Jim Brady was a local man
His life was non-descript
He was not on local radar
In fact, he was a blip
He moved around but no-one knew
Just who Jim Brady was
they knew not where he came from
They didn't know his flaws
He worked under the table
He wasn't on the grid
But of all the money that Jim made
He gave most to his kids
He worked nights at Giannis
In the kitchen, ***** stuff
He cleaned up after closing
The work here...it was tough
But Jim, worked hard and honest
Earned his money every day
And Gianni, as a favour
Off the records he would pay
Jim Brady was a soldier
He was broken...and no good
But Gianni, saw his life light
And he did what all men should
He gave Jim work and fed him
Kept him clean and made a life
For Jim had come home injured
But it was internal strife
Jim's mind was torn and tattered
Simple thoughts could cause him pain
Jim Brady was a soldier
But would never serve again
He had trouble with his anger
He was not quite in control
But Gianni saw a soldier
Who needed help out of a hole
Gianni ran a restaurant
Been there for 30 years
He helped all those who knew him
Through the smiles and the tears
He housed the ones who needed
Just to get off of the streets
He fed the tired and hungry
And he performed other feats
Gianni was a hero
To all in this poor town
He would never turn a man away
If he knew that he was down
When Jim came in one evening
Gianni read his face
He said "Son, I'll help you"
"And you're now working in this place"
Jim lived by the water
The noises kept him calm
But on nights of wild weather
He stay at Giannis, nice and warm
Loud noises brought the nightmares
Put the pictures in his head
Of the IED explosion
And of his three companions dead
He went to get some treatment
But the VA said "You're fine"
"there's more important cases
than just you out in the line"
He was shuffled home to start again
A damaged, broken man
But with issues like poor Jim did have
He tried as one man can
His marriage broke down quickly
His wife was not to blame
But Jim came home with issues
And the **** war was to blame
He looked for help at every turn
But no-one would help out
Until he met Gianni
Jim's new hero I won't doubt
He gave him work and money
Jim then gained some self esteem
He wasn't Jim the soldier
But, you could see who he had been
His pride was back, his head was high
But still he had the dreams
There was nothing that they knew of
To alleviate the screams
But Gianni, still the hero
Thought "I know what might just work"
He introduced Jim to The Bluesman
He also has a minor quirk
The Bluesman as you seem to know
Lives out behind and plays
His music in the alley
Where he spends most of his days
Gianni helped The Bluesman
Maybe he could now help Jim
It could be The Bluesman's music
Might just be right for him
Most nights when Jim was working
He'd leave the window open some
Just to let Bluesman's music
Find the kitchen . make Jim hum
Jim liked The Bluesman's music
It painted pictures in his head
But this time they were joyful ones
Not pictures of the dead
They helped him come to terms with things
That made his life a mess
They did what others couldn't do
His problems were addressed
With Gianni and The Bluesman
Jim moved on and did quite well
Funny how a restauranteur
And music man could bring Jim back from hell.

on ruby jacobs walk, a
small girl
asked us for money for ice cream.

she eyed our cones
                                yours, lemon
                                mine, strawberry
with a child’s hunger
glinting and opportunistic
as she held out her palm for coins.

i was not yet accustomed to the shapes and sizes,
to a dime being smaller than a nickel,
and in any case wanted to preserve them for souvenirs
so we shook our heads and walked away.

a year later, writing this poem,
i learned that ruby jacobs was a local restauranteur
who, as a boy,
illegally sold ice creams
for a nickel on the boardwalk.
                                                a nickel is the larger coin
                                                the size of a ten pence piece.
                                                i know that now.

the wide atlantic rose from a sloping manicured lawn
        star-spangled,
                                like everything here,
                                                           ­     the airborne flag
                                                            ­    above a wide pavilion
                                                        ­        a fanatic wedding cake topper
                                                          ­      against the blood-blue sky.

        i slipped
out of my shoes and let
the white sand burn my feet,
and jaggedly fill the spaces between my toes.

the atlantic held open its arms
though we weren’t, as we imagined,
                looking east
                looking home
but south to new jersey, across the bay.

the gnarled boardwalk was a
song of the twentieth century
        a roll-call of mass-market capitalism
        here in the city that didn’t invent the concept
        but certainly perfected it:
                                                hot dogs
                                        amusements
         ­                       ice creams (we’ve covered that)
                        fridge magnets
                baseball caps
        i bought an espresso cup with a picture of the president
and the caption:
                         ‘huuuuge!’
i stopped to take a photograph
of a space-age building from the fifties
which turned out to be
                                        a public toilet.

later
from the sunbaked d train,
brooklyn spread out beneath us
the houses garnished with flags,
then the city coughed us up on seventh avenue
and night fell five hours early.

he arrives around 10:30am,
after the morning rushers
and multiple malingerers
have surrendered to the orange clocker's
rocket red glare stare,
that little dictator of time that
rules lands far and wide,
well before the hoped for lunch crush,
every restauranteur's faraway *******

most days, to the last counter stool,
he beelines,
the least desirable seat in all of diner-land,
adjacent to the noise of kitchen,
and its higher risk perilous,
two way swinging door "entera-ance,"
a residence to be avoided most studiously
though hardly a corner to go unnoticed,
by virtue of its iffy existence,
unless one likes the increased chance of
being a victim of a crashing accident

Mr. Condiment Man
goes in and out,
silently unremarked
in our land of spacious skies
and amber waves of plastic

customarily any "regular" is
happily accorded a
rousing Sousa welcome,
but that mistake now twice made,
a historical hurry up-to-be-please-be-forgotten incident,
the Condiment Man's invisibility
second only to the
Famous Cinema Actors
seeking breakfast
amidst the common people

no words are passed,
no pleasantries are planted,
the rule of incommunicado silence,
for both sides now,
most happily observed,
like a UN peacekeeping boundary

quick appears Cream of Tomato soup
accompanied by  ever multiplying handfuls
of packages of Nabisco crackered packets,
with a ketchup Heinz handy

a soupçon of five iodized salt shakes
into the soup interred,
released from the prototypical
stainless topped, glass shaker
whose universality of usage seems to be
a Federal law o' the land

the meal in silence arrived,
silently but oh-so-slowly-consumed,
it's extenuating circumstances
lengthily enhanced by intermittent deliveries
of additional cracking crackers,
and an unrequited, unacknowledged,
"topping off" soup refillament

this one act play presented daily,
with a free tall glass of water in red plastic
also refillable,
as needed
a play with no official ending,
no white topped, green lined,
ripped from the ubiquitous diner pad,
scribbled, billing ever presented

but the loose change precisely,
scrupulously counted then
upon the counter left,
materializes by the hands
of the Condiment Man,
which is sourced from pockets various,
in places where no pocket belongs

you can set you watch by his timed departure
at five minutes of Twelve,
he is no longer,
the play thus ended,
the audience to feet leaps
relieved and appreciative
of the quiet man's drama
and his most excellent
silent soliloquy

some strange human need satisfied,
sated, and pleased
for all parties concerned,
when the New York Times
revealed that this condo man
left a 50 million dollar estate
to Meals-on-Wheels,
here was no shocked groaning,
only some perfunctory observing
that frugality had a place,
and that this fantastick show,
now closed, would be
sorely missed,
for it had become a condiment itself
in the lives of so many

All are invited to taste-test a French meal, free-of-charge, at the
Table of near west side Chef Louis.  The first course will be a
Salade Niçoise, prepared the usual way – vegetables, salad greens
From the Periwinkle family, des oeufs durs et des olives ‒ Flavored with a pinch of myrtle.  Those so inclined may have escargots instead.  Louis will pop the cork on a vintage vin rouge.

The main course:  canard à l’orange, spécialité de la maison.  
Known far and wide as the best duck in town, it has a secret sauce
Including the bird’s bone marrow, and is a favorite of Paul Soglin;
Hizzoner has been showing up brandishing a “ditch Walker” sign.

While the cuisine is incomparable, the dinner music, too, is
Délicieuse.  In town for only a week is the diva, Renée Fleming,
Accompanied by the virtuoso cellist, Yo-Yo Ma.  To forestall the
Entry of hordes of fans, Louis will have the louvers closed.

The wait staff will be in the wings with the dessert du jour, Crêpes
Suzette – using the best Orange Curaçao ‒ before a small frigate
Is unmoored for return to the Lesser Antilles to pick up a new
Stash.  Louis is a total service restauranteur, and he has vowed to
Let all his guests take a selfie, with him, Yo-Yo and Renée, in the
Private chef’s booth, in just a glimmer of the day’s remaining light.

Though he’s unbearded, Louis uses Brilliantine regularly to help
Him attract the most voluptuous of available dates.  Mais, prenez
Garde, mes demoiselles, Louis est français, après tout….  


© Lewis Bosworth, 7-2017

I believed fortune cookie maxim
cryptic message couched
Apple Macbook Pro update process
alternately titled “markedly
a Luke warm welcome Matt unfurled
courtesy Jimmy John,
who embarked on
imp apostle bull mission
going to find Mark Twain.”  

After wracking my brain
deducing I declare what
constituted impossible mission
to delineate purpose of these words,
after initialled written
about six and a half years ago
my best hunch (backed up
while holed up in Notre Dame),
I agonizingly dutifully didst attempt
to distract anticipatory anxiety,

(analogous to an expectant father)
while delicate protracted procedure
ticked away the minutes,
where learned hands
gingerly tweezered various and sundry
state of the art electronic
components while trained fingers
instinctively, expertly, and admiringly
wrought awesome results
bitta bing bitta bang under the hood

of cherished Apple product
courtesy wizards hunkered down
troubleshooting laptop to restore functioning
of sophisticated electronic machine  
to ideal factory settings
quality control capability promised
nothing short of a miracle,
whereby engrossed deep thinkers
echoed the sound of silence
thru the corridors of time

olly olly gluten
free ranging NON GMO, oxen
oiled lubricated cloven hoof
nsync cup aided toot tune
to clacking choppers
activated after this chap
dialed up favorite technical director
using his latest smarts
vaunted from years
of breathing, eating, and living

malfunctioning circuits
housed on motherboard
exemplifying divine computer devices
generated by brain child
videre licet avast array
of embedded electronic components
back in the day
Electronic Numerical Integrator
and Computer (ENIAC),
completed in 1946

necessitated taxing physical prowess
additionally forced human interventionists
to shout over din o'er
loud grumbling within bowel
of bulky binary beast of burden
along vaguely similar scenario
buzzfeeding abdominal anatomical beast
easily appeased when yours truly
a gluttonous gourmand,
tasking me to commence upon

ordering food glorious food,
which magically and mysteriously appeared,
after manifold fiery breath
spewed by amazing dragons
**** forming breath taking
heart stopping mind bending
sensational aural and visual feast
low and behold
wresting, teasing, releasing soundcloud
an appetizer to sense
and sensibility tete a tete

while inhabiting (neigh – riding)
caparisoned painted ponies
segueing faux horse sense
(animated, captured, framed
and linkedin within carousel of time)
courtesy tony Apple iPhone X - 256 GB
Silver Verizon amazing pièce de résistance,
sans technological fetes
with CDMA/GSM ringtones,
where a pleasant fecund female

bot tilled voice didst greet
prepping, priming, promoting
Crowded House serving
blue plate special of the Green day
dis "FAKE" kin listener eagerly
awaited: salivating, simulating
****** soothing sans savory souffle,
the first culinary ******* savory dish,
after aye parked,
positioned, and plunked gluteus

near swinging doors leading into kitchen,
where this word maven strategically
dip posited said maximus to attempt
futile gastronomic endeavor
tum maximize tempering torturous tenacious
devastatingly deadly assault steaming enemy
disarmed disguised, and dismantled,
resplendent redolent redoubt
digitally remastering and remixing
non discerning indistinct aromas

emanating from naked lunch to supper esse
overwhelming paroxysms to gorge
putting a ritzy lid on heated fiery dogged
craving powder milk dog biscuits
(an impossible mission), where oozing,
licking, insinuating filaments
commingled as cutthroat
nemesis cooly whipped
devastatingly weeknd ecstasy
wickedly wafting, seducing,

satiating, and salivating
courtesy olfactory foramen,
deflecting incessant onslaughts
induced famished fellow
to reevaluate, relinquish,
and revisit his Weltanschauung soup per bowl,
while simultaneously commandeering cutlery
to attack, besiege, conquer
condemning delegate
of China ware without tea zing,

thence indiscriminately marshaling choppers
to set up base camp at Oral-B
(heeding flying pie warnings, where shewing
should desserts foe ment Hunger)
eggs sauce er baited
onslaught of herbaceous,
fabulous, delicious, and bodacious
culinary cuisine aromatic eats
thoroughly teasing growling stomach
steeping interminable suspenseful,

seven star Michelin magicians
empowered to transform most anything
(such as bilge water,
road **** or septic tank)
gourmet experienced huckster longingly *****
doubled as famished
Norwegian Bachelor farmer,
equating odoriferous garbage truck
on par suckling swollen teats
patience caved to restrain noshing

impaling his strict credo
on dustbin of his story
never again *** chew gnawing
even knuckles sandwich of fingers or toes
squishy human digits
texture of imported dates,
which hunger artist experienced pangs
voilà nothing short
of Pan's Labyrinth lesson,
did justice minimally satiated afterwards,

a restauranteur hoof hall
hues highbrow opinion,
hence a short survey about ambience,
yours truly will rate
perhaps unwise of an every
Jimmy John Joe gourmand
tubby biased after an apple ala carte blanche
preceded with delicious
hors d'oeuvre high marks
more nerve wracking
than going on a blind date.

And of course with enticing
forkful of flagrant food
Beep ping Update
completely disrupted first mouthful.