Santa Cruz Good Times

Friday
Jul 03rd
Text size
  • Increase font size
  • Default font size
  • Decrease font size

The Poems of Brad Crenshaw

ane_bradEditor’s notes: Brad Crenshaw received both his MFA and PhD in English from the University of California, Irvine. He later obtained a second PhD in clinical psychology and neuroscience from the University of Massachusetts, where he teaches neuropsychology in the graduate psychology program. For many years he worked as a neuropsychologist in a New England medical center. His poems and critical articles have appeared in various magazines, including Chicago Review, Parnassus, Massachusetts Review, Shenandoah, The Formalist, The Sandhills Review, Illinois Quarterly, Faultline and others. Greenhouse Review Press has published his chapbook, Limits of Resurrection. He lives in Amherst, Massachusetts, and part of the year in Fallbrook, California.

 

The Book of Coming Through by Day

I
Constructive and merciful forces carry us by day in great machines upon a rule of air, the
blue and black-blue tons. Our stewardess has run her sleigh beside me wearing jewels and
other cool gear to pour the tea at this seraphic altitude between the Hero Twins. All along my theory’s been at one with Cosmic Monster—meaning catholic and grandiose emotions ooze like crocodiles through my stealthy nature—or intellect, I mean, or inhibitions, or what I
really mean is that turbid, healthy lady with the permanent is in my seat as we soar toward the stream of ocean. 
II
Dawn in yellow robes was nuking breakfast for the revelers and pilgrims packed in rows and half awake, or sleeping. In the past the learned Greek beside me would have dozed until New Mexico, but woke instead in turbulence, coffee slopped across the Sabine beetles—luminous
but dead—that he retrieved from Suriname at the cost of boils, he said, and numbness in his legs. I like his concepts. The gifts he brings Persephone, his sweet diminished friend, would maybe beg forbearance of his failings. As shadows, singly, we do offend our graces. Right.
Our plane slips to the little world of, oh, I don’t know, cities.

III
I call myself a true Confucian while our plane with no relation to my enemies taxis by the waste sea, and filial piety descends. Apart from these remaining bullet holes, the signs of fate are ane_poemsindistinct. Visible spirits disappear down the billion bright steps to the gate and out to
chase a living in the queer guilt of California, my native place with its pelicans and old
dopers littering the beaches. Nah. I said that wrong. I’ve raced here through the superflux to join the glittering stars because my weary, awkward, preoccupied, certain father, as I feared,
has died.

IV
Ravens flopped before he knew it through the blue light of the first three worlds to bend him toward the afterlife, a black crew of princes. To the mystic circus of winds and spirits he descended, the Skeleton Man abandoning our brute creation where the dirty ground of love inheres, and famine rubs our sense. We eat ourselves. Scared and grieving, my mother’s
overthrown, shattered like an egg exactly as he left her for his iteration out of matter, the
quantum trick of tunneling or deftly reoccurring in a time, or caught in space outside the
atom of our thought.

V
Yeah, well, you, ah, know that’s just like your opinion, man, this toothless varmint tells me
on the beach. I spill the dust and ashes of corruption, weeping, and get to wish his genius would hush or channel elsewhere. He sucks his paunch in and proclaims the nature of my karma in the inessential round of birds and quadrupeds. My fame among the Mayan priests arose in seven murders, though four were undeserving. At Troy on the windy plains the
armies slaughter men and children. I rub my bluish wound and toy with remorse before my father picks me up with his philosophy and beautiful conduct.


Comments (0)Add Comment

Write comment
smaller | bigger

busy
 

Share this on your social networks

Bookmark and Share

Share this

Bookmark and Share

 

The Boards Are Back in Town

More than a century after a famed trio of Hawaiian princes first surfed in Santa Cruz, their redwood olo surfboards are returning to the Museum of Art & History

 

We Hold These Truths to Be Self-Evident

Saturday, July 4, is the 239th birthday of the United States, commemorating the signing of the Declaration of Independence (the U.S. astrology chart has Aquarius moon—freedom for its people, by its people). Cancer, a liberating and initiating sign, is the “gate” where Spirit enters matter. Cancer receives and distributes Ray 3 (Divine Intelligence) and Ray 7 (new rules, new rhythms, new free nation under God). Cancer represents an intelligent freethinking humanity that can and must create right economics for the world. This means a policy of sharing, an opportunity for the U.S. when Venus (money, resources, possessions, etc.) retrogrades July and August in Leo (the heart of the matter). The United States has a unique spiritual task for the world: to lead humanity within and toward the light, accomplished by its people who must first awaken to this task, learn discrimination and be directed by the soul to assume the Herculean task of spiritual world leadership. Let us review the first words of our Constitution: “We the People of the United States, in order to form a more perfect Union, establish justice, ensure domestic tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general welfare, and secure the blessings of liberty to ourselves and our posterity, do ordain and establish this constitution for the United States of America.” Let us form that union together. The following is a review of the spiritual tasks for each sign. Read all the signs. They all apply to everyone.  

 

The New Tech Nexus

Community leaders in science and technology unite to form web-based networking program

 

Film, Times & Events: Week of July 3

Santa Cruz area movie theaters >
Sign up for Good Times weekly newsletter
Get the latest news, events

RSS Feed Burner

 Subscribe in a reader

Latest Comments

 

Lunch is Packed

Picnic basket lunches from Your Place, plus smoked chili peppers, and new owners at Camellia Tea House

 

What would you like the Supreme Court to rule on next?

Raising the minimum wage so that those that are in poverty now can have a higher standard of life. Greanna Smith, Soquel, Nanny

 

Bruzzone Family Vineyards

Bruzzone Family Vineyards is a small operation run by Berna and John Bruzzone. Starting out a few years ago making only Chardonnay, they eventually planted Pinot Noir on their extensive property and now make this varietal as well.

 

Ty’s Eatery

Pop-up hooks up with Santa Cruz Food Lounge for healthy comfort food