ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Brian Bruso found poetry early in life, before culinary arts consumed him. Thirty years later and poetry has rescued his soul as his physical abilities diminish. Perennially nascent observations fill Brian’s poetry with his particular voice ~ fresh, liberated & waiting to be felt.

A Eucharist Interrupted

I remember visiting a friary, 

on a Sunday, once.

The entirety of which 

basked in a bouquet 

of chicken schmaltz, comforting .

A serenity haunted the faithful 

stone floors. The walls —

tapestry draped, prudently cleansed. 

Later, a Saturday bar

mitzvah in a synagogue 

carpeted wall to wall,

industrial cobalt blue 

and king David gold killim. 

Drinking Kosher wine, barely 

fourteen, while the rabbi

nodded approvingly.  

Tipsily arrogant, 

I undertook to soloing 

sloppily through melophiles’ 

rolling eyes. Sharp baritone 

sax falling flat sight reading 

Shostakovich under unblinking

unnatural fluorescents. 

No visits to mosques,

mandirs, or Buddhist temples. 

Enlightenment would come.