2006

2006; When Words Become A Finale

(preface)

alive, right
now, at this moment,

i’ll find a way with words
nearing the clock of another
tick-tocking year. i’ll
read the forty stories
of individuality from within a semblance of
diversity - a scripted we, collective whole --
us.
cause it’s 2006, and
this memory sticks to a life,
in a brown swirl of existence,
over, above, beyond all that is alive, right
now.

i.

at asakusa temple, in japan,
under the pagoda and beyond the tourists,
seven hundred doves flew away with
the small steps i tried to take.
i don’t like to disturb the peace.
no, i prefer to let things

be.
and the sight of all those doves
stretching wings beyond anything i could do, made me
see the potential of one lifetime, and a promise to do what i could.

ii.

collegiate thoughts, the
intellectual meandering where
everyone tries to find an answer and a
right choice for the multiple answers of what we’ve
read, experienced
and understood.

bells ring in celebration --
each of us larger than the boundaries
left to us by ACTs, SATs, and admissions.
laughter transcends us all.






iii.

and so i had a dream where a
song hovered over international fear. i
heard music singing in my sleeplessness,
leaving an impact on my daydreams,
enlightening the terror that
years of history planted.

bryan, she taught you how the mind is
unbelievable and through
leaping through books
lends itself towards global understanding.
and the lesson came from
relatives occupied in the professional
deliciousness of writing another ending.

iv.

because life gives us lemons,
ellen degeneres has a
cloroxed mustache. humor is in the
cacophony of instrumentation
and a the mad magic of a musical mind.

because life gives us dog crap
on our brand new sneakers,
living makes us watch our step.
this is a key ingredient for
existing -- the
need for a pooper scooper at times.

v.

people amaze me,
all of us running around
timidly lost, yet mystically
reflective.
i once was a student myself,
cns, my high school, that
kindergarten year in utica. then

binghamton, a
university that showed me the doors which could be
reached, and ever since, how i’ve preached the
need to keep opening them.
since you’ve found the doorknob, too,
i nod approval your way.
decide whether to walk through --
eventually, it will all make more sense than my teaching ever did.




vi.

kryptonite paralyzed superman,
and yoda had his bad days, too.
rudolph was embarrassed by a nose so bright,
and so it’s perfectly all right to be you.

cry the beloved country marked some to dry tears,
and elie wiesel introduced your junior year to fears.
shakespeare confused language-upon a petty plight,
the perks of being a wallflower says the quiet are all right.
lavender had to be pulled from a tree,
eleanor rigby says loneliness is me.
blanche dubois was overly dramatic,
existential harold found maude quite romantic
reality searches oceans for bing
rivers become siddhartha’s thing, because
yesterday was a memory, and today it’s history.

vii.

jog. run. sprint. walk.
on the road to find out, move,
simply pace yourself ahead of the
horizon, so your shadow

can be seen upon sunrise and sunset.
have your obsessions,
each deserves them,
rather it be george bush or the marines,
vannah white or snuffaluffagus.
eat well. digest. stretch every
nerve ending and synapse until you’re exhausted.
austin bass is a good enough lass to think about,
kneel before the moon before PTSD hyperventilates.

viii.

january, the letters written to the self are in
envelopes, where they will be
left until december finds its way again.
i wonder where you’ll be when the
songs of your senior year will
arrive.

cause it will come at last,
like prom, rights of passage
and your mid-thirties before you know it.
rituals. patterns. cycles. milestones.
karma.




ix.

gee, um, what, huh,
really? no,
are you kidding me?
hmmmmm.
actually, that’s what
my mom said.

crazy. whoa. dude.
oh my god,
not now, sometime later.
right now i want to veg
oh, and later,
yep, i’ll be in that tree - sloth reality.

x.

lately,
i’ve been worried about
living my life to its fullest --
you never know when the mind might go.

crazy, really, our regression.
oh, today, it’s my sixteenth birthday, and
only yesterday, i was in my twenties, with
my stories which are precious to me, these memories, where
each tale makes me who i am. not
sam, nor a lily of the valley, but a silly ham on my own louisville hill.

xi.

driving along I-65, i
exit towards new albany
and can go west on eastern parkway,
nearing my neighborhood, and my shelter.
the home is where my heart is,
even though i have several homes.

casually tapping my breaks,
understanding it slows my pace down, i
notice a woman on the side of the road. she
needs money, food and assistance.
i am not her
nor can i imagine the desperation of her life. i
go home, bag a few items of food, drive back and
hand it to her.
a child from wednesday,
made me think, and i donate with a wink he made a difference.





xii.

krud. i meant to do that,
really, it was on my agenda all along.
interesting. it didn’t get done? ugh.
so, the hill didn’t disappear.
the hill drew bigger. but
i had to climb. push that rock ahead.

disordered.
and a few lessons learned --
very good lessons in which
i proved to the world i am
strong. see my strength and admire.

xiii.

just the other day,
all i could do was look up.
my eyes searched the sky
arrogantly seeking a
life that wasn’t there yet.

disappointed? not really. my
eyes kept staring at the clouds. it may have been a
lonely longing, this fixation
at the blue space above, or it may have been
heaven i was trying to admire
and/or the idea there’s something
not quite us, beyond all of this..
then it happened. my
eyes didn’t deceive me.
you became the hawk i was looking for, and you soared.

xiv.

children.

livinglovinglaughingscreaming
obnoxious little children,
growingdreamingbecoming
adults. mature.
neophytes leaving the nest.

days.
i watch them pile up like autumn leaves
leaving the tree that gave them
life. children are my seasons.






xv.

the peculiar story,
how it is told,
opens a mind to wonder.
movies. films. nightly news.
advertisements.
style.

decency. integrity.
understanding complexity with dignity.
from the way i understand it, the
freaky story is told through
your dreams, but not all of us are dreamers as good as you are.

xvi.

since we’re on the subject of luke skywalker,
u should probably know that the
star lit galaxy is a twinkle in your eye
and the force
never leaves your fingerprints.

even chewbaca, all hairy and all,
doesn’t escape such energy --
whhhhaaaaaaaaaaaa (that’s what he says)
amidst the Ewoks and Hans Solo.
right. that’s correct.
darth vader wears a mask
secretly dreaming to be breaducated by you.

xvii.

and it was spring. there were
monkeys. fireflies. fields of
bees aggravating the days of our hives.
elephant dung. a white alligator.
rhinos in the mood.

food, expensive, packed.
and biophiliacs racked for moonbeams and zoos.
yep. a decent enough excuse to go wild.












xviii.

anime. anyway. i am me
s e r e n d i p i t o u s l y
historically, we are
locusts finding our groove
escaping the shells that contain us.
isn’t it crazy how weird it all is?
gaining insight by becoming fiction,
having success by portraying the past?

for i danced once, a mild waltz
learning a simple step a
young lady trained to teach.
now, the acting’s over, time for a speech.
nevermind. i forgot what i was going to say.

xix.

pretty crazy, huh?
all the energy and work
that goes into a moment?
ridiculous amounts of the spastic:
itineraries, requests, and pleading our
cause, cuz we just want the best...
is there anything wrong with that?
are we fooling ourselves?

hectic. we see the hurdles
and we leap over them, turning around to
rally all those behind us to catch up. we could
ditch them, let them find their own way around...
eventually they’ll make it, we can hope,
soul-searching in the shadows of
those who tirelessly know how to leap.
yep, it’s crazy, huh?

xx.

tonight, i’ll be performing a piece i call
awkward. it’s a theatrical number where
bryan will attempt to control his wandering
i, and will lose weight without trying.
the cast will include danish reggae singers,
hauntingly looking like seagulls,
and it will be standing room only.

hold on. no drama.
only a four letter word called hope.
direction. you’ve got to have
gigantic words to speak, back up singers, lights --
everyone has different reasons for that...before the
smoke will clear. nudge nudge. there’ll be applause.

xxi.

being young, they say is wasted
enchantment, spent on young
neophytes
naive of what lies ahead.
i had a plan though, where
everything i was warned about would be

harvested in the palm of my hand.
oh, and i suppose i chuckle some,
realizing my luck, and that ants work towards
nirvana, while grasshoppers don’t winter as well.

xxii.

characters are what make a story matter.
all a writer needs is their own, unique angle.
right? so, i’ve got this precious child in
love with the world, okay, and she’s energetic...
you’ve got see her, and sometimes she tans,

just a little bit, to become bronze,
and she carries this zebra folder, while
caring deeply for all her friends, and she values
knowledge...not just textbooks, but the deeper stuff, and
sometimes she yodels in class and impersonates her family
or curls up on a couch and hides in a hoody...
now that is a character, and i couldn’t write her better myself.


xxiii.

and then the night came where i
left, turned a tassel and never
looked behind me.
i had that internal drive --
sadness wrapped in tightly held fists
organized and compact,
needing only my own two feet to move on.

knowledge and wisdom soon followed, and now an
eternity of experience has
nestled nicely in the luggage i carry.
next, tomorrow, i can’t predict, but i
expect it will blossom upward, my
yesterdays fertilizing the future.







xxiv.

soul. there is one inside me,
although who i answer to
ricochets between spiritual moments
and the frustration of mortal doubt.
heaven, they say, can be in this

life, at this moment, right now.
i trust in that religion,
temporarily losing sanity when
the expectations of perfect bliss
rampages against my inevitable flaws.
everyday, however, i try, i
learn from my mistakes,
letting the lives of others model a better way.

xxv.

been doodling again,
reaching into my book bag for
instruments: pens, pencils, markers for
diagnosing a blank page with art.
gee, that doesn’t look like me
even though i scribbled a strabismus
tip toeing towards those love handles.
that’s right. it looks like a buddha, grimace, an
elephant with hairy legs and bad teeth.

let’s sketch a background, an
orange couch, a banana tree,
green grass around my ankles and a big footed
sasquatch to fall in love with.
dang. did i just cuss? my bad.
oh, i drew an octopus in my ear....
now all it needs is a signature...self portrait, complete.


xxvi.

elvira had a rep, you see,
ran around on her family stealing
ice cream, dippen’ dots, from cracked-up
carnivals and frozen freezer aisles of walmart.

luck wasn’t with her, though, and
oh, the po po locked her up, but
man, she could read. her literacy was
awesome: plato, harlequin romances, Mad Libs.
xtremely intelligent, locked up wanting to play dodgeball.




xxvii.

and all eyes were watching god,
renting the body for the minute where
it had the chance to be alive. the
child looked upwards, too,
awkwardly awaiting the moment ahead.

lord, she said, i’ve been good to
you, honest, faithful, hard working,
on my best behavior. all i ask, she spoke
nervously, is for your understanding and your
strength. there was silence, but the child knew she could smile.

xxviii.

ava maria. i heard this for the first time when i was a
nerd in high school. the italians were everywhere in my
neighborhood, and on gray days, moms were known to
announce through windows, Avaaaaaaaaaaaaaa Mariiiaaaaaaaaaa.

now, when clouds pile upon clouds and the rain
eventually falls, i think about that music, how my
people of yesterday new something i was too
underaged to understand. it’s the sound
that song makes, when produced by musical magic, which reminds me
everything is everything for a reason.

xxix.

all of us are at war, really, battling, protecting a
nest of comfort we hide deep within our hearts.
new generations and old generations share
a history, being written, already told.

nine months later, another chapter begins the
imagination and dreams of another life.
creation is a miracle, and the struggle becomes the
kindred spirit of brotherhood. sisterhood.
each of us a part of a family
reaching beyond boundaries to the next level of the
soul. we fight. we flex our muscles. we attack.
oh, but the truth is, we seek our mothers. we
need the comfort of their arms and their love.










xxx.

bravado. paris hilton. the pose.
rambunctious scared apes we
are, flexing our inhibitions so
no one can see how human we “be”
diversity is a word, but deep down,
on the platform of personal truth,
not a single being can escape.

people fascinate me.
and that’s why they need to be policed,
reeled back down to reality.
i was born, i’ll live, and i’ll die ... i already
see through the facade. that’s where my quality is.

xxxi..

reached into my pocket,
and pulled out a wad of twenties,
you got a size ten in this shoe. they’re on sale, with commission,

x2x100 divided by the inevitable when we all go broke. barefoot.

xxxii.

jumpin’ through a line to buy a tie,
over a few streets at the value of a city, another
store, the pregnant cashier asked me what was wrong.
everything i told her, but i’ll be okay.
please just let me go, i thought, don’t
hover over my mood.

she grabbed my hand. she said,
honey, it’ll be all right.
everything is going to be just fine,
really. i guess i needed that.
my course along the galaxy had me
arrogantly preoccupied with the
necessity of only me. i thanked her and walked away more free.














xxxiii.

just one more question,
only this, so if
shakespeare didn’t really write all his plays
how did he become a literary giant, the bard of

stratford upon avon, and the master of the globe?
they love him, i answer, like those who worship
elvis presley. we like to believe in the rebirth of the
phoenix, and that such mastery will exist in us. it’s called idolatry.
he wasn’t satisfied with my response.
elizabethans knew ol’ Will and
now some scholars claim the playwright was a fruit.
so they say.....so some care. I ask, does it really matter?

xxxiv.

jade, a shade of pain and then you die.
on my first trip overseas, I listened to
seal a lot. he had these
harvested facial scars and that song sang to me.

such violence, you’d think, the whole world’s coming to an end.
that was what the judybats recorded, where they
entertained me in my sentra driving in collegiate thought.
voice. guitar. song. soul.
every generation bears the seed of its own destruction.
now, that’s not music. it’s aristotle.
song repairs the heart, where philosophy tears it apart. poor kurt.

xxxv.

dang. they got an atari system. man
oh man, they must be
rich. colecovision?
i can’t believe it, donkey kong
and q-bert.
nintendo. super mario brother,

that’s getting over my head
and progress left me in the dust.
you are of the magical generation, where
letting fingers control a character’s fate
overreaches the books and stories i believe in.
really, i’m jealous. all the good toys were invented too late.








xxxvi.

hacking. in my day,
it’s what my grandfather did,
evacuating his lungs from camel smoke.
now, it’s a keyboard game and

the truth is, it’s better than ping pong.
ripleys, believe it or not,
a faster life is upon us.
next stlp meeting will be tuesday.

xxxvii.

my parents told me good things come to
all who wait. i was patient,
remembering their advice as the
years piled up.

very interesting words to tell a fat kid, but
i stacked away the
coins in piggy banks i’ve never seen.
krazy, but maybe they’re right, and
even if they’re not, i heard them.
retirement will come soon enough.
yes, i do this so that one day i can say i waited.

xxxviii.

phases of the moon,
elliptical revelations
that remind me
everything has its patterns. (but bryan, i
really, weally, wheeeeelllllyyyy need to pee).

very well, then. (you may pee).
oh, and if you run into international
evil doers, terrorists who speak the
language of durka durk durka.....remember you
know my sign of distress. when my
eyes bulge and i wag my arms above my head,
raise your hand again, and ask, bry, can i please go to the bathroom?












xxxix.

all i can think about when i
near amalfi drive, is
now what? where am
i coming from and where am i going? does
everyone wonder such things?

we, the transient beings.
east. west.
south. north
the compass pointing the way to where we should
meander. we see where we need to go,
over there, back here, perhaps along the
river. a ferryman might take us across, but not
every individual will understand how he rows.
life isn’t as easy as the lessons
a teacher may chalk on a board.
no. wisdom comes from outside these walls,
down the street a bit and to the left. no right. somewhere out there.

xxxx.

a showcase comes upon
my little world each and every year.
a project, which culminates
never quite as i expected.
days pass. pages are turned,
and there’s always another book on its way.

we, the readers, find
intelligence in such narration,
leaving no child behind at the
destruction of our own personal race.
eventually it adds up,
reaches deep down and provides me with more wonder.


















post-face.

this is the curtain call, of sorts,
where we close the tapestry,
open it up and take a bow.

this is another part of a phase, which leaves a
haze on my exhaustion from another year.
ovation. standing. applause. this is
ubiquitous, everything and nothing at once.
see, for you it’s a once in a lifetime event
and together, you’ve endured --
not necessarily like others before you, but
different is good, and look where you

are. at this moment, right
now almost robed and tasseled to the
deliciousness of a ceremony celebrating you.

strange. in 1990
i was allowed to stand up, wave, and an
x was checked by my name. i didn’t matter.

graduation was a central, new york conveyor belt
of getting another year
over and sending us out to the lakes with
dreams we’d become someone.

boy, it goes fast.
yep, fourteen years later, i
entertain myself with a poem. and i wonder, who have i become?



b.r. crandall