Down at the waterfront’s “Naked Oyster,” the dinner hours are over. The clink of glasses at the bar can still be heard as patrons move to the small stage area and the house lights begin to dim and focus on the night’s entertainment. Over the PA system comes the singular announcement: “Ladies and Gentlemen of Benicia and the Naked Oyster, we give you long-time resident of Benicia, Peter Bray.”
Nice shirt! It looks like an explosion of whites and gray-blacks, something Jackson Pollock might have done early in his career. Pants are now dark Dockers and the shoes are trademark Florsheim Wingtip loafers with tassels, a carryover from earlier corporate days in not so far away, San Francisco.
His introduction is straightforward: “Dear all, it’s nice to have you all here tonight. Thanks for coming, you know why we’re here, some of these piece are abbreviated tonight, just to keep the show flowing,” and then he flows like the evening waters outside into his one-man show of poems and A Cappella songs:

Kite Fly

Kite fly high
and wind blow strong.
Kite fly high and take me along.

Two Right Shoes

Two right shoes,
two right shoes.
I never get the blues
from two right shoes,
I never shake hands
with my left hand,
my Daddy is a funny man.

Two left shoes,
two left shoes,
I never have to choose
with two left shoes.
I never have to pay
my union dues,
whenever I wear–
my two left shoes.

Take a family member
off to the zoo.
You can see giraffes
and the elephants too.
You can always wonder
what I’m gonna do,
whenever I wear
my two right shoes.

My Son Chris

My son Chris
is growing like a weed,
the best I can do
is to meet his need 
Built like his grandpa,
his Mom and me,
my son Chris is
good for me.

Can’t Find The Pharaoh

I once worked in a building
with the ceilings on the side
and I never saw my boss,
so I thought he mighta died.
And I never knew the reason
that I never knew his name,
I just figured he was playing in
somebody else’s game.

If you’re ever in a building
and you wonder who’s your boss,
and you’ve tried at every doorknob
and you think you’re getting lost,
just remember what I told you,
just remember what I said,
if you can’t find the Pharaoh,
then maybe the Pharaoh’s dead!

The Compost News Blues

Rockets and vessels and algae stew,
these are the things that I once drew.
Didn’t make Life, nor the cover or TIME,
but the Compost News had a cover of mine.
10,000 copies went through the mail,
a shower of glory or was it hail?
NO Golden Record upon my wall,
but the Compost News
hangs there for all.
No, I didn’t make Life,
nor the cover of TIME,
but the Compost News…
thinks I’m divine!

Buy The Farm

She won me over
with her French Fries,
her good looks and her charm,
but she never married me
to this day,
so I think I’m gonna
buy the farm, Uh-oh,
I think I’m gonna buy the farm.

You and Fyodor and Change

You and Fyodor and change
came down to my place
in the summer’s sun
and brought with you
the nighttime
in all its splendid colors.
And it pulsed me
through the evening
like some mammoth trucker’s tailgate,
hauling onions from San Josie
to the East Coast
through the night.

Bottom Back

All I want is my bottom back
said the bordello to the chief.
All I want is my bottom back
and I could get me a little relief.
Standing here on First Street
with only an upper floor,
if I could get my bottom back,
I could open my own
front door!

Colitis Blue

Prednisone Joan
on the telephone
was talking to a man named Gene,
sayin’ I’m so tired of Colitis,
I think they’re gonna
paint me green.

Gene says Green,
I know what you mean,
I’m tired of Colitis too.
All the words in my head,
all the words in my head,
all the words in my head
are under the bed,
’cause I’ve got Colitis too.
And I’m so tired of being,
I’m so tired of being,
I’m so tried of being,
Colitis Blue.

The Box Top Shop

I’m gonna open up
a Box Top Shop
and sell to all of my friends,
maybe hustle up the neighbors
for their box tops, sides, and ends.
But if I ever make it to the City Council,
I’ll have to sacrifice my seat,
’cause they can’t buy NO boxtops
from a Councilman named Pete!
It’s against the law!
It’s against the law!
Whatever you thought or saw,
it’s probably against the law!

Only at High Tide

It was something he said
as he fell from his bed,
something about only at high tide.
Something about only at high tide.
He didn’t want his best,
the ashes and all the rest,
getting stuck in the muck
of low tide,
getting stuck in the muck
of low tide.
It was something he said
as he fell from his bed,
something about only at high tide.
Something about only at high tide.

Peter Bray lives, writes, and works in Benicia
and has written this column since 2008.