Words by Bill


I have run through fields of fire just to feel pain, to feel something.  In the valley of the new dawn, I saw I was the mountain I was climbing.  On a peak high above the snowline, I left behind my dreams, their unaccomplishable aims.  Alone I kissed my own hand, tightened up my boots and climbed on, through that inner storm, that made me more human, fallible, less inspired by the young as a promise yet to come.  And I still haven’t found what I’m looking for but I’ve stopped banging on empty doors.     The threat of being alone is as vacuous as an opened palm.  We are all bouncing around inside our own skin, clinging to illusions of transmission, placing blame where there is none, inventing heaven to ease us on, past the latest breath’s pain and our failed schemes.  There is nothing so delusive as an accomplished plan.  (From Poems 2005)


“Happiness is not some temporary relief of the tension of felt biological needs.  My life is not simply a reaction to authority or thwarted sexuality.  My soul existed long before and will endure long after the orgasm that reduces my body to jellied protoplasm!  There are dreams that have yet to be born in my imagination that will rock the foundations of this planet!”

DUMPSTER CLOTHES  from “Absolutely Gratuitious

The dumpsters have all been full to overflowing with the waste of the arriving affuluent.  Anything a person needs is thrown in them, not just food.  He’s ceased doing laundry because so many wearable, clean clothes are thrown into the Salvation Army dumpster.  He picks them out clean and discards them dirty, enjoying the constant variety!  So what if ninety percent of the world’s resources are consumed by ten percent of the world’s population.  That consumption isn’t going to slow because he lives off what people pitch.  There is something cushy and easy for him in living off the excess of an expanding enconomy.  So old lumber violates construction codes, preventing remodeling, and old houses are condemned.   He has faith in some unseen economic balancing beam breaking the beak of this monstrous economic kestrel.  Already recycling has become faddish.  Wasting resources will cease when growing scarcity highlights its absurdity.  He justifies his laissez faire attitude toward development and consumption by his belief in an inherent corrective in the market itself.  The growth will stop when the public stops buying so much shit.  A half million dollar house must eventually be recognized as the white elephant it is.  Until then, there’s no stopping the lemmings.  And a concentration of population leads to an increase, improvement in public services.


By the spirit of my ancestors, I must stop dragging my hurt around; I need not incessantly ache for some new take, impact, new truth, that guides a foolproof act.  I cannot distill ideologically open-air relief  from freedom’s despair, thereby winning an inner peace and mental rest.  The release of prayer can come anywhere, working its magic on my mettle, filling holes in my soul with the purity of words of power that will make peace of my pain, wash all my critics down the mental drains and let the world return.  I must not turn outward seeking admirers who only feed fiercely my ego’s fires, consummating only their own hero worshipping desires.  Their alleluias ring echoing praises only of their doing, are driven into a frenzied encore as an answer to their own lust to outstrip their dust in an ensnarling, shared glory and power; like ticks bloated on their host’s blood, they desiccate their hero’s deeds, demand more, find other heroes, leave their looted heroes struggling with their abandonment.  The idiocy of fame that dances like a flame through a tree’s limbs, taking its life and moving on to consecrate new forests to oblivion!  The fire must be put out by a planned neglect of what others claim, attach to my name, tout as the fairest in the land.


Horses stampeding before the storm,enthusiasm poised on the diving board, energy collecting in circumspecting, sunlight rainbowed in mists, light’s points and counter-points, dancing.       It’s the endlessness of sensations I hold dear.  I smile as my death draws ever nearer, even as new babies appear.  The Beauty of Love’s ambiguity finally made clear.  It has no season, no age, no reason.  It is not a stumbling in its own homemade prison; here now, yet forever leaving.     He loves me; he loves me not.  My life is over; my life has a new plot.  He leaves greened from last year’s rot; the heart is an ever-wandering slut.     Living recoils at toil; love is not a possession won by war of wills.  My loves take root as natural as elm seed whirly-copters landing in my garden, effortlessly, and are as easily uprooted, leaving no ghost to taunt me as some insensitive beast.  It is nature’s plan that some sprouted seeds choke out the life of others, grow strong on the humused bodies of kin.  My heart can be closed off by something in me too obsessed:  a fixation on loving someone as a settling of all love issues.     Such cultural neurosis encrusts love with a lethal mildew:  “There must be a special someone”.  Yet a permanence in emotion is not natural.  I slowly exorcise that demon from my dream of love, cease taking shortcuts, holding back, hoping for the pure, spin away from my own delusions of significance, gathering momentum by the hour.     Wherever our hearts lead, we must follow; love’s flow will swallow yesterday’s betrayal in its undertow, mellow the meanness of partings.  The confusion/hurt will be redirected by love’s lodestone; giving the ability to look past what we’ve known to new beginnings, the broken “NO MORE!”  In the pure push to love everything is moved.  Love’s beauty is as startling as the white butterfly on a purple lilac bloom, the downy baby sparrow nestled in corn pollen–a right thing that does not raise suspicions.     At some point survival must be shelved, shoved out of the mind as the be-all-end-all and falling in love heralded not as a painful incident but an absolute, happy necessity calling an eternality into feeling.   Raven, Freddy, Dimitri, Ocean, Sean, it’s happened again.  A calm deep river of caring courses within, washes away the anxiety of future pain, erases any reservations that remain, rewires my brain.  I love you—by the way, I smoke a bowl of pot every day.

Bill's notebooks and old Laptop

%d bloggers like this: