J. Bradley

J. Bradley
J. Bradley is the author of Dodging Traffic (Ampersand Books). His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in wtf pwm, decomP, Dogzplot, Writers' Bloc among other journals. In 1985, he dabbled in journalism when he interviewed Emmanuel Lewis with a Spider-Man PEZ Dispenser. Find him at iheartfailure.net <http://www.pankmagazine.com/iheartfailure.net>.
Rug Cutter (Issue 20) Pythagorean (Issue 15) Two Poems (Issue 12)
Rug Cutter (August 20, 2010. Issue 20.) Wait for the dirt to settle”, I tell Michael. “The best audience is the audience of one.” Dancing on a grave requires good timing, not skill. People wear heavy shoes to muffle the honesty in their feet or salt their larynx with tears to strangle the Lloyd Dobbler in their throat from switching the boombox on, humming the prom night condom breaker. “What dance would you recommend?”, Michael asks. He looks at my mouth like I'm wearing Twyla Tharp's blood in my teeth. Jonah Bronton was 14 when he died. His first job as a character assassin was on my Speedo in first grade after swim class, swirling in the urinal, my tears made into a magazine of bullets. Jonah obeyed the laws of traffic at the wrong time, the hood of the car snapping the frame of his bicycle, the splintering parts grafting into the left side of his body before falling between the gums of the white crosswalk paint; it was the last time he made me cry. Two years later, my friends and I finally visited his grave. The Irish pub of revenge entered my chest and I jigged “you're fucking worm food and I'm not” on top, the headstone wishing it could nod to the beat. “What dance would I recommend”, I swirl around, fold it in my left cheek. “Dance like you'd want someone to dance on your grave.” Table of Contents Pythagorean (March 20, 2010. Issue 15. The DirtyDirty.) The first time Cassandra spent the night with her new girlfriend, I pretended I could see them together through a wine bottle. I clung to the hangover until Cassie walked in our apartment like a transcription. I got better each time my wife slept over at her girlfriend's, empty beer cans pressed against the wall, the scoliosis of Greyhound buses on the way to out-of-town shows. I always wanted to be the base of a love triangle, open condom wrappers like a Pentecostal church but I was more of a parallel line. I was o.k. with this as long as the promise of being lashed to a chair like a mast was there, where a thousand syllables would last longer than pictures. Table of Contents Two Poems (December 20, 2009. Issue 12.) The Kama Sutra of Charles Bukowski I will bang you like a typewriter, tap the draft spout of that ass until you coat my face in poverty, tattoo the number 8 on your sides, bet you will grow up to be glue, a stickiness forgotten like onion skin, the last bullet. The Kama Sutra of Lou Dobbs I will maul you like the truth, advertise your dentist with my thighs, turn your throat into a protest. Know I don't believe in open borders; chastity tastes sweeter when it's xenophobic. Table of Contents

J. Bradley is the author of *Dodging Traffic* (Ampersand Books). His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in *wtf pwm*, *decomP*, *Dogzplot*, *Writers' Bloc* among other journals. In 1985, he dabbled in journalism when he interviewed Emmanuel Lewis with a Spider-Man PEZ Dispenser. Find him at
iheartfailure.net <http://www.pankmagazine.com/iheartfailure.net>.

Rug Cutter (Issue 20)

Pythagorean (Issue 15)

Two Poems (Issue 12)

Rug Cutter (August 20, 2010. Issue 20.)

Wait for the dirt to settle”, I tell Michael. “The best audience is the audience of one.”

Dancing on a grave requires good timing, not skill. People wear heavy shoes to muffle the honesty in their feet or salt their larynx with tears to strangle the Lloyd Dobbler in their throat from switching the boombox on, humming the prom night condom breaker.

“What dance would you recommend?”, Michael asks. He looks at my mouth like I'm wearing Twyla Tharp's blood in my teeth.

Jonah Bronton was 14 when he died. His first job as a character assassin was on my Speedo in first grade after swim class, swirling in the urinal, my tears made into a magazine of bullets. Jonah obeyed the laws of traffic at the wrong time, the hood of the car snapping the frame of his bicycle, the splintering parts grafting into the left side of his body before falling between the gums of the white crosswalk paint; it was the last time he made me cry. Two years later, my friends and I finally visited his grave. The Irish pub of revenge entered my chest and I jigged “you're fucking worm food and I'm not” on top, the headstone wishing it could nod to the beat.

“What dance would I recommend”, I swirl around, fold it in my left cheek. “Dance like you'd want someone to dance on your grave.”

Table of Contents

Pythagorean (March 20, 2010. Issue 15. The DirtyDirty.)

The first time Cassandra spent the night with her new girlfriend, I pretended I could see them together through a wine bottle. I clung to the hangover until Cassie walked in our apartment like a transcription.

I got better each time my wife slept over at her girlfriend's, empty beer cans pressed against the wall, the scoliosis of Greyhound buses on the way to out-of-town shows.

I always wanted to be the base of a love triangle, open condom wrappers like a Pentecostal church but I was more of a parallel line. I was o.k. with this as long as the promise of being lashed to a chair like a mast was there, where a thousand syllables would last longer than pictures.

Table of Contents

Two Poems (December 20, 2009. Issue 12.)

The Kama Sutra of Charles Bukowski

I will bang you like a typewriter,
tap the draft spout of that ass
until you coat my face in poverty,
tattoo the number 8 on your sides,
bet you will grow up to be glue,
a stickiness forgotten like onion skin,
the last bullet.

The Kama Sutra of Lou Dobbs

I will maul you like the truth,
advertise your dentist with
my thighs, turn your throat
into a protest.

Know I don't believe
in open borders; chastity
tastes sweeter when
it's xenophobic.

Table of Contents