Making Widows Wince

A new theory of everything If you take the yes and the no, and add to it the neither and the both, you are almost there. With the addition of maybe, you’ve arrived. Congratulations. You now have all the Boolean search terms needed to explain what’s going on in another person’s head; a sort of “Grand Unified Theory of Interpersonal Relations.” Using this simple and elegant group of tools, you can now find answers to almost nothing, unless you consider the infinite series of new questions that come from the one you asked to be a type of answer. (Or, you can just fall back on the word-on-the-street version of all that is true -- it depends, and I don’t know.) (By the way, the real answer to everything turns out not to be 42, as previously reported. It’s .422 --which shows both the perils of the incorrect use of decimals, and the importance of carrying out your work to at least three places.) Example: What was he thinking? I just...

Finding a book in the library is like looking for a needle that’s been buried in a pile of straightened paper clips. I start by empirically ruling out the bad cocaine of writers – the Dale Brown’s, and anything by Lorenzo Carcaterra. Any author that I’ve tried once and found wanting goes on my active no look list. I don't snort, or read, crap twice. Dale Brown is so bad that I ignore all the other Brown’s – they are dead to me. Sometimes I ignore the entire "B" section just to be on the safe side. Carcaterra lost me with the dead baby smuggling book – and it wasn’t the dead babies, I can work with that, it was his writing. I can read about the micro waving of babies, (until they reach room temperature,) with the best of them, but you had better bring your “A” game when you write it. Deaver’s not bad – but he’s an industrial writer with retainers that work on an assembly line and use only his plotting, not his voice -- like Clancy with his “co-authors.” He’s (They are...

The Cow My broad back bent From years of carrying The type of weight Fat people take for granted. Strong as an ox Bones compressed Teeth ground to stubs Acres to go before I sleep. Dependable, steady Rocky constant. I live without understanding How substantial I am. Moving with a slow lumber, Mincing in careful step, I pause the methodical of my life To ruminate. Things change And the sun rises. I do what’s in front of me to do Until they eat me.                                     Mike Brady                                     December 2004 In Greek Η αγελάδα ευρεία πίσω λυγισμένα μου Από τα χρόνια της...

Things said When I was young, my father said: That words come with the craft That poetry was metalwork, A shaping and A learned trade That time gave skill to the hand. He told me To look for metal on the ground as I walked To stop at fire sales And flea markets For the undervalued. To see the Done in the undone To force a fit if needed To take dominion And make over In my image. To make the should From what would. When my father was old, he said: That words could only be found and uncovered And lightly polished. That the finding was the craft And a different strength was needed to see. That truly skilled hands Were only to let go with. That words look best In the places where you found them. Mike Brady 2005

Then and Again I’ve been out where the big ships float, Both the container and the car. I’ve met men at spots not marked on maps On cold nights without clouds to cover. I’ve sailed without the safety of an engine In a quarter moon of light. Helm steadied by a simple compass, No promise of mercy If found by the storm. From this, I have borne away treasure and feasted. I've seen the green flash off the still of the sea. I've bled on stained carpet in the dark of a morning And still looked for more in a fire of need. And even dead of desire, I still ask for more --   To come back as an image On the face of a stone. There is the true and the false in everything, All is measured by the weight of your bones. Mike Brady 2010

I’ve been out to where the big ships float -- both the container and the car. I’ve met men at spots not marked on maps, on cold nights without clouds to cover. I’ve sailed without the safety of an engine and without shipboard lights to guide me. And I traveled by a simple compass, without the promise of mercy if found by the storm. From this, I have borne away treasure and feasted. I've seen the green flash off the still of the sea. I've bled on stained carpet in the dark of a morning and still looked for more in a fire of need. And even dead of desire, I'd still ask for more --  To come back as an image, on the face of a stone. So don’t ask if I know it, or question my sense. I’ve been there and back, with the fear in my body, both imagined and arranged. In this I’ve lost more than most'ed choose to chance, and I did not dream it. No, I did not, it was what it is – and I’m still here for the telling; for the telling to you of the things I have seen.  When you to...

I’ll keep this short. I am not sure of the future, but I know what I’m seeing now: Graphic novels, video games, You Tubes and comic books; Bands that make all their money from the selling of songs to TV commercials; Stupid is rapidly becoming the new black. But it’s good to know that in whatever form, the Old Testament still thrives in words and pictures. All good writing comes from it -- it's what has linked  humanity (white) through the ages. (But, dear god, the action verbs in the new stuff are amazing. You can smell the sulphur vaporizing from the brimstone in every short vignette.) From the Graphic novel, “Watchman”: “Dog carcass in alley this morning, tire tread on burst stomach. This city is afraid of me. I have seen its true face. The streets are extended gutters and the gutters are full of blood and when the drains finally scab over, all the vermin will drown. The accumulated filth of all their sex and murder will foam up about their waists and all the whores and poli...