The hand follows the eye

Long black hair with layered bangs
and attitude,
a tribal arm tattoo of criss-crossing curlicues
“Stop right there bird.”
, hangs on the last word.
The General leans forward.
“I asked for an eyewitness account,
not for a fucking poetic study.”
“There are some alternatives you could employ to avoid that obscenity sir!”
There is a sound of paper crinkling
that you can’t put a name to,
followed by a knock at the door.
The door creaks open,
the sidekick makes an appearance,
not before time.
“This report just came through.”
“Just give it to me in bullets.”
Points to the sender.
Points to the cc:.
The eye follows the hand.

About Brad

Braden Karl Frederiksen still has the small wooden treasure chest that his evil Grandmother gave him for his 8th Christmas. He can't recall how old he was when he locked the key inside nor how he locked it in there. He occasionally gives it a rattle and wonders what's making that other sound. View all posts by Brad

13 responses to “The hand follows the eye

  • Brad

    This piece was written not in memory but for my memory of Paul Squires. For that reason, though I must admit that I had to poke and prod my heart to fess up with an argument after the event, I chose not to post it in the Orchid Room for Paul. The characters bird and the General are my given names and are purely fictional. The origins of both can be found here in the café, and I hold both of these names dearly. The sidekick I gave to myself for dramatic effect.

    This piece marks an important point in time for me. It’s the point at which I begin to justify the life of the writing. This is the point where I say ‘these pieces are about me, these pieces are reflections of me and these pieces reflect upon me’. Like it or not, a poet is a person first and then the person is a poet. Exchange the title poet for anything you like, the circle remains complete and unquestionable. Chickens and eggs are not titles for people.

    Love always to Paul, Kiersty and Kathi for me. Comments are now open :)

  • gmc

    person: etymologically, from the etruscan “persona”, theatre mask ^^


    Poets are dead men
    Free from shadows
    Blasters of the universe
    Burning slowly in a velvet craddle
    Throwing pieces of silk
    On pure extasy skies

    Poets are dragonflies
    Born in a surfing shuffle
    That flies into tongue and language
    Merging all concepts
    In strange paradigms
    Flowing from their napalm flowers

    • Brad

      Thanks for sharing this here gmc. A beautiful poem and your etymological observation is very much appreciated. Contextually insightful and thought provoking!

  • Narnie

    When I read this yesterday, I wanted to cheer. But then, like I said to myself all day, is cheering the right thing to do? Nope. Not really. So, a time for reflection – of who made us who we are and where we go from here. But I sort of came to a conclusion that we are who made us and our judgements about other people are what have shaped us. Maybe from here on in, it is a continuance of self-preservation. Maybe that is something that we should be thankful for, for the good (and the bad) people who brush against our lives. Because that is jazz, ha!, to fall into terrible arty pompousness. And I don’t want to ever forget it. This jam, Brad, is a 3 piece which is just another intro, on a new night, I hope. Love to you too.

    • Brad

      Lots of positive thoughts to take from the day. I am thankful for all of it too. The self-preservation I think is good to a point but I’ve got a hankering to take the lid off and sprinkle the catalyst. :)

  • tipota

    “…a sound of paper crinkling that you can’t put a name to”
    that is a showstopper for me,
    beautiful and sensitive writing bird
    thank you so much

  • bindo

    Nice homage….
    It made me laugh…..

  • tipota

    krizzle, and sometimes chacha

  • Tracey

    A lovely piece Brad … on first reading it feels quite dark and moody, but as I read again there is a beautiful lightness to be found.

    Take care.

    • Brad

      Thanks Tracey. I thought of you yesterday while walking under a Jacaranda Tree. I stopped and looked up through all that purple into the blue sky with its occasional fluffy whiteness and then my thoughts turned to someone else! haha. It was a beautiful moment. Thank you for planting that little seed.

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