care,
I've dealt with this before,
And I can deal with it again.
But this time I'm aiming,
With my pad and my pen.

I'm going to tell them that their 800 dollar computer I bought,
Is now in the trash,
And that office furniture,
Will be auctioned off,
To re-take the cash,

And their pads and their pens,
Are what I'm using to blot,
A nice bouquet,
To send to their burial plot.

They are no good,
And deserving of worms,
I'll never bow down,
And settle for their terms.

They can take their website,
And cram it up their a$$es,
And they can take their stinking policies,
And their call center "supervisors"
And feed them molasses.

There will never be a day,
That I speak a kind word,
Of Office Max or any,
Of it's retarded herd.

And yes these are fighting words,

I'm fighting for my survival,
And my good credit,
And this is rough verse,
I don't intend to edit.

I'm taking the gloves off,
And jacking them up,
Because they deserve less,
Than any good luck.

That was the very last time,
They'll have had a look at my buck.

What it was like to dance
by Chris Bradley

Dancing was like atomic fury
It was a way of getting close
To Core Instinct.
To Throw Inhibition To The Wind,
To be a part of the Global Tribe,
That is jumping to the
thump, thump, thump,
Of the never ceasing bass drum.

It was to traverse a small piece,
Of the spinning globe,
At 25,000 miles an hour,
As the timbala and the orchastra hit,
With the full force,
Of a tropical storm's surges,
As wave after wave of,
Adrenaline coursed through,
My pressurized veins.

The go-goes and their gloved hands,
Kicked out across the night sky,
Like fallen Rockettes,
And it was the motion of their hips,
That kept me in the balance.

Who was I in Seventh Grade?
by Christopher J. Bradley

In seventh grade,
I was surrounded by women,
Back then they might have been called girls,
But in my fantasies,
Their breasts were ever expanding.

I suppose it was good,
Instead of fist fighting,
To get their revenge, they gossiped.

That year for my birthday,
We rented the arcade at the mall,
For my party,
It might have cost a fortune,
Dad probably put in overtime.

The one girl I liked,
Went horseback riding with us,
With church group.

That Haloween,
I dressed like Indiana Jones,
Harrison Ford was my Hero.

I made my second real Black friend.
His name was Dereke.

Depth Charge
by Christopher Bradley

Crimson Tide was on television tonight,
Making me think of things aquatic,
And exotic,
And quite off of the chain of command.

I didn't watch it,
Just had some vague memories,
Of Hackman and Washington,
And some kind of mutinous power struggle.

But I do recall,
That at sea,
As in U238,
Or some number like that,

The boats would drop depth charges,
To try to wreck the subs.

And oh,
What about mines,
Does minesweeper entertain us even yet today?
It's part of the Microsoft Way.

I'm feeling your lightening Zeus,
Come down of Redmond and shake my hand,
Give me your estate,
You have no need of it,

I'll trade you my Sub,
Fresh Roast Beef,
From the deli at the supermarket.
And you'll like it,
Because it's wholesome,
And is 100% uranium free.
Oh well, maybe 98%,
But who's counting?
You've got all the lightening bolts.

We're on a mission from God
By Christopher J. Bradley
11/15/04 12:51:57 AM

This Sunday, I woke up late, about 7,
And took my pills
And went for a smoke,
Then started down for breakfast.

When we got back from breakfast,
We put on the Blues Brothers,
And listened quietly to the bombastic sounds,
Of Peter Gunn, Matt Murphy, Ray Charles,
And James Brown.

It occurred to me while we were watching the film,
That we were literally on a Mission, put here by God,
And his people.

The place is literally filled with the most powerful of God's people,
While they don't realize it,
They are truly the meek, and will truly inherit the earth.

The BBC 1xtra
by Christopher J. Bradley

Mornings start off nice,
With some mild R&B,
And then gradually things speed up
Into a hip hop frenzy,
In Letitia's set.

Saturday is Semtex's Mixtape,
And sunday is Bailey's dnb show,
And G-child is there somewhere,
With a DAB Receiver for me.

Flight and High Contrast,
Spin and Drop the Bass,
In their Techno sets.
And believe me,
They all Rock.

Heartless Crew,
And Hotsounds,
Freestyle over Breaks,
And Mix Up the Latest News,
Live From the Underground.

The Scene Is Fabulous
And You can Get there,
By Clicking Here
Listen Live,
Don't believe the Jive.

The Arcade at UB
by Christopher J. Bradley

1992 was my spring of love,
The grass was never greener,
Than it was then,
The smashing pumpkins,
Kept playing "Today is the greatest,"
Over in my mind.

In the arcade,
The new Student Union,
The crest of the University.
Was embedded in the tile,
And the girls moved through,
The regular streams of students,
Like milkweed on the wind.

Our hub of communication,
Were the tables just outside,
Where we would sit,
and smoke and talk,
And plan and scheme and grin.

I remember setting trips,
To concerts and to raves,
Where wigs and stockinged dolly lops,
Found the drugs they craved.

I drove all over hell and back,
In the family car,
Selling drinks on spiralled eyes,
In after hours bars.

Toronto was my playground,
My family and crew,
We danced the paiselyed night away,
On adrenaline and booze.

The cops would never catch us,
Doing anything wrong,
I made a whole CD of it,
And put it into song.

The blondes and dark haired girls I laid,
Were beautiful indeed,
I did my best to satisfy,
Their one and every need.

If eternity were written,
Of that summer true,
I saw God through painted glass,
Within the laser's hue.

The Wizard and his Munchkinville,
Were with me all along,
We danced upon the yellow bricks,
And found the emerald ball.

The sky below three thousand feet,
Was sifted in the mist,
While DJ's and their turntables,
Their records they did twist.

On escalators and exhibits,
A soundless room was found,
To meditate with shiva,
And become the Iron Cow.

I've walked the streets of London,
Montreal, and Peace,
And found my days of solitude,
In the language of the Greeks,

But I will not forget you now,
My beautifuls and freaks.

Summer Haze
by Christopher J. Bradley

The grass is always green on the other side'a the fence
but when you're traveling down night's highway,
all you think about,
Is the fog, and the drizzle.

Night gives way to morning,
It is humid, and sunny,
The country-side lane,
Last night was quiet.

This afternoon, I think of the battles I am winning,
In my telepresent state,
And the battles that have gone by the wayside,
But in the end,
The grass is always green on the other side'a the fence

The Dream Houses
By Christopher J. Bradley

I showed her the escarpment properties yesterday,
And she talked about how we might make love someday,
The houses were like castles above the road to lewiston,
At the edge of the golf course,
Next to the country club.

I know that she is not motivated by wealth,
She takes consolation in the small pleasures in life,
Movies, Dogs, Bunnies, and Parakeets,
Silver Dollar Fish, Sharks, and Betas.

She is a girl after all,
And I think I'm beginning to see beneath the velour,
Of her darkened cloak,
And learning to love her for who whe is.

I don't need that first kiss,
Just yet.

Just yet.

by Christopher J. Bradley

It is my hope
that you all
will forgive my silence
I have been rattling the cages
on all fronts
In some new houses
the past few weeks

This Drum and Bass Show
by Christopher J. Bradley

This Drum and Bass Show,
May be my last,
At least from here,
As I take in the finer points,
Of Hemmingway to Relax.

It will be a glorious morning,
When I get to the end,
Of The Old Man and The Sea,
And find out,
If he really does catch, that fish.

Moby will be proud,
To know,
That the dream can be realized,
If one is earnest,
And sticks to his principles.

-Christopher J. Bradley

by Christopher J. Bradley

The film was a bit above average,
I was unsure whether to commit,
Achilles and Hector,
In their Daring combat,
Lead to the flight,
Of Hectors wife,
From Troy.
While the Ships rest,
In harbor behind,
The fallen city.
The meaning of the native rivalry,
Was put forth by the pressure of the Gods,
To right the transgressions,
Of the wife stealing Paris,
As the tales of Homer,
Unfold on the screen,
Under the watchful eyes,
Of the simple masses.

This film went beyond the Illiad,
To include the fall of not only Hector,
But Achilles and Agamemnon,
In Drama,
No man escapes his ultimate fate,
While the destiny,
And fortunes of the times,
Are met with steel.

The summers conclusion is here
By Christopher J. Bradley

Even the indian summer is gone now,
The winds of cold December are upon us,
And I am finding myself walking about in a sweatshirt,
Wondering when the warmth will return.

Dashboard Confessional sings away in the glow of my laptop monitor,
Here in the Niagara Falls City Mission,
And I begin to think that my only solution is to gradually learn,
That it is just like this to be alone.

Last night I was reading Job and reflecting on his strength in the face of the tests put before him,
And my roomate required that the light be turned out at 1:30 on a Saturday.
This I can understand I suppose,
It just isn't something I'm particularly used to.

No coward soul is mine
by Christopher J. Bradley

No coward soul is mine,
I've endured your truth syrums,
Faced your white lights,
And told you not a thing,
About everything,
That I hold in my measured deck.

This war's been going on,
Since ten years ago,
And you thought you had me,
Long ago,
But I assure you,
That no matter what you think,

I've been true Memphis Blue,
Since my birth in the South,
And will Keep my Fitted Yankee Cap,
Burning in my very heart,
For the Operations of the Maelstrom,
Are only Begun.

I would like to thank the following people for teaching me life's little lessons up to this point, as they were. I initially thought, I'd write each of their biographies, but that's quite an undertaking at my level of skill, so I have chosen, just this simple thank you, you know who you are, and I will never forget you.

Jennifer Piper
Robin Schmidt
Paula Cassano
Tammy Sharpe
Michelle Garvey
Shelby Wiley
Carla Pino
Sue Finnucone
Dawn McKinley
Michelle Perkins
Alison Mantione
Nicole Tuttle

* Anthony (St Teresa's)
* Bob Bradley
* David Bradley
* Jon Sampson
* Karl Kowalski
* Rich Martinez
* Ryan Clark
* Scott Ansel
* Sean Rose
* Todd Sunderlin
* Tom * (McDonalds)
* Larry T. H.

Adrian Watts
Andy Foti
Andy Grosser
Andy Rosenfeld
Art Polychronis
Bob Lesser(Topic)
Brian Babyak
Brian Hickman
Brian Oliver
Bruce Bradley
Bruce Hindel
Chad Owen
Chemistry teacher
Chris (Chip)
Chris Aiston
Chris Callus
Chris Carella
Chris Hlat
Chris Sheppard
Chris Vogel
Chuck Excel
Chuck Shumer
Claude Brown
Claude Imagna
Clinton Carney
Coach Condino
Corey Hart
Craig Hyla
Craig Touma
Dan "The Enforcer"
Dan Bradley
Dan Ivers (Bursar IIT)
Dave (McDonalds)
David Cooper
David Gahan
David Jackson
Dean McConnell
Dereke Lowe
DJ Ian
Don Berns
Doug "Killer Kong"
Dr. Park
Duke Davis
Ed Roberts
Eric Arnold
Eric Gansworth
Faith No More
Gary McNamara
George Bradley
George Pataki
Glenn Tilyou
Glenn Whitlock
Greg Bronson
Hal Babb
Hamesh Massay
Howard Simon
Isaac Panzarella
James Menkenna
James Romanowski
James Urbaniak
Jason (the dealer)
Jason Gough
Jason Wood
Jay Leno
Jeff (bagman)
Jeffrey Bishop
Joe (Socialist)
Joe Cronin
Joe O'Donnell
John Griggs
John LaFalce
John Rizzo
Jon (acid)
Josh Bergman
Joshua Paul Bradley
Karl Wagner
Ken Wagner
Kenny Rogers
Larry Nelson
(The Chessmaster)
Larry Kay
Luigi Cappello
Mark (the white knight)
Mark Constantino
Mark Greenfield
Mark Grosso
Mark Shaugnessy
Martin Sanborn
Marty Ryan
Matt (Hallwalls A&M rave)
Matt Petty
Mike (Pleasure Force)
Mike (Russian)
Mike O'Donnell
Mike Pikus
Mike Ryan
Mitch (Deadhead)
Mr Hannam
Mr James Calire
Mr O'Donnell
Mr. Oliverio
OPP Cops
Pat O'Donnell
Paul Kwitowski
Paul Punic
Paul Stachelski
Peter The Greek
Rich Carrela
Rick Lee
Rob (Josh's Friend)
Rob Lynch
Rob Schmidt
Rob Sobcheck
Rob Wagner
Robert Brown
Roger Morrison
Roger Newhouse
Ronny Anton
Ryan Shannon
Sal Jarosz
Saragur Srinidi
Scott Brown
Sean Hannam
Shennen Hannam
Skip Bradley
Steve Petty
Ted Georgian
Tom From Melody Fair
Tom Jones
Tom O'Donnell
Tom Smothers
Tony (Turtle)
Vince Gravino
Wilberforce Tomaklo
William Gibson
X-O-Tek -Chris
Sid Rotten
Matthew 1-3 and Matthew 15

Chris Bradley
Niagara Falls, NY 14305
Project: Digital Noise Control

PO Box 1X

Dear Producers,
Thank you for the chance to be on the air. I have been enjoying listening to everything on 1xtra. I usually pick up the signal at about 5am and listen through the day. In the past, I’ve had good experiences listening to Semtex, Letitia, G-Child, High Contrast, and Flight. I’ve also listened to Ace and Invisible in Japan and I thought their set was phenomenal. Heartless Crew and Hotsounds are the best freestylers in the world in my opinion.

On to the bio:

In 1993 I was immersed in the Toronto Rave scene, and spent time in New York, Toronto, and Detroit. Some of my first exposure to House music was in Chicago while attending school. I currently live in Niagara Falls New York. When I was directly involved in the rave scene, I composed my two signature tracks, Psychosis 333 and Apex. They are my best work to date.
I’ve since added a Jazz Track ©1996 called Spizz which has a bit of latin flavor. It appears as the first track on the disc. I am a big fan of as it gives me an opportunity to go global independently. I’ve written over 300 music reviews on my site there at
I am 31 years old and haven’t composed much in recent history due to some damaged gear, but if I can make some use of my existing work to earn studio time, I know I have the ability to produce competently. I’d love to get some airplay and share some good vibes with everyone at the BBC.
I also have a modest amount of antique radio experience, at WJJL 1440 from High School where I worked as a board operator for one year. I learned a lot about what goes on behind the scenes, and I have to give credit to the DJ’s of the world for being the highest listened to, yet most underpaid employees on the planet.
I have experience in the Telecommunications and Internet industries, and have a degree in Computer Science. I have also written 500 pages worth of poetry, which I can forward upon request. Its’ been nice meeting you, and I hope you enjoy your week.

Stay safe,

Christopher J. Bradley
Digital Noise Control


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