Bradley Mason Hamlin

 

 

Conspiracy of Her Prophets

Six a.m.
eyes open pop
to hour of owl
waking
with jazz in head
piano, Monk

Old Navy habit
to wake up
ready for reveille
no matter what time zone
or how late you stay up
acting stupid
or in this case
making love to a beautiful
blonde

Looking out
her early morning windows
thinking about
wanting to wake her
for selfish reasons

while the moon breathes
cold telepathy

easy
out there
over birds
burning in branches,
lightning
allows power without ego

The music of the red wine
still playing
a soft melody
inside my head

and she said,
our love should be
like a movie …

Okay, baby,
let’s make some
popcorn.

____________

 

The Mayan Calendar is All Fucked Up

I’ve 11 minutes
to write
a poem

before
my ebay bid on
a Six-Million Dollar Man
comic book
ends

don’t want
to miss that one

and my wife
just texted and said
home in 5

what the hell
can I
possibly
convey
in that time?

now
I just used a wonky
word, convey
twice

Lagunitas
is a pretty good IPA
but Track 7
from Sacramento
is better

there,
some good advice
you don’t usually get
from a goddamned
poem.

____________

 

Trick Lipstick

like
a two-headed songbird
crying duets
there’s blue broken country
inside the storm
you know is coming

the world is warped & weird
don’t let it get you down
satan walks; satan talks
tell him to fuk off

have a drink
with someone attractive
touch her hips
her voice softly
like a kitten purring

lips
like fresh cut fruit
sweetly

painted slut-colored sparkle
stripped of all other’s
wrong-doing.

Bradley Mason Hamlin

Murdering Rainbows

(For Nicky Christine)

 

One
Of the great
Treasures

You get
With children

Is
The amazing
Art

Heartfelt
Stick figures

Purple unicorns

Or super
Wildly explosive
Rainbows

That look
Brilliantly murdered
By the sun

The best part
Of all
Is the look

On their
Beautiful mother’s
Face

Smiling
Eyes appreciating
The raw talent
And emotion

Something
Only she
Never forgets

When
The kids
Turn into teenage
Zombies

And do
Their very best

To eat
Our brains

She
Sees the best
Because
She is
The best

And sometimes
When
I screw up

Forgetting
To remember
Not
To forget

The Crayon family
Riding
The psychedelic
Spaceship

She
Reminds me
I too

Like
To strangle
The sun.

 

BMH
Mother’s Day, 2020
Sacramento, California

________________________________

 

 

Sacramento Surf

 

The California
Wild cats scream
Against violent windstorm

As the giant palm gods
Rock
Palm fronds flip-fly

Surfing through the rain
Crashing
Against brick roofs

Bang, bang
The valley swings
Savagely

Like
A drunken go-go girl
Too skilled
To fall

Water
Oceans down
In kahunic waves from Heaven

Until the ancient
Gold dust stirs
From the bones of the broken

As we clear our psyche
With beer, & wine, & spirits
And cosmic sex

We
Are rich again.

 

April 4, 2021
Sacramento, California

Punk Rock, Beer, & Boobs by Bradley Mason Hamlin

 

I hear
These singers
I have loved most
Of my life
Sounding
So old

As if
They’re dying
Doing the very thing
That has kept them
So alive

They can’t escape
The grim reaper rattling
Voodoo dolls
Inside their throats

And I just stopped
In the middle
Of this poem

To eat a piece
Of fried chicken
And fix a vodka rocks

But
Will it happen to me?

Despite
My work rambling
On paper
And telepathically
Offered
Forward

Will
My words turn
Garbled
Like a shrunken head
Fighting
For clarity
With sown-shut lips?

What if
I don’t want to write
About

Punk rock, beer, & boobs
Anymore?

Yeah,
Good luck with that.

Three poems by Bradley Mason Hamlin

Don’t Try, He Said

His shadow
ghost
haunts
us all

the monster
screaming
from Hell’s icy fire

inside the beast
a frightened little boy
weeping at the whip

craving isolation
while reaching out
from typewritten soul

they heard you
they hear you now
your damnation choir

to give you the love
you never knew
you were capable of.

____________

What is Sinead Doing Tonight?

is she
writing poetry
crying in bed
or maybe
writing a song about
riding a midnight
horse
or whore
who knows?

is she drinking old red wine
or fucking a stranger
all apologies

praying
in a potato field
or sleeping in a gray
graveyard

so
many options
and how can I possibly say
when the children
and my beauty of a bride
are making so much
god-fuck-torn
noise
beautiful noise

calm down,
think of Cornell Woolrich
drinking iced coffee
while his kids
played cowboys & Indians
in the house
and he wrote Rear Window

she’s
probably
lightning a fire somewhere
I imagine
a bubble bath

lady death
in the mirror
she’s a cunt, isn’t she
it doesn’t really
matter

where is sweet Sinead, this
very night
eating
a peanut butter sandwich
& strawberry jam
getting high
on the tears of fairytales

do you give a shit
what occurs with O’Conner
in the cold
in the heat of the skillet

are you a witch
waiting to snake on her soul

she
might go in the oven willingly
but be careful
to leave the light on

she
loves more than most
peoples are able
so,
she gets too much
love in return

but hey,
leave the girl alone
already
let her be

don’t get
too close to the Irish
of it

she’s a banshee
and wouldn’t hate me
for saying so
Sinead,
I don’t want to know
what
you’re
doing
this time, this night

and you’re very welcome.

_____________

This Could Be L.A.

I
grew up in Los Angeles
and sometimes
yeah,
I miss the ocean waves
seaweed wind
and Tommy’s chili burgers

but
as I relax in Central California
watching the palm trees rock
the summer breeze
like they did back home
I wonder

as the kids
play with the garden hose
and we talk of cutting in a pool
I look at my lady looking good
in a lime bikini …

and you know what, I think
if I ain’t going to the beach
today

hell,
this could be L.A.

I keep a giant cooler nearby
iced water gets so cold
like swimming in winter
just to get a beer
from Chico, California

and when the wind’s just right
blowing gently through her
blonde-blonde hair

you know what,
if I ain’t going to Ocean Boulevard
this day

hell,
this could be L.A.

we’ve got a backyard
barbecue
green grass
Popsicles
squirt guns
Frisbees
Duncan Yo-Yos
comic books
and the root beer gets just
as cold as the brew

If I were in L.A.
maybe I’d be shopping
at the local market
for taco supplies
& iced coffee
just like I did this morning
and walking to my car
watching the palm
sway-sway in the parking lot

and thinking …

if I ain’t going to Disneyland
today

this could be L.A.

but you know what,
I can’t wait
to tell the kids
to get in the damn car
cuz we’re heading south

to visit
Uncle Mickey

and if we’re not going
to the beach today

well,
fuck it.

Outside Your Darkened Window by Bradley Mason Hamlin

I’ve
never cared
much
for guys
that are overly
sensitive

yet
here I am
writing
a poem

men
like Bukowski
& Hemingway

felt
the same
conflict

masking
their fragile
feelings

with
the absurd
masculinity
of the sport
of animal abuse

the bizarre
bullfight
the tragically
tired horse race

ugly
excuses

that
cannot possibly
have cured
the curse

and
don’t even
let me get started
about drowning
the senses
in alcohol
and self
medication

so
let me see
the teardrop cascade
gently
from your soft
cheek

as the rain
falls rhythmically
outside your darkened
window

let me hear you
cry
just
one more time

let me
take your hand
and lie down
with you
naked
raw
fuckin’
nude, baby

let’s listen
to a Billie Holiday
record

and hold each other
until
all
the demons
in the room
gently
close
their eyes.

Edge of Wheel by Bradley Mason Hamlin

 

the other day
I watched a woman
throw
a plastic
drinking straw

out
the window
of her Camry

after
almost
clipping me
with
her car

her hair
held
up
super tight
with a
synthetic claw

one hand
holding
a smoking cigarette
the other
clutching a squawking
cell phone

how
the hell
she was driving …

I just
didn’t know

maybe,
the kid
riding next to her
had her hand
on the edge of wheel
or maybe
she’s using elbows
to work it
out

either way
the pedestrian
lady
she almost
nailed
in the parking
lot

didn’t seem
to notice
or miss a beat
pushing
her grocery
cart

distracted
by
her own vices.

Three poems by Bradley Mason Hamlin

Cat Piss & Vodka

Listening
to “Disco in Moscow”
by the Vibrators

I find
a matchbook
on the floor
in my office

I discover
many strange
things
on the flooring
of my headquarters

but
I don’t smoke
so
I picked it up

smelling vaguely
like cat piss

not me,
the matches

from
Black Sparrow
with a Bukowski poem
printed
on the backside

about
running
with the hunted

well done,
and this poem
won’t be as good
as that one

but
Hank isn’t able
at the moment
to drink
iced vodka

and
not quite
give a fuck.

____________

Bukowski Haiku

 

Bukowski beaten
but better than Kerouac
beaten but not beat.

____________

California Jungle

Listening
to punk rock
on the backyard
patio

she
soaks up the shine
in a polka dot bikini
while drinking
a beer from Chico

45 Grave
soundtracks the sun

as I read
Tarzan and the Golden Lion
(our Bengal kitten
stalks the veldt
of our lawn …)

just
as Burroughs
cries forth with epic
cruel world passion:

“… he placed one foot
upon the carcass of his kill
and raised his voice in
the terrifying victory cry
of the apes of Kerchak.”

the kill
in this case,
a lion

as
the jungle cat’s claws
chased
a crazy sexy hot
jungle princess

an
evil wicked beast
deserving of
the spear of destiny

if only
every
kill
could be so
clean

never destroy
that which doesn’t
need destruction

simple, right?

like,
totally, deep
thoughts …

from
the brown bottle
bottom

and
on this warm California
summer day,
north of Tarzana

you’re welcome.

 

Drawing Down Lightning by Bradley Mason Hamlin

 

 

I like it
yet
it causes

the chaos

I hate it
yet
I miss

the tornado

she wants me
to
drink
with her

she hates it
when
I get drunk

the kids say
I’m an asshole
when I don’t drink

yet
hate monster
arguments
or inter-dimensional
reasoning
from bottle bottom

my doc says
don’t worry
he likes his wine, too

then mad sciences
my blood
and says cessation
may be wise

but my six-pack
of readers
will tell you

this
is a sober poem
lacking
the larger
brushstrokes

of unglued ecstasy

I can hear
a bluebird outside
my window

tweet-fuckin’-tweet

what
is his secret
message?

I don’t know why
the sober bird
sings

maybe
he saw a worm
Watusi
or the naked dance
of secret squirrel

the wild cats
will kill them all
if given
half a song

don’t worry
this isn’t depression
I care too much

about
comics & toys
and their destruction
upon my destruction

saturday mornings
with the blonde

my daughter’s vinyl
collection
still needs help,
I guess

UFO meetings
with older offspring

hell, my youngest
hasn’t seen
Attack of the Mushroom People
yet

there’s always shit to do

it’s almost summer
and vodka & crushed ice
tastes like

west coast jazz

my wife’s pissed
that I’m not building
a patio set

told her not to buy
one of those thousand
piece

Apokolips fire-pit
jobs

but good-lookin’ broads
rarely listen

could be anxiety
the thinking too much
seemingly caring
too much

the fucking puzzle piece
of it all

coming together
right now

poof
let it explode
like dandelion pedals
gone to seed

then reaching out
trying to
put it all
back

in concert
with
nothing more
than
Italian roasted java

I like it
yet
it makes my heart
beat

like
Gene Krupa
surfin’
tribal drums

I hear
the thunder moaning
in early June

growling
like a lion
trapped in a zoo

raging
because we are here
drawing down
lightning

maybe
the earth is flat
or round
or oval

who gives a fuck?

the gods are angry

we create
artists & idiots
magicians
and warriors

madmen
and crazy women
dancing
singing
praying

soothsayers
farmers
teachers
and children
driving tricycles

but
who talks to the clouds?

probably
more people; more often
than we know

we have jazz
we hold that one thing
and lumberjacks
to make the pulp
paper
to cut into

creating
the telepathy
to tell
you

this.

International Women’s Day by Bradley Mason Hamlin

 

If
you’ve never
seen her
bend over
opening
the fridge
searching
for
whateverthefuck

I can’t
help you with
that
but
it’s great

and she says
her face
looks
sunburned
when she drinks
red wine

but I wonder
if she
knows
her Norwegian
ass cheeks
look
just the same
way
when spanked

a little
after
midnight
and the moon
is full.

Perpetual Concussions by Bradley Mason Hamlin

 

Seems to me
if you were
the grand controllers
of this planet’s
population

the easiest way
to control the masses
is to divide them
into warring factions

via the media
and button-pushed
politics

like
two football teams
smashing into
each other
with relentless
and constant
brute force

and
as we give
one another
perpetual concussions
the shadow
people

laugh
and move
the chess pieces.
11.14.16