Bill Beaver - the-hold.com/january 2003

Dream

Someone has denounced me & I am sent to a place, some Last-Meals-R-Us. Huge steel kettles of green beans, boiled beef, corn & cole slaw. Cold windows steamed by the heat of cooking. The guards ladle out sufficient portions. For dessert a gray pill. For me & another strings have been pulled. We are to die but later revived. Dying is painful but death itself is an empty blank. POV switches from me to outside me, what in narrative theory is called "the implied author." I see myself lying in a vast room, the dead laid out on cots. We are revived, escape, but I am captured again. This time it is different, some version number 2. An old warehouse downtown where they used to feed the homeless. High concrete loading docks. Gone is the formality of a meal. Long lines of losers shuffling along to get their pill, a paper cup of water. I wonder if I will be revived again. Dying this time is painless but death is still a blank. Next to the warehouse is a parking lot that has been turned into a deep mass grave, bodies arranged neatly head to toe. An automated conveyer spreads dirt & lime then a new layer of bodies is placed down. I watch myself disappear. I do revive but I find myself in the past, in High School, moving about but still dead. Perhaps to face my accusers at the source, perhaps some vengeance. Perhaps, but also to realize that all global systems of repression are rooted in local actions; family, neighborhood, school & work. I have a need to talk. I have a need to get my story across to these people. They listen to me now. People listen to me carefully. They don't like my dead icy hands clutching their arm. They don't like it one bit ...

luminaria

on roof installing luminaria
a mighty wind sky so deep can see
stars like a well bottom like a window
into space hair blowing wild bright halo
shadow a waving nest of snakes a world
turns to stone rubbings printed sunset
reddened mountains timer is on
last flash of brightness
let the darkness enter
house blaze like a castle

Las Posadas

Dec 12 Tonantzin
risen from ashes
her aspect
Guadalupe
Goddess of the Americas
blesses us w/a pure white feather
outside Her church
1531

what is it w/these Western lands?

Dec 18 children lead us
through narrow streets
holding yucca stalks
tin foil bells
a mariachi trumpet is playing
once a lake here
now roar of freeway
across the river
they found a dwelling
6 thousand years old
bright moon luminous clouds
great fish bones
a thin thin monkey hand
many pointed crown
napols glisten green
all these children
are singing

picking up trash
gingerly plucking
sun shredded plastic
from off a cholla
I find dark rocks
heavy, iron
meteorite?
no
a lost volcano

Dec 21 I can't
beleive th human
race it's all a stupid
joke this peace this
goodwill a joke man
kind deserves what it
gets
it gets
war
disease
hunger
bones
a bony backbone
poisoned air
we r on top of Mt Wasson
in th poisoned air
& all we see
is a bony backbone
topped by towers

Dec 22 a cold rain tomorrow
north & east into th slipslide
Western winter
a cold rain it
lifts
around 4 & a
single beam
hits a sugardust
mountain

Sante Fe

slut cowgirls
down from Aspen
driving BMWs
Texas plates
say "Miss Behavior"
& "Master Chick"
smell of cunt juice
cactus candy
nipples rouged red
as chilies
turquoise inlay
surrounds their labia
come to fuck th red man
dark handsome Pueblos
Acuma, Jemez, San Ysidre
long black pony tails
soft liquid voices
looking for blond pussy
streets fill
w/ foamy cum
frozen crushed under foot
a crystal ejecta
cowgirls wear masks
tanned skins
of their ex husbands
they wear ceramic
brick
hydraulic pipe
flat rough pine
painted w/retablas
odd saints
saint of dust
of ducks
patron of itches
protector of day traders
Saint Obscurity
blessed to losers
& a church
Georgia O'Keefe's church
grown out of a dancing ground
extruded from mud
five thousand years old
five billion
church of Big Bang
church of entropical collapse
church of dark matter
body & blood
Sangria de Cristos
bright splashes
cowgirls r bleeding
their eggs rejected
no progeny
no kings or queens
this land is barren
but th sun it returns
it always does ...

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John Wayne's Teeth

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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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