the I in team

by Eirean Bradley

Publication Date: January 2012
Trade Paper; 104 pages; 5-1/4″ x 8″
ISBN 978-1-938753-02-2

About the I in team

the I in team is Eirean Bradley’s first, long overdue, book. His poetry is brilliant, bawdy, bold, and biting, and also accurate about the state of man and the human condition. Bradley’s work reads like a personal tour journal; documenting moments in his life while on the road, in relationships, at menial jobs, observing death, and tolerating roommates and myriad everyday characters he encounters. His writing is funny and honest, brutal and irreverent. Bradley’s book will entertain you, and make you think.

Selections from the I in team

my 17-year-old self gives you advice on how to deal with
your conservative hometown

my 17-year-old self gives you advice on how to deal with
your conservative hometown

get gone.

brush the ash off your shoulders and go.
avoid your rearview mirror as much as possible.
when changing lanes,
immediately lick your arms to check for salt content.

you are escaping.
nostalgia is for prisoners; act like you know this.

they are waiting for you, brave pilgrim.
the city arches will bend their granite shoulders for you.
the public cafes will weep in joy at your arrival.

the citizens will put their manicured hands on your frail
shoulders, and show you how wildly deficient your previous
definition of green was.

open your eyes slowly upon arrival.
you are now standing in the sun.

helpful travel hints from the questionable pilgrim #4

helpful travel hints from the questionable pilgrim #4

seattle, washington
living here is like sex with my ex-girlfriend:
damp and way too fucking expensive.

helpful travel hints from the questionable pilgrim #8

helpful travel hints from the questionable pilgrim #8

des moines, iowa
every time you say the word “des moines” out loud
god punches a puppy in the face.

to the incredibly ugly couple going at it on a park bench
in downtown portland at 2:30pm on a tuesday

to the incredibly ugly couple going at it on a park bench
in downtown portland at 2:30pm on a tuesday

I gotta admit,
my first reaction was not favorable.

not so much disgust or displeasure as it was concern.
for all of humanity!

I thought I was witnessing the nascent hatchling of the
zombie apocalypse.

because, dude, you were seriously eating her face.

seriously.

like her tongue was the last tootsie roll left alive in broccoli
land.

you were so far down her throat you could taste pancreas.

like your mouths were characters in a 1970’s kung fu flick,
and her tongue had just killed your tongue’s master.

seeing this in a public park in broad honest daylight, you
gotta forgive me for being concerned for her until,

I saw her hands like little pockmarked squidlets attached to
the fleshy tree stumps of her arms and they weren’t fighting
you, they were pulling you closer.

and what may have been her hips grinding into the syphilitic
glob of your torso with a ferocity that made me wonder what
hideous atrocities that park bench must have committed in a
previous life.

even the dandelions 30 feet away were in danger
of getting pregnant.

after surmising that I was not going to have to puncture
your skull with rusty pieces of playground swing set, there
are two distinct things that need to be said about this exact
moment:

1) you two are easily the most foul landbeasts I have ever
seen possibly fuck in a public place. I say “possibly”
because my mind is having issues deciphering the angry
geometry of your bodies and figuring out if that is her elbow
or an angry, angry nipple.

2) shine on you butt ugly diamonds!

unfurl the glorious wrong of your bodies
like sweat-stained battle flags,

make your passion a lumpy billboard,
make sure we see it all.

every lazy eye.
every funky tooth.
every cleft lip.

fuck like it’s a war.

like it’s your love against everyone who ever made you feel
like your body was unworthy of it.

like it’s good versus evil.
like it’s right versus wrong.
like it’s shirts versus skins.
you two, please be shirts.

no, fuck it. turn your love into a fleshy pimple-ridden
nuclear warhead and aim it at everyone who ever told you
love was only for the beautiful.

fuck at us.

I want to see you burst through the studio doors of america’s
next top model like a full coital tsunami, a mass of knees,
midriff, and, “dear god, what the hell is that?”

I want you to fuck tyra banks in half.

and silence the aesthetically pleasing oppressors of your
love with a mighty pelvic thrust that will level entire city
blocks.

use kate moss as a strap-on so we can see the depth of your
love.

be in love.
have children.

they will undoubtedly look like shit,
but you will love them anyway.

hold your chin up proudly.
then hold your second and third chins up the same way.

make sure we see it all,
and maybe we’ll notice your hands
and how full they can be.

 

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