No moan
at the end of your tongue
No nipple
or spots between any necks or collar bones
I have not stumbled onto anything woody
Nor are you lifting my shirt
To the sound of cocking, flowering guns
Pumping, pumping, pumping their pistons
all over my poem.

frog dream
by tara przybille bradley

I had a large tank with small frogs swimming in water. Water plants, seaweed. The tank looked very pondish, good for frogs. Greenish water and lots of lichen type stuff. Then I was at church and found a sandwich bag with frogs in it. I realized I had left them there for quite some time. Days? A week? Longer? There were other things in the bag. Things unrelated to frogs.  Small things, like pellet gun pellets? Or buttons? These frogs in the bag were small, about the same size as the ones in the tank. As I was trying to pour them out into the tank I saw that one of them was sort of ‘leaking’ black stuff. Like he was decomposing. I figured that if I put these frogs into the tank, that they would contaminate the rest of the tank. Yet I still continued to do so. After they were dumped into the tank I put my hand in to check things. I grabbed a few frogs. They were large and chunky fat. Two of them I grabbed appeared to be connected, all twisted up together. I thought they were deformed and grown that way. Then they untangled and I saw that they weren’t organically connected. I then scooped up another frog. This one had no back legs. I wondered about the deformed frogs in the tank. What had happened? Why had they grown this way? I was going to take it out and get rid of it, kill it. But I had a thought that it would be just fine without back legs. I put it back in the tank and it swam off using its front legs.  I was a little surprised, but not as much as I knew I should have been.  I thought, ‘Frogs don’t need their back legs!’

Does it frighten you to know that you can be googled?

What the hell?

So what the hell?

So what?

The what of it is that it may just be as painful as a gunshot to the stomach

At the very least, it could certainly knock the wind out of you

depending on who does it to you.

Who sees what.

The hell.

I’m just sayin’

it can shut you up right quick

Make you consider things a bit more before you speak

Well, not “speak” per se, but before you hit those keys

and record your sick, perverted, crippled, victimized, mean, pandering, bi-curious, criminal, fetishistic, lame, nasty, selfish, sexual, unintelligent, unimportant, mistaken, secret, public, politically incorrect, controversial, self serving, verbose, obtuse, revealing and plain old dumb thoughts. Immortalized for eternity and your next employer /spouse /child /enemy /private investigator.

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The hell? I CAN’T MAKE OUT THOSE WORDS?! WHAT DO I DO??! OMG! I CAN’T GAIN ACCESS! Wait… What? It says…danger preacher… right? That’s what it says, right? Or what? Ranger teacher? CRAP!! How much time have I wasted?

“Approximately 200 million of these [captchas] are typed every day by people around the world. Each time you type one of these, essentially you waste about 10 seconds of your time,” he says. “If you multiply that by 200 million, you get that humanity as a whole is wasting around 500,000 hours every day, typing these annoying squiggly characters.”

If I get it wrong I have to start all over again with a new one. Its shameful to have to start over. I am a hunter and I want to /have to get it on the first shot.

Oh shit, I blogged myself.

Please leave a slime trail on the cyberwalk.

Damn internet. Can’t give me what I need, but gives everybody and their dog everything about me. My dog’s dog told me he was ashamed at a comment he read that I had posted over a year ago. I am ashamed that I have shamed him. Made the pit of my stomach feel like there was a rock in it.

I’m just sayin’, it could be enough to shut you up for good. Or even for a year.

no poetry
by Tara Przybille Bradley

there is no poetry
to this
things attatch
release. touch. bounce.
this is not what
you were looking for
something else. your glasses. love.
it is not
and there is none

I.

I need to shake this off
the trash talk of a salesman as insincere
as a “going out of business” clearance;
!last chance! and !act now!
but it’s all crap because 6 months, a year, two years later
it’s still there doing bad business as usual
I need to shake it down
the too loud guffaw and the we-are-such-pals hand on the shoulder of the
very smart, now very desperate used-to-make-150K-now-I’m-out-of-work guy.
And I see the almost imperceptible drops of sweat
on the flat red forehead of that also-just-as-desperate pitchman
now using the latest sucker’s first name like a
leg trap
while never looking him in the eyes.
I want to walk over to their table and laugh,
shake my head and
sit myself down, ignore the drummer
tell the mark that he’s being taken for a ride
there is no easy money
no quick fix, easy pick, joystick
in this bleeping, freaking, electronic video game of life
And pay attention, because when they talk to you
without looking at your eyeballs
you can bet they don’t even know your name.

II.

What are the inner thoughts of the lonely man?
Dark old eyes, older than he is, sadder than they should be.
What are his thoughts when he looks in the eyes of the passersby?
Where does he go?
What does he find? I have a hope
that he always finds what he is looking for
(but I know he doesn’t).
He finds what I find.
The nothingness of surface dwellers
who walk, drive, crawl from place to place
and purchase pitiful plastic dreams in discount stores.
And maybe one day in the fall, when the beautiful leaves are
slowly twisting down and being stepped on
he will be on his bench.
Then I will sit quietly beside him
and let him look in my eyes.
And I will look in his, because maybe
that is really what he is looking for.

I long for the connections of impossibility.

III.

And the slow, slow wrinkled lady,
small and struggling to push her cart down
the big aisle,
eyes wide and a little vague.
My hands restless in an earnest
desire to push it for her,
to reach the top shelf,
to lift the heavy things.
But I do not
because I have my own cart to push.
We all have our own carts to push.
My consciousness – my empty, unfulfilled intention -
leaves a lingering trail from the cereal
to the pancake syrup
And I wonder if she catches it
as she passes the baking soda and vanilla.
But by the time I enter the frozen food section

it fades
And I have forgotten how much I wanted to hug her.
Fluorescent lighting and consumerism
have a way of
gnawing to the bone
any warm flesh
any familial love of strangers,
they are the greatest vampires.

IV.

But there are others, the lesser vampires;
V.

They are inescapable
The black flies want me
They never settle. Never make up their minds.
Such minuscule minds.
Such tiny vampires.
What do they want?
Where to they want to be? Inside my head?
No one goes there.

Buzzing and zipping like a slipping Suzuki crotch rocket
on blacktop in the distance, a black fly plague.
Like somehow they sense the shit I feel
the crap of my life
and they’ve come to sit on it, if only
they could make up their damn minds where.

VI.

I drive.
anywhere.

Find myself at Starbucks, a fucking American monument
to yuppie addiction and false relaxation
But I buy it
Oh yeah, give me that cup
I’ll take that
I can
Swallow it down
for now

Drinking black flies.

VII.

Leave the consumer whore to her emerald rain and her sleepless city

I drive. Again.

The houses and roads become something apart from
who I am
all the glass and steel and concrete and moving wheels
acquire a meaningless significance.
The pitchmen and the desperate ones, the too old ladies
and the lonely men with no eyes,
they all acquire the same status emeritus.

Only the wind can get inside me here.

Above the world I live in, closer to the sun
partners with the moon in a very small way
Yet bigger than industry
and progress
and capitalism
and technology
Higher than the black flies.

VIII.

I am here
above the city
I need to shake this off

The sun has slipped out for a drink
And the moon is tacked onto a cloudless sky
like a “will return” sign

And I should go down
so I search and I reach my thoughts out

to find a reason
Something that will give me the desire to
return to life
to join something
But I find nothing.
There is no magnet to pull my metal heart.

A feeling of suspended animation ripped apart
by screaming time
passing through like bullets

And still I do not go.

that is perfectly not right
record This record This
oh. you just do not know the importance
These will be lost
forever

.
the Significance of space is significant when there is none

.
write This down, she said.

She creates the taste and smell

of memories

for her family

Dust and peaches

The climate

Heat in the night of summer

The cricket chirps

belong to her

A child in bed, sweat under his hair

stuffy, in pajamas too warm for a night

like this

The sound of mother in the kitchen

the cupboard doors close

silverware being sorted

And he can hear it from outside his window

Clear, heavy

and feel it through his mattress

Affirmation of safety

Sister cries for water

Mother’s footfalls light and quick

the scent of garden weeds on her fingers

metallic taste of water in the glass

Newspaper rustles from the Bigchair

in the living room. Green shag

growing over Father’s feet.

The dull thunk of his glass on the end table

muted voices, her laughter

This is what she gives them all

what has become of life
the stuff in your eyes
every drum
every beat
the stuff in your heart

where are you now
where you have always been
in the gleaming
in the change of things

this chance
this time
you are still here
you are still you

this is what life has become
the pulse
the throb
the laugh
and the groan

do this
live this
be this
be you

-Tara
(i guess this is all i could find to say)

Tangled
Photo and poem by Tara Przybille Bradley
you
with the long tree
of roots
who hides
in the tangle of my earth
deep in the scent of
Now begun
cool with the waters underground
curling reach to span that breach
which divides
the heart and boot
dug deeper wrangled inside out

     taken root, taken root

around heartstones resting
slow
unalone
with whispered eyes a word
closed mouth tastes earth like salt
felt like whispers heard on skin 

      let go, let go

in and down inside the loam
soft
is this resistance to the growth
tangled ever more around my stones
under here
you feel like home

There was a dog
By Tara Pryzbille Bradley

I like to think
that he liked to think of himself
as ‘Rex’
and he was gentle
and soft
and black

One day
Rex found a frog
in his yard
(probably because he lived
by a creek)

Immediately upon sniffing the frog
Rex understood
that jumping frogs
were exciting
(as we all know
jumping frogs are)

Rex’s head bobbed up
and bobbed down
as he watched the frog
and followed the frog

Soon the frog
got a bit tired
and sat still
Rex didn’t want the frog
to sit still
because sitting still is
not exciting

So Rex nudged the frog
with his nose
and the frog jumped
and Rex followed
and nudged again
and bounce went
the frog
and Rex barked
and Rex pounced
ever so lightly upon
the frog
and the frog bounced

and this became a
Very Fun Game

Dog: nudge
Frog: bounce
Dog: bark
Dog: pounce
Frog: bounce
Dog: nudge
Frog: bounce
Dog: bark
Dog: pounce
Frog: bounce

I like to think Rex
liked to think
this was only in fun
simple
gentle
fun

Frog started to slow down
his bounces got slower
and lower
Confused at this change of pace
Rex would gently tilt
his soft black head
and nudge the slow frog
and nudge the low frog

After all this
the frog stopped
just stopped dead
in Rex’s tracks

Rex nudged
and pounced
and barked and barked and barked
to wake up that frog
the way Rex tilted his head
was sad
but the frog just wouldn’t move

So Rex softly
gently(as Rex is)
picked up in his
slobberdogmouth
that very still frog
tossed his head
and let go

The frog
for the first time in its very short life
flew
and (as is customary) landed

and didn’t move

so Rex barked hopefully
and nudged encouragingly
but yet that
slow, low, still stopped frog
did not move

Sadly Rex took it up in his mouth
again
and tossed
again
and the frog was
airborne again
grounded again
over and over

still dead
that frog was

I like to think
Rex liked to think
that frog
played dead