[ .at.night,it.takes.us. ]

[ .at.night,it.takes.us. ]

let us see
where the night takes us
let us fall
where the night lands us
let us fly
when the night calls us
let us run
how the night lets us
let us be
what the night makes us


© Bryan McLean June 5, 2010
072/100:2

[ .the.hearts.of,man. ]

[ .the.hearts.of,man. ]

please, turn off, our trampled heart
tramp it is, the switch is easy
all in grasp, your finger-hold
the martyr, only pending
on the edge, the push-start pull cart way
you waddle concert steps
and perspiration varies
of the urban town
the drill of lye
as all will to eye-folds over
ever obsessant, incandescent
your loving lies, the landscape scrawling
out the lines of pen in distances
you only knew, you only held
in hands that have not touched
the hearts of man


© Bryan McLean June 4, 2010
071/100:2

[ .vitro,la. ]

[ .vitro,la. ]

so close to you
I could touch you
sense the heat of your breath
feel the strands of hair on your neck
touch the sweetness of your skin
push the pulse of your system
almost grasp you
almost be you
in only a moment
I'll be right there
my reflection
walled in glass


© Bryan McLean June 3, 2010
070/100:2

[ .street.psalms. ]

[ .street.psalms. ]

no man of worth
ever noted, ever awarded
the working man, his hands so scared
so fading.. as you walk his streets
his buildings, benches, plumbing, electrical..
the secret show, all for naught,
the buses, frames and folding
the scaffolding of paint and shingle
all made in his image, all made by heavy palms,
ignored by hands that hold
so very much of him,
his pride, his fumbling pay-cheques
car payments and children's clothes,
 late rent, late nights,
all ignored by your hands and feet,
his gift, their gift, to your future's future.


© Bryan McLean June 2, 2010
069/100:2

[ .made.up.for. ]

[ .made.up.for. ]

good nights are defined
by the beer you drink
the bread you eat
the company you keep
not by the day you've had
the work you do
or the disappointment
in your chest.


© Bryan McLean June 1, 2010
068/100:2

[ .parts. ]

[ .parts. ]

memories are
a white-wash
of gutter-trained love
in it's ashen hour
and your stumbling
precarious ways
are nothing
but a block
in the path
as you are hiding
all your best parts
under the eaves


© Bryan McLean May 31, 2010
067/100:2

[ .in.passing,you. ]

[ .in.passing,you. ]

on dry streets, late evening, my mouth met yours, in passing,
no words were shared, nothing to say, only in passing, my mouth met yours.


© Bryan McLean May 30, 2010
066/100:2