What Wing Biddlebaum Knew

I always notice a persons hands.

They are not the most obvious thing,

but they tell far more than the face or eyes.


You cannot hide a lifetime of work

in cragged, sinewy hands that bear

a resemblance to the claws


of some terrible lizard; soft, callous free

hands tell their story just as clearly.

Hands of privilege and work


wear no masks, they are afforded none.

They wear ease and hardship in even strokes.

Be weary of anyone unwilling to shake hands.

In No Sense.

Past Life Marathon

Peace/Piece

Are you searching for 

peace of mind

or

piece of mind?


There is a big 

difference

between 

the two.

Take this advice

You know what you need to do
yet, you always find a way 
to undo your work.

Motion is not perpetual, neither
is willpower. It must constantly
be reforged.

Remind yourself of this: there
is constant struggle in the soul,
it suffers self-inflicted stings  

for trespasses others have no
understanding of having 
committed. 

Compassion and Kindness 
are your strengths. Give some
to yourself time to time.

Let the inner gaze find the clouded
mirror. Clean it. See things 
as they truly are.

Rely on your strength, reinforce it
with that of those around you.
No solider fights alone.

Lose your desperate pose, 
remove the poison from your blood-
WORK, WORK, WORK.

Collective Truth

Broken Gauge In A Gas Crisis

He was pining for something that didn't exist.
In all likelihood, it was something that had never existed.
This was both comfort and pain.
Intangible constructs, memory, longing,
the sources of so much anguish,
the heart of so much Art,
part of the condition borne by simply being.
The sun barreling through your window,
forcing a squint,
your eyes adjusting to radiant force.
Sound strains over echoes of empty streets.
Has he missed the boat on Love, normalcy,
sanity? Faces so happy to proselytize the good life
while offering you none in return.
Oh, how he wished he were beautiful,
how he wished he could sing with a voice
fit for a choir of angels.
How he wishes each word he wrote
could live a life immortal from his own.
He pined for the absence of absence,
a needful togetherness, a touch that is inimitable,
a kiss that is connectable, a love that is infallible.
Instead, the fretted typing of a fundamental lack,
that which pains and propels. Such fuel is of indeterminate
sustenance. One thing is sure, it is bound to run out.
The gauge is broken, only the sputtering sounds
of a run down engine will let us know for sure.
 

Messy Piles of Words Grasping for You

It is frozen in mid-gallop
through unnamed plains.

Memory is a half-remembered jaunt through a blurry field.

Only so much I can do right now
without you here.

I don't have any use for all this wakefulness.

Turn off the faucet
the plumbing is plugged
and the water is spilling
onto the floor
who is going to clean up
this mess? who did this
in the first place?

Hope for the metaphysical,
accept the typical.

She wondered what happened to God,
how fervent her prayers once were.
Now, she hardly even remembered
him. He is lucky if she thanks Him
once a week for anything. Their
relationship has changed and He
has done nothing to fix it.

In the absence of Love
we will great Violence
against those who spurn us.

Jesus had a day job.

Fragmentation as narrative Representation.

How can you read a novel when every other chapter is missing?

Finnegan is still traveling along
a circular path of time and existence.
Why should it be any different?

I cannot think
ICANNOTTHINK
I can wonder
BUT
ICANNOTTHINK
this is no fault of yours
of mine alone.

Why? Right.

We are only as close
or as distant as we allow
ourselves to be.

No great story begins

"I woke up early on a Saturday morning
at a time I would normally be asleep. I saw
the time and respected the choice of my 
circadian rhythm. The air felt chillier
than it usually does. Fall was encroaching.
People said it was fall, though, the wavering
heat seemed to say otherwise. It is supposed
to be in the mid-80's today. That is hot for 
this time of year. Has fall forgotten itself?
Has it decided to try something new? I think
it picked a bad time to experiment. 
I am by myself. I have grown used to this.
I spend more time alone than you would 
suspect. Solitude is familiarity, is peace,
is a madness I cannot part with."

Love doesn't solve anything.

wreckage

wreckage of a decade 
sorts itself 
into half-remembered nights,
bleary-eyed interstate drives
and moments too awkward 
to have lived through.

photos smear at the edges
as the scene inside is slightly
out of focus again. you make
a narrative from the pile
that you are sure is close
to how things were. 

words seek comfort from 
one another, hoping to bridge
the chasm they have made.
each word reinforces what is, 
what has dissipated. read
the page. another sunken ship.

Palette Run Together

It was a mistake
that kept happening
over and over.

No use regurgitating
myth as metaphor
for explanation.

Are we more safe
now seeing through
all windows?

How calm horses
are with blinders
to guide them.

How much sight
is too much?
How much sight

is too little? We
forgot the comma
in the sentence.

Ceaseless blur-
allourthoughts
bleedingtogether

Just Stay

Just stay
can't stand this
without you
what do I become

Just stay
wet cheeks
drying soon
just say....

I will stay
here with you

Breaking promises
changing plans
Will you,
can you?

Just stay 
Just say
what I want 
to hear

I will stay
here with you

Money In The Garden

1.)You wake with aching teeth
and a mind too busy to stay asleep.

2.)Sun rise, moon set

3.)What world do you carry within?

4.)Paper Crane


5.)
Wake Up
Get Out
Move 'round.
Like this
Like This

Wake Up
Get Out
Move 'round
Like this
Like this

6.) Politics is a waste of mind.

I AM NOT THE ONE YOU LOVE

Tourist

I have been traveling through time 
for as long as I can remember.

People never believe me when I tell
them, nor should they. There are

enough crackpots out there as it is.
When asked to prove it, I can't

will it to happen. When it does, 
I become unstuck as easily 

as closing and opening your eyes. 
I used to think they were dreams. 

Entering other ages I can watch 
and be watched, like viewing 

the set of an historical period piece. 
Returning to the present feels 

as though a great distance has been 
crossed.I understand neither the how 

or why. If there is a reason, I'm not 
sure I could understand or would want to.

Who Are You Talking To?

I can see you mouthing the words right now.


Don't blush,


we all do it.


Be careful,


they might hear you in the other room


and wonder who you're talking to.

Letter

Dear You,

I decided to write a letter because it seems like quite
the anachronistic thing to do these days. It must have

been utterly barbaric trying to communicate with one
another over long distances back when. I had to find

a piece of blank paper that I felt would do an adequate
job, and a pen that whose ink wouldn't smear all over

the page if my hands touched it. I still need to find an
envelope and some stamps; writing this is the bigger

task at hand at the moment. I can't imagine it was easy
to erase ink if you made a mistake, perhaps they would

just mail the letter off like that anyway. I have seen
those documentaries on the American Civil War

where they have actors read dramatic interpretations
of letters soldiers would write home. Did people

really write and talk like that? I suppose they did.
How did they understand what the letters were

saying? Some of that handwriting looked so elaborate.
Maybe they used some sort of interpreter. I couldn't

write or speak like that if my life depended on it.
I don't really expect you to write back, though,

it would be great if you did. I hope your family
is doing alright. I've missed having you around.

What a silly exercise this has been. To think,
people used to do this all the time.

Sincerely,
________________

transitions

perpetual

eventual

inevitable

what is

was

wasn't

to be

you are

I am

ticking

tocking

dripping

slowly 

rushing out

all at once

behind us

history writ

forgot

every word

ready

to be taken

peddle expectation

defy demand

await crucifixion 

storm over 

the ocean

more drops

of water

she hardly

notices.

Divination

Speak like the Ocean,
in tomes of foam 
gathering on the shore.

Words are bubbles bursting
as air becomes meaning
and language is rewritten.

The pier marks a permanent
page, a line tattooed 
inside your pale arm.

Divine meaning, read 
the signs. Lines criss 
cross your palm.

Speak with your hands.
What have they to say
of what is yet to be?

Late Night Transport

400 trees fell to the passing

of interstellar transport

through the heart of the city.


Helicopters whirr over the sleepless

city. Black pacific breathes

in slow tones.


No footsteps in the hall

as the pillow dreams of the head

waiting to rest upon it once more.

Politics is a cancer upon 

the body of Reason.

Cellophane

Your cellophane heart cannot hide

its desires.

It beats and yearns

for the sky 

it wishes to kiss.

Remains

Curved and pointed black iron fences

the parking lot of Christ's church.


Light guards spaces of an absent

congregation. The cross stands


watch as it hangs against the wall.

The parochial school across


the street is guarded in a mirrored

way. An old woman walks her dog


past the statue of a Spanish friar.

We notice each other as I drive by.


Three trees shelter one side

of the church. One of them bears


the initials of five young boys.

The church sits silent late at night,


the praises of holy names live only

on the tongues of sleeping parishioners.

Silence

You go to where Silence lives,

She is waiting, she can love you.


You go to where Silence lives,

She knows how long you've waited.


Midnight flowing through her windows,

No more waiting.


Silence, only this,

Silence, only us,

Silence, no more.

Alarmed and Dangerous

photocopies

We were LOUD and DRUNK

and talking in the kitchen in the way that

LOUD DRUNK people do.


Your voice carried OVER the DIN

of VOICES  CLAMBERING

over each OTHER.


You HIT me

in the center of my CHEST

and I fell BACK from you.


You were ALWAYS

TOO cute for your own

GOOD, so I did


NOTHING. I dreamt about

your EARTHLY attributes

and let you BECOME


a memory PHOTOCOPIED

over and over AGAIN

until the IMAGE


has BECOME

a BLURRED and

UNRECOGNIZABLE mess.

Swan

The swan has died

dry your tears

the swan has died

bring me near

the swan has died

all pain lives in fear

A series of random lines upon waking

We could dream forever
but how would we live in the real world?

Does this night bother you?

Venus- how you triumph over me.

No more always.

Wondering can lead to knowledge but shouldn't be confused with.

All our nightmares are the ghosts of what we wish to forget.

My past lives are catching up with me.

I can't begin to breath

What do I remember? I remember
nothing but this something
I can't define.

I can hear the stillness of the morning
and the distant voices of the city.

inconsistent analogy.

typing and hoping to make sense,
hoping to make a narrative from the fragmented
bits appearing in no manner of logic,
no manner of reason or rhyme.

I wake to find your words waiting for my eyes.

Alone? Better to embrace solitude
than years of failed company.

Words are the skeletal system keeping
my body in form.

The tree cannot live without its roots.

You should ask the mirror to stop talking,

it's very distracting.

Warren Paice