bill beaver


Family Day

children of all ages
wearing pastel clouds
faces papered primary colors
they start to melt
each child
squeals in delight
a dreaming puddle
occasionally a small hand
reaches out

across th way a
field of tubas
there r strolling accordions
there r tellers of tales
a performance an
ethnic dance clogging
with ferrets
clothes tied tightly
about neck wrists ankles
ferrets churning inside gives
each dancer a certain
desperation difficult
to choreograph th
other ferrets they don't
like this they don't like
this one bit they hang
from low adobe buildings
from trees they hurl insults
they hurl small sticks

& yes
I see her
gaze into her eyes
& know
    th right place for th right reasons
    standing by a fountain
    of liquid children
    two small sticks in her hair
    occasional sharp cry of pain
    from a clogger
see her
& know
    bright light on palm trees
    a blue wind
    smell of karmal korn
    frozen whispers
see her
& know
    oomph pa pa go th tubas
    a dancer does back flips
    a ferret chuckles


duct tape

is a miracle
a silver bullet
wrapped tightly
leaking pipe
fear container
duct tape will save us
clear plastic
wrap floor
semi permeable
we pass through
bacterial remembrance
humanity vested
slap it on
wrap round
ever thicker
cover dogs
walk encased
protection from
plasma states
white hot knowledge

systems failure!
sensor readings off the chart!
voices cut out
mid sentence
a bright smear
of human matter
squirted into
pink clouds
a furtive raining moment

duct tape
a few more rolls
our last & final



turned off my tv
last May
yet I hear angry jets
can't help but feel blood
oozing under my doorway
each day a spell of sharp blue metal
spike fence up into matching sky
rolls of razor wire
clank of electronic bolt
Federal Prison to see my son
a cold western wind
listen for coughing
listen to a patient's last words
hold a mirror over cold lips
mind erased stroke blank eyes
jets obstruct thought interrupt conversation
in a bar
tv is silent
is it a game or
who is winning?
what's the score?
a bunch of flashes
a promotion of movement
barking dogs & parrot heads
& whores their mouths smeared w/ oil
blood dried black under my doorstep
a new flow a new bright surge
a few flowers by a trash dry river
sated populace sleeps among neon glow covers

shieking monkey

I track blood
cross a worn wooden floor

click for larger view
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Bill Beaver
Bill Beaver lives in Tucson, AZ w/two dogs amid the ruins of a 100 year-old house. His biggest ambition in life is NOT to become a bag lady.

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