Laid Off American Man...

I do windows, I do floors,

I do hallways, I do doors,

I do anything I can,

I'm a Laid Off American Man...

I'm a product of the bottom line,

everybody says 'it's gonna be fine'

so come on down

to the Unemployment Line,

we'll have a little party

at the end of the line...

I was a VP in charge of BD...

I was an acronym in the company hymn,

a journeyman in the company plan,

now all my tools are in a one-man van...

I do windows, I do floors,

I do hallways, I do doors,

I do anything I can,

I'm a Laid Off American Man...

With a Mission Statement

and cellular phone,

a corporate watch

and a company loan,

I was a VP in charge of BD...

My severance pay was a big handshake,

I'm on the road for as long as it takes,

I was a VP in charge of BD...

Now I'm a gardener in the Promised Land,

all my tools are in a one-man van,

I do windows, I do floors,

I do hallways, I do doors,

I do anything I can,

I'm a Laid Off American Man...

I'm a Laid Off American Man...

©Peter Bray, 1994 & 2010 All rights reserved

Colitis Blue...

Prednisone Joan on the telephone

was talking to a man named Gene,

saying, "I'm so tired of Colitis,

I think they're gonna paint me green..."

Gene says, "Green, I know what ya mean,

I'm tired of Colitis too, all the words in my head,

all the words in my head are under the bed,

'cause I've got Colitis too, and I'm so tired,

I'm so tired, I'm so tired of being Colitis Blue..."

Gene says to Joan on the telephone,

"Here's what we're gonna do:

We're gonna watch what we eat

and watch what we drink,

and watch what we put in the stew,

'cause I'm so tired, I'm so tired,

I'm so tired of being Colitis Blue..."

A gastroenterologist and a sigmoidoscopy

were meeting in the middle sayin',

"What else can we see?"

’Cause they're so tired of being,

they're so tired of being,

we're ALL so damn tired of being...Colitis Blue!

©Peter Bray, 1989 All rights reserved

Like a Knife Thrown Into Barnwood...

Like a knife thrown into barnyard wood,
you get pretty good at it...
You know the weight and balance of the knife,
know the hurricane sharpness of its point

and the flash of its steel...
and you keep it that way, like surgical steel,

stainless steel...
Know how to grind it down on the wheel,

grind it to a fine point,
keep it balanced like an aerodynamic missile...

flip it just right, across the barnyard air,

not far from the metal horse trough,
the white-washed buildings, over the

cow manure dust, the heat and memories

of my summers' youth, even dodge the whizz
of the dragonflies or invite them in to watch,
them and their busy dragonfly eyes...

"Watch this..." you say, and flip it once,

twice, three times, twenty-four times, thirty-two...

each time across the barnyard, a few early ones

go high or low or errant, a few are lost until

you get right on target and the barnyard wood finally says,
"OK! I got the picture...so you know how to WRITE!...

Go back to bed..."And so I do...mood nearly over...I'm spent...

and the barn/house/corral dust of my grandparents' farm

settles back down into my memory of being 12 again

and I'm wondering if I could still stick this knife into

that barnwood shed over there...And I do...

Mission accomplished one more time...

©Peter Bray, 2009 and 1/30/10 All rights reserved

Chester Case's Rule of Engagement & Clear Debating (As I recall them) 5th Period Study Hall, Spring 1960

I had already completed all the required stuff,

plus my college prep stuff and all the shop classes

I could ever dream of taking. It was a hot Spring day

in Study Hall, Las Lomas 1960.

Mrs. Haskell, my counselor had already said

that with a B+ average for 4 years work,

I didn't have the grades to enter Berkeley directly.

So who cares? I'd start at JC and later blow

Berkeley's doors clean off their hinges.

OK, so I never made Paladians in 4 years,

I was a second string honor student/smartass,

but I had a '32 Ford coupe, a '50 Ford

and the only '36 running LaSalle on the planet

in the school parking lot with reversed rims.

I'm trying to remember Chester Case's

Rules of Engagement and Clear Debating.

I think they went like this:

1. Don't be an asshole.
2. Select your peers wisely.
3. Don't get caught up in your peers' vortex.
If they're not your peers, whose are they?
If not your vortex, whose?
4. If visiting the enemy's camp, don't piss in the well
unless you've already filled your canteen.
5. Sometimes you may have to sleep with one eye open.
6. There will always be a Ralph Nader siphoning off
3-4% of the vote, learn to deal with it.
7. If two guys named Cheney and Bush

show up in the future, RUN.They are not your peers.

Nor do they have your best interests in mind.
But they have theirs.
8. Don't be an asshole, see #1 above.
9. If "...the vandals took the handles," keep on truckin'.
10. Rules? Make 'em up as you go. Civilizations have

done that for years, and we're still NOT that civilized,

despite the media that does NOT give you ALL the news.

11. Talk to your enemies sometime, you'll be surprised

what you may learn. Some guy named Bush won't,

but watch where he ends up and what little he accomplishes.
12. Remember what little you learned here and continue

to learn something of value. Discard the baloney

unless served on rye with light mustard. MGD is good too.
13-28. Good luck.

©Peter Bray 9/5/08 All rights reserved

---

Hors d'oeuvres On The Road...

It never took the hunger away,

it was like something my dad would do,

to keep us at the edge of our seats,

always sharp and fresh, never lagging behind...

But you're right, some of it was depressing.

It's the story of a WSB (white suburban boy)

who greets his father at age three

in a VA surgical hospital in Utah.

The latter is a blown-up survivor of WWII.

He has no hands, a severed right optic nerve,

his jaw and neck are severely lacerated

where the grenade shrapnel tore into his flesh.

The boy rode there with his mother in a train

from the San Francisco Bay Area.

The three eventually go home to San Leandro

and then to Walnut Creek, California

where three more sons are added to the family

plus a dog named Duffy, and Puss-Puss, the cat

and fifty homing pigeons...

The father becomes Prosthetic Chief

for the VA in San Francisco,

and the Mom is the patient, steady, angelic glue

that holds the whole enchilada together.

Currently the story is 67 years old,

has 40 years of poetry in it, at least a dozen songs,

and 54 weekly/Friday columns from a small

waterfront town newspaper, The Benicia Herald...

Gonna be a helluva book. Parts of it

are hilarious, reflective, insightful,

even inspirational...AND, it ain't over

until it's all written down, at least most of it.

I'll send you last week's column entitled,

"In a Quince Corner," about growing up

in the former walnut orchards of Walnut Creek.

Watch your snail mail in a day or two.

Thanks for the early comments on my Blog,

and you were right, but it's just an hors d'oeuvre

for what's still coming down the road...

With cheers, Pedro (WSB).

©Peter Bray, 1/27/10 All rights reserved

CubicleVille...

He/she returned to CubicleVille...

His/her Unemployment, Cobra and trivial savings

had run out from the last crappy job...

He remembered the pull of the leather harnesses,

the scene looking forward, the chain of command

into the next mediocre canine orifice or office...

Remembered all the game boards and

how to look for the Alpha Dog, Beta Cat, and

the Zeta Zombie at the back of the room, each serving

their prescribed purpose(s)...remembered the

fishheads and mediocre salmon scraps

at the base camp by the frozen lake/

cafeteria/employee lounge, remembered not to stand out

too far from the crowd, too inviting,

a polite curtsy was OK, demeaning and humble,

self-sacrificing for the mortared-in Wednesday,

the mid-week heirarchy, but a deep bow at the waist,

that was obviously sarcastic and deadly,

not even funny. Besides everybody had cellphones,

Ipods, Blackberries, digital interfaces and

everybody could telecommute, not even show up,

no one had to be on the same page or even

in the same room...you could be replaced by

a robotic drone, GPS-ing over the hills of Afghanistan,

taken out by friendly fire or somebody at a monitor

in a Third World earning 2/3 of your base pay

with no fringe benefits, not that you had any either...

It was just another day at the swamp...

malaria meant a day off...not that you could afford it...

©Peter Bray 1/28/10 All rights reserved

300 Years Old...

He doesn’t look bad for 300 years old.

His skin is a mottled gray/tan, somewhat between

Tyrannosaurus Rex-gray and Pterodactyl Sky/blue-gray...

What used to be blond hair is still mostly there,

silver blond-gray, like dishwater in the summer sun

if the sun ever comes out again in the wet winter of 2010.

In three weeks he’ll get it cut again

down at Barbarella’s Three Coins and Eight Swords

in the Fountain Shop on East H Street.

He walks with a wobble and his left knee aches

when he’s been up and down on a ladder all day,

but he tries to avoid some of that except on rainy days

when work still beats hunger and all those unpaid bills.

©Peter Bray 1/28/10 All rights reserved

Devices and Birdsongs...

Left to his own devices,

he would go on publishing poetry

like the stranger at the ice station

firing rockets to the moon,

releasing mechanisms, lock and load projectiles,

sales of his last book no better than his first,

but now using the latest technology,

an icon bouncing at the bottom of the page,

opening up the latest application,

backlighted keys easy to see

in the dim light of a four o’clock morning...

The high-speed DSL cable rumbling like

a freight train outside the home/office walls,

carrying its cargo of digital chatter

somewhere out to interplanetary space,

somewhere out there where the Internet

occupies rooms for rent in the heavens.

The rings of Saturn must be

his neighbors or his peer group.

Funny how the birdsongs come and go

enhanced only by those that believe

in the magic of birdseed and birdsongs.

I suspect Emily Dickenson didn't have

this cool technology or these backlighted keys.

Think what she could have done!

©Peter Bray 1/28/10 All rights reserved

Good Drain News...

Nothing ventured,

nothing gained,

the good news is

the sump's been drained..

©Peter Bray 1/26/10

All rights reserved

Old Road...

I feel like an old road,
pockmarked like the moon.
When the moon was new,
I was too.
I'm a dark shadow
from the back of the room.
I have no center lane
or curbs or gutters.
What gets to my shoulders
usually stays there.
I am so old even
the mirages have left.
If you travel with me,
better bring a rope, shovel
and/or an anchor,
Nagasaki and Dresden
were smooth by comparison.
Don't look for a view,
everything is regret and gravel.
Even the rear view mirrors
have turned back in fear.
I'm told the end is up ahead,
but I try to eat well and avoid it.
Determination got me this far
and every day's still a challenge
and/or a laugh.
Every roadsign I see
is missing or full
of rusted bullet holes.
But stay tuned, the radio still works,
but who's listening?
All the good songs
are still in my head.
©Peter Bray, 10/21/09 All rights reserved

How Deep and Wide is a Gene Pool?

Beats me, I can sometimes see

a gravelly bottom with sandy shores,

Viking helmets and speaking Spanish

comes pretty easy, like I once visited

and/or plundered there ...

Grammy (Anderson) Bray's Swedish ancestors

poured across the plains in covered wagons we're told

and settled into the ice and snow of Fargo, North Dakota.

On the other hand, Cornwall, England released

Philip Bray and some hardrock miners who made it

as far as the California Gold Rush and in time

found greener grasses in Grass Valley, California...

And grandfather George Bray was born there...

Jenny Menadue, the English and French wife

of Philip Bray played her role there too...

Adolf Viggo and Karen Marie Larsen brought my uncles

Kaj and Bent, and Mom/Karen through Ellis Island

from Denmark in 1923 so early parts of me

have seen far more than one shore already...

Dad saw England, France, Belgium, and Germany

while chasing Hitler and his losing troops

back into their bunkers...

I can hear the doors of DVC and UCB swinging loosely,

still on their hinges behind me, and the tides and sands

stir every time a new duck lands here

with new demands...

The tides and winds are still flowing/blowing

in and around this gene pool and things are still shifting...

©Peter Bray, 1/23/10 All rights reserved

Don't Let Your Altruism Kill You...

Don't let your altruism kill you,

you can't tell a shark

just where to sleep.

You may think it's mindless

to wander in the deep,

but you can't tell a shark

just where to sleep.

Don't let that opossum ride the bus!

Don't let that camel cut in front of us!

You may think it's mindless

to wander in the deep,

but you can't tell a shark

just where to sleep.

Don't let that canary lift that load!

Too much strain and he might explode!

You may think it's mindless

to wander in the deep,

but you can't tell a shark

just where to sleep.

Somethings apparently, we can't control.

Best thing we can do is cross and pay the toll.

But while dining south of France,

there is that remotest chance

that you might tell a shark

just where to sleep...Good Luck!

©Peter Bray, 1980 All rights reserved

Old Man with a Blog...

Some walk with a limp...
Some lose their hair...
Some sit in front of the TV and stare...

Some with age grow patient and wise...
Some join the church, and bake berry pies...

Some stay active...
Some fall off a log...
Me, I'm just an old man, but I've got a BLOG!

I try to remember things that I wrote...
Some hysterical still while others that float...
on angels' wings of inspiration

or dragon's breath of despair...
either way at this age, it helps keep me in my chair...

I don't mean to be demeaning, it's all pretty funny...
Nobody said at 67, I'd still be out working for the money...
to keep me outa bedlam, and dinner on the table...
So, I'm off to work, gotta go, while I'm still able...

Check me out sometime if you really need a laugh...
I'd invite you into the stable, but I really need a bath...
OK, OK, I'm outa here and going...every duck and vessel
at the waterfront avoids the final towing...
©Peter Bray, 1/21/10 All rights reserved

Peter Bray, Handyman, poet/writer...
Blog: http://taprootandaniseweed.blogspot.com
And check out "The A Capella Handyman,"
every Friday in The Benicia Herald,
Benicia, CA

Gardener in the Promised Land...

I worked real hard, did what I was told,

certain in the hole there'd be my gold,

but now I'm tired and so's the dirt,

companies I worked for said they hurt,

had to close down and move away,

happens everyday in the USA,

now I'm a gardener in the promised land...

I'm close to Mother Earth and nature this way,

never let wet weather get in my way,

got rain gear, jackets, a tan up my sleeve,

no corporate cubicle causing me to grieve,

now I'm a gardener in the promised land...

There's work everywhere if you know where to look,

you can tell by the rust or the broken book,

nothing's ever new under the sun,

but fixing broken stuff's not for everyone,

unless of course, you're a

gardener in the promised land...

My college education was surely a Hoot,

brought me several really fine boots,

Wingtips too, and smiles to carry,

ultimately far too many to bury,

so now I'm always busy,

a gardener in the promised land...

Yeah, a gardener in the promised land...

Stop by sometime if ya get a chance,

everybody's doing it, working freelance,

especially if you'd like to see,

what a man becomes in the ultimate zone,

working out of the box, on his own,

a gardener in the promised land...

Yeah, a Gardener in the Promised Land...

©Peter Bray, 2010

Handyman Song #12...

When all the corporations I knew went south,

I had to retrain my brain and my mouth...

I learned to speak fluent Handymanese,

and bought cushioned knee protectors

for both of my knees...

I can fix your toilets, I can fix your sinks,

I can fix the world when

the world just stinks...

If you put on your lipstick

but miss your lips,

if your parakeet's too wide

at the base of his hips,

call me I can be your Handyman...

Call me I can be your Handyman...

Cell: (707) 246-8082

©Peter Bray, 1/17/10

All rights reserved

Notes on Design/The Magic of the Moon...

I always felt there could be

a wedding of the arts and sciences

as much as there could be

a union of our reason

and our passion.

So having been schooled

in the heat and sweat

of a summer-like science,

I longed for the fall

and the magic of the moon.

And herein within

I have found it...

©Peter Bray, 1973

All rights reserved

Dragonsbreath Encounters...

Cretins and druids I suppose.

I entered their lair because

that’s where the pathway

to the food had led.

One day I entered an elevated room

where the Chronicles were stacked

like washrags on the side of a tub.

I thought that was special...

The bones of cadavers

that preceded me were

evident everywhere...

I learned how to test the water

before drinking with curiosity...

Later when they closed their tent

and moved away I remembered

I had written “Can’t

Find the Pharaoh” there

and “Slingblade 2” and it was all

pretty funny in retrospect...

After the agony and testing,

a dented shield and scorch marks

always smell the same...

Hard to escape through

an air vent by “tunneling out”...

But sometimes a boneyard

is just a boneyard

despite the size of the fossils

and/or the pterodactyls entertained...

©Peter Bray, 1/17/10 All rights reserved

Two Right Shoes (Child's Song)...

Two right shoes,

two right shoes,

I never get the blues

with two right shoes.

I never shake hands

with my left hand,

my Daddy is a funny man...

Two left shoes,

two left shoes,

I never have to choose

with two left shoes.

I never have to pay

my union dues,

whenever I wear

my two left shoes...

Take a family member

off to the zoo...

You can see giraffes

and the elephants too...

You can always wonder

what I'm gonna do,

whenever I wear...

my two right shoes...

©Peter Bray 1997

All rights reserved

Daddy Was a Hard Drive...

When I was a child they bought me a computer,

they told me it was slow but maybe with a tutor,

I'd learn to write my gigabytes, my freehand and imports,

they'd potty-train my brain and put me in rubber shorts...

'Cause my Daddy was a hard drive, my Mama is a dish,

and there's nothin' in this road of life

this poor boy's gonna miss...

(Tease...tease...tease...the next two verses are on my DVD,

"A Capella Handyman" or see it on YouTube,

punch the title into the Search window...

While you're there check out

"Laid Off American Man" also and

"Life's Just a John Prine Song")

© Peter Bray 1990's & 2010

The Compost News Blues

(Don'tcha just love an oldie?)

Rockets and vessels and algae stew.

These were the things that I once drew...

Didn't make Life nor the cover of Time,

but the Compost News had a cover of mine...

Ten thousand copies went through the mail,

a shower of glory, or was it hail?

No Golden Record upon my wall,

but the Compost News hangs there for all...

No, I didn't make Life nor the cover of Time,

but the Compost News...thinks I'm divine...

©Peter Bray, 1970 & 2010 All rights reserved

They Laid Off Santa Claus...

(Recalling a previous time,

recycled to help understand

the present)

They laid off Milo.

They laid off Pedro.

They took a short pause,

and laid off Santa Claus...

And it was gross.

So gross from coast to coast.

In the summer they

laid off your mother,

your sisters and brothers,

by Christmas we'd all

hit the streets...

There was no glory,

the same old story:

You have your Have Nots,

you have your Got Lots...

And it was gross.

So gross from coast to coast.

In the summer they

laid off your mother,

your sisters and brothers,

by Christmas we'd all

hit the streets...

©Peter Bray 1994 All rights reserved

No Delays For Harry...

Dirty Harry Potter, our formerly feral
housecat prefers his meals to be served
in a big-assed hurry, the faster
he oscillates horizontally behind my calves
while I stand at the morning stove

buttering my toasted sesame seed bagel,
the hurrier he thinks I will get.
Somewhat the speed curve
if not mindset he developed while
avoiding cars in a Benicia or Vallejo
restaurant parking lot or the snap
of a frycook's towel while dining on scraps
just beyond a House of Delight's dumpster.

But Harry has come a long way.
He was bright enough to get caught
reluctantly by Friends of Animals,
get his shots, get cleaned up, and
get his ear clipped in order to label him
"Formerly Feral" for the rest of the world

to see should he escape one more time
into Cat Freedom just beyond our front
and/or back screendoors.

His deep and wide if not varied gene pool,
no doubt gave him his Call of the Wild talent
as a cat songwriter and performer.
If rubbing my calves exposed beneath

my morning robe doesn't win me over

in split seconds, his bevy of new,

soon-to-be-recorded cat songs will, he thinks...

He's talking if not singing, always...

Sorry, Harry, but despite outward appearances
to the contrary, I was NOT raised by wolves...
Though patience may be learned sometimes
in a parking lot, empty with hunger while
under a restaurant's decking,
waiting in the rain...
©Peter Bray, 1/16/10 All rights reserved

Day One Blogging...

Aww, Man, I thought it would never come to this...A Blog? Like I haven't got enough already on my plate? I've got a cellphone, an AOL account, three songs on YouTube, a FaceBook page, a DVD in limited circulation, an Epson 740 color printer that is out for repairs, a new MacBook Pro, a weekly/Friday column with The Benicia Herald ("The A Capella Handyman", now in its second year), a website, www.peterbray.org... and now this, a Blog?

Gotta stop this chatter and go see the Preview video to see how to upload a photo...Hold the phone, Joan...