My Beautiful Weird, Bent Revolution

Split a block of wood,

–we are there.

Pluck or plant a flower

–we are there.

Read sci-fi, or scripture, through a Summer rainstorm

–and we are there.

The swell of tides and a woman’s womb,

silent-now toys, and night in a child’s room:

we are there.

God, the soul, died long ago, but still

he conducts and connects word and thought,

rag and bone between us ever still.

We are each and every new question today

to yesterday’s final answer.

We are the revelation and the salvation for the

unknown sins that dawn tomorrow.

We are each other, and each other’s savior.

We are the name, and the word, the groom

and the all-father. We are

brother night and mother morning–

sister Buddhist and father time.

And, if we find joy, or sorrow, or luck, or

tomrrow, we find it only in the love in

the spaces between the spaces between us.


My Beautiful Bent, Weird Revolution

I’m tired of things only meaning one or two things.

I’m in love with orthogonality:

one becomes five becomes ten-thousand

becomes purple, becomes God.

I have reenlisted in the Poet Core

to serve on this, a top secret mission–

which, as poetry, means I tell

everyone who reads or hears this poem:

the secret of the Bent Christ Cross,

the 24th letter of the English language–orthogonal T–

Sacred, bent “t”–the letter X.

Love letter, Leadbelly, where were written your poems

last night?

In the pines? In the palm trees?

In Red-orange embers?

In pale-blue sky?

Somewhere between the Holy Trinity, the letter “X”

and Hiroshima–

somewhere lost among shoreline palms

and midnight psalms, whispered, whispered and

if you listen very hard

the words will come to you at last:

this Declaration of my Beautiful and Bent

Weird Revolution.

A Prayer For My Son

A Prayer For My Son

Since Harry Potter wasn’t the only young man forced

to summon his own Patronis all alone,

and since, still living, I’d never abandon my son,

to cast alone that spell I, too, can summon,

I write this poem now as a prayer for you.

May your should always be the perfect place

to cry, laugh, or sigh upon,

and may the twinkle across your eyes always bewitch

the eyes you deepest desire to set ablaze;

may your lovers find that missing you

stings far harder than forgiving you;

may you never forget that some kinds of jealousy

are just the sincerest sign of falling in love.

Never notice with alarm those too timid to bring

their full fascination with you out into the open,

and never rue a friend you realize laces or chases

unyielding admiration with occasional spite.

Never doubt those who trust you, somehow,

ever more than you doubt yourself,

and always allow those who worst broke your heart

at least one chance to try to mend it.

Know that, as my son, those you cradle within your arms

–in your conjugal bed–

will never find a safer or more sure sensuality;

remember too, as my son, that those you swore forgot you

must be the worst heartbroken, if having lost you,

you remember them still.

Understand that sons and daughters

listen ever more loudly than lovers, and they

remember true the purpose behind your lies–

see that those who raise up your children

are the true Mad Royalty of civilizations–

they insist on empires run for men like you and me.

May the depth of your forgiveness run as deep as

your best arrows of indignation fly far;

may you always find a joke or toast or poem

to reassure any timid, wayward on you find you found

–somehow–as you travel on your way through time.

Amen, my son, amen.

Radio Supernova X

We hold these poems to be self-evident:

    the shadow of a palm tree as it approaches noon

    is a poem;

Las lagrimas–the tears that flow to the ocean for lost love

    are a poem;

Birdsong in the dead of night, a rooster at dawn

    and a dog’s distant barking:

        each is a poem.

A lost child in a mall who prays to find mother

    prays a poem.

The punchline of a favorite joke, shared with a forgotten friend

–suddenly rememberd, as if by ambush–

    is a poem.

Pleading eyes for hunger or lust or warmth

    plead a poem.

The arctic Aurora Borealis in smeared-sky rainbow;

    the infinate disc-edge of a black hole;

    the radiation soul-heat of the bang

    that was all big creation:

    these each play in the top ten

    greatest hits, nightly, of this very station:

        Radio Poetry Supernova X

Tachyon Violet (for Daniel)

The thing about a poem–
It travels forward backward–
The deeper you press in,
The more sense that first
Read a little while back–
Becomes defined to you–
Like a highway sign in reverse.

It purifies the colors: bright spectre!
And the mind and soul of sunlight,
Hidden, awash in sol-light, becomes
Violet violet blue
It makes all the details
Makes them real–

Tachyon definition
as the mind sees more of detail
The more it takes in
at the future’s
soak-in point--to right now.

And there you are.

Somehow, you flip-foward
and beauty
and me
As I walk next to you.
You, with the fear of a Local God
–quiet and intense at the prospect
of being given name.

And there and then suddenly I realize
I have
Always been right

–my whole life–
–about THIS:

Sometime ago God

from one being into
countless within formless

and God, speaking his own name
in his own tongue
is how he begins a prayer to himself
a prayer that before it ends,
it mentions YOU.

It all began during a big, distant bang
And will eventually fling apart too far
to see one galaxy from the next,

but, Daniel, may love–
how are YOU today?

Daniel, Let Me Hold You Now

All the Pink Floyd pigs on the wing fled long ago
–with their Les Paul angles–

And God was long dead by the time
Jesus molested Nietzsche And Freud–

What Prophet Muhammed really said about love and men
was lost eons ago in an Alexandria library fire–

But Daniel, let me hold you now.

It will be 100 years until manned spaceships
travel Voyager-like, past our solar system;

in 200 years Salt Lake City finally sends a probe
to now-barren Kolob–God’s home planet;

at least 5000 years must pass before we find
we beat Vulcans to the first warp drive;

But Daniel, let me hold you now.

You fit perfect when I hold my right arm out
to hold you to me,

And I’d march across all of Mission Valley once again
to share a bedroom with you one more night.

I miss teasing you by calling you “my lord” and I miss

how you once disappeared only to show two hours later

with a college boy who’s dick you made me suck.

You walked to pick up our pizza dinner I paid for

and never stole my drugs, money, or cellphone.

But Janis Joplin and I know about men like you;

Daniel–I never actually gave you that

little piece of my heart that you have still.

Hello. This is Battleship 1976; I am Brian

Welcome to my poetry WordPress, Battleship 1976. I am Brian Thedell, a writer in San Diego county; I’ve been writing and self-publishing—mostly through chapbooks—for almost ten years. Recent chapbooks include “American Method” and “Taking Drugs To Write Poems To Take Drugs To”; I have also been published a few times in San Diego Writers Ink’s annual anthology.

I’ll be posting my latest poems here, sharing news about my favorite poets and poems, etc.