THEREWILL

ALWAYSBE

BETTER

copyright 2010 ~ Ryan W. Bradleyall design and layout by the author

for Lisa,always

e poems in this collection represent a period of transition. A period of losing one job, searching for and

eventually finding another.

ere will always be better,and there will always be smarter,

and there will always be workto be done,

and people to be outworked.

Wet Mess

c

ere Will Always Be Better

I am starting to wonderwhat an unemployed poemlooks like. 5 o’clock shadowstretching across the stanza,knowing there will alwaysbe more, there will alwaysbe better. Knowingthere will always bereality to temper fate,but love to temper reality.I hope so.

Less than Buoyant

Laughter fields, laughtergenerations all liing up,all ascending--lightthats what we call it,right?

the thing we followwhen we die?

my light comes in a glass case,screws into electricity,illuminates my roombut little else.

light is what they call itwhen you are more thanbuoyant--when you are still heavy.

But I’m shooting for better.

I’m Not Bent on Being a Fabulist

I’m not benton being a fabulistjust because my tongueis a dragon,just because I swallowfire when my eyes close,

just becauseI hide wingsin my teethfor dinner.

I’m not benton being a fabulist,I believein the truth.

Applying

ere is new meaningto “applying” myself,applying for 300 jobs,waiting every dayfor a phone call.

And I will applymyself to another 300and wait some moreso I can see the smileon my son’s facewhen his dadcomes home from workonce again.

e Hole in My Head

e hole in this poemis the hole in my head,the one where I put daysas they disappear,where I keep count of numbersthat no longer exist,downgraded planets belong as well.

It is a placefor remembering to forget,one I can vacate,even in its vacancy.

e hole in my headis there for you,it will swallow you gentlyand we will be on.

e Art of Floatation

I want floatation to stay unattainable,when my foot touches waterI want my toes to sink in its grasp,to whisper up to me, “follow,”just so I can resist.

Sea-Side

My stomach is a flood,nausea and hungercrashing, cresting, waning.

e tide is my eyelidsliing and resting.

My pulse keeps timefor the swimmers,looking for a little romanceat the sea, and finding

only this poem.

Wet Mess

I turned on the sinkto watch the water drain.To hear the pipes moan with age.

I dreamed of usingthe municipal waterworksas a personal water slide.

I imagined my wordsswimming like salmon,against the folds of these pages,

trying to get back and matewith my writing hand,which had turned the faucet.

Interview #1

All things can go well--a five hour drive,finding a placeto stay the night,my answers to the questions,all of them--all things can go well,but if life has taught usanything by this point,26 and 31, two master’s degreesbetween us, we should knowall things going welldoesn’t mean success.So why didn’t we?

Chainsaws & Brasfor Jereme Dean

Look at that woman,juggling chainsawsand removing her braat the same time.

Her nipples, glasswaiting to be blown.

e chainsaws areso loudyou can’t hearher moan.

e cream lace bradanglesfrom herfingertip.

It takes your mindoff the accidentwaiting to happen.

Cold Feet

My feet are so cold;an oddity--normally you are here,in bed,keeping them warmwith yours.

Ontological

Between my carand the back doorat work--between the migraineand the turnof my head

there is time

and space enoughfor all of usto wonder howit might lookto exist

separately

in between moments,or to hopefor a second cupof coffee.

Useless Facts

My brain is a full glassof water, to the brim,forming a bubble, a seal,desperately trying notto spill over.

And every fact is uselessthat I carry around.

One day it is allthat will be le,an empty gray brainand a tombstonenot long enough to gatherall this so-called knowledge.

Dear Tom Waits,

I smoked 30 cigaretteswhen I had a cold.I screamed for an hour.

People say I sound likeCookie Monster, but I wantto be your protege.

I’m not mocking you.I’d sell my soulto have the frogfrom your throatsurgically inserted in mine.

Awesomer Gossamer

is whole poem islight

you can pick itup

it would like that.

Especiallyif you whispersweet things to it.

Go ahead,I’ll be waiting.

Follow

My finger tracesleovers,those four-leafcloverswalking huddledover sidewalks.My finger tracesstaticin your attic,baby,where we cansleeplike a setof spoons.My finger tracesand I follow.

First Need

e way I need youis the way Adam needed Eve,the way he neededto masturbate on hervirgin bosom in her sleep.Not to mark territory,but because he could feelher nakedness coursingin his veins like he might notget a next breathif he couldn’t be partof her flesh.

e way I need youis the way Adam neededto come from Eve’s ribs,not the other way around.

Wet Mess

No, it is not a puddlethere, in the parking lot,it is oil that has leakedfrom cars and trucks,you can see your futurein the shimmer of its rainbowor you can wait for rain,for it all to become indistinguishable,you can stamp your feet in itif you don’t mindyour socks getting wet,you can pretend it’s just a puddleif that’s all you want out of life.

Start of the Day

A bowl of Cap’n Crunch,a Home Improvement re-run,the neighbors’ catwon’t stop staring at mefrom their window.I apply for another job.Funny, how it seemsso easy, until you keep applying,until you keep waiting.

Russian Poetry

I am reading Vera Pavlova,and I begin to fall in lovewith the simplicity,the lack of unnecessary sentiment,it reminds me why I write,not to create, but to emptya bag of words and universesonto a page, and begin erasing.

Lady Fingers

Slender, cool fleshand pearl fingernailspushing like crocusesthrough dirtinto sunlight,touched by rain.One by oneI pluck them,slide them into mymouth, fill my greedysex, but always hungryI will wait for more,for the dirt to movein waves, as her fingerspush forth, sprout more,bear fruit, limbs, a body,an ever-waking stillnessof desire.

ere is a Flood

Every daythere is a floodinside me,panic and worrygathering in a migraine.

Every daythere is a floodinside me--this is what it meansto be a husband,a father;to be washedin love,like it’s the only thingto hold onto.

More About Floatation

You make the part of me I’m not supposed to talk about grow.

You are the perfectfloatation device.

When I suck sugaroff my teeth, it is you.

All of this is kind of,sort of like truth,the way sleepingis like finding god.

You make nonsenseout of the words in my mouth.

Wet Mess

I like this ideaof swimmingin the pavement,of creamier,especially when creamyis the last wordthat makes sense.

I like positivecharges andunobtainable atoms.

I like the feelingof wet, of submersion,of this mess of soulsslipping through my outstretched fingers.

Sanctuary

Enthusiasm dries my bones.I have too many dreams filled with transparency.I long to crawl inside you, for sanctuary. We are learning the difference between tension and scary. We are learning to fit inside one another. We are learning safe.

An Airplane Poem

It’s a thing of beautywhen the wheelsfirst leave the ground,fold into the bellyof the wings,a moment of grace,of feet liing into airand not touching down,not right away,not at gravity’s request.

I Want it All at Once

c

ere Will Always Be Better

I can’t tell youhow many timesthere will be betterbecause there will alwaysbe better, all your life,sometimes other’sand sometimes yours,but it will always be there,like a shadowtracking your every step.

I Want it All at Once

I want all the regret,I want all the love,all the clean dishes,all the dryer-warmed socks,and all the fresh out of the ovenchocolate chip cookies.

I want all the warand all the peace.

I want all the playing children,and the ones who sit and stare,and the ones who are too shyto leave their rooms.

I want all that nice tight body,all that soap-fresh flesh skin,all that up in my face sex-thought,that division of cells and pheromones.

I want all that drug-riddled craze,and all that comatose sunday supper.

I want all this world and the next,I want it all at one time,and I want it all at once.

Lisa

e white of the undersideof her breastsis my favorite color,the slight dimpleof her hip bone,my favorite shape.laying next to my ideaof perfection,my waking dream,I never want to sleep.

Shower Prayer

What good are shower curtains?Let the water get all over the floor.I want to enter the bathroomand find you naked,I want to take your breasts in my hands.I want to slip all over your body,like soap. Like the prayersof those who don’t know better.

Turmoil

is is a timeline:work, get hours cut,lose job altogether,apply for new jobs,go to interview,hear nothing,apply for more jobs,go to interview,get job, breathe.

Oh,remember you stillhave to move.

Ball Ache

It comes and goes,the dull, lusty achewhen I’m in the middle of a pissor just sitting on the couch--it comes, reminds me of the truthabout being a man,how we define so muchby our balls or what comes out of them,when truth is, you can strip themof all that and still wake upa husband, a father,a provider, someone just happy to breathe.

e End of 26

I woke too early on the weekend,at 26 I’ve developed lactose intolerance.As a married man and a fatherpartying’s not so much about a fih of whiskeyas a pint of ice cream and the couch.I go to work forty hours a week,just like your father did.Just like a lot of people.And when the week ends,you can bet I’m ready for another pintof peanut butter chocolateand a stomach ache,even if just to proveI still know how to get down.

Funk, A

Maybe it’s your absence,maybe it’s this professionof waiting for the right thing,for a feeling of satisfied,of success by my own measure.

Maybe it’s not having your kisson my lips to quiet my brainto my thoughts, and the world.

Realizing I’ve Moved

I looked up while pissing,forgot there was no skylightin the bathroom, heard the flushof the upstairs neighbor’s toilet--remembered, again, everything is new.

Sick Day

I feel guiltywhen I get sick,have as long as I remember,as though I’ve failedyet again. As a father,a man and husband,not going to workeven for a dayfeels like abandonment.It’s a feeling that lastsmuch longer than the bug,the sore throat, or cough.Much longer than a lifetime.

Customer Service

I work hard.I hate my job.I answer the phone,get yelled atby strangers.Get hit onby faceless women,many of themelderly.

I work hard.

I answer the phone,speak English,the only languageI know. Am toldthis restores a faithin corporate America.

For this,I am sorry.

ere will always be better,and there will always be stronger,

and there will always be further to go,to reach for,

with the beginning of each step.

Ryan W. Bradley has fronted a punk band, done construction in the Arctic Circle, and managed an independent children’s bookstore. His novel, Code for Failure is due in 2012 from Black Coffee Press. He received his MFA from Pacific University and his poetry and fiction have appeared widely. He is the editor of Artistically Declined Press and lives in Oregon with his wife and two sons.

www.aestheticallydeclined.net