Mark Bradley, Songwriter & Chef
Whitman is crying.
One of his greatest and most grateful children
Beyond nihilistic smokescreens and MTV's glare
a few visionary potentials commit their lives
out this world
In only 28 pre-aneurism years, Mark had learned
bake food and cook lyrics.
But when this world refused to budge,
transform the next one.
Noin the death of the young, metaphors
never so clear
and fluke tragedies never made sensible.
should never have died,
youthful American bard to come,
this bountiful songwriter who actually lived
to his song.
Mark was Hub City's Phil Ochs
He helped lay bricks along the trail
Baldwin's fire next time,
revived Plath's most upbeat measures,
set Shakespeare's sweet bird song
upon eternity's high-tension wires.
O Cathy, though there is nothing we
and we will do it.
Death, prepare an angelic pillow for this soul
ought to be a stranger to you still.
Mark, the promise I made to Walt
his Camden grave
I make to youmy young friend, poet-brother,
extraordinaire, soul of righteousness
Down with the multinationals!
Down with their A & R robots with rusted ears!
We will make sure your
song is heard!