S.B.T. 292

one old year frightful as ice road trucking and tonight kneeling, a soundless corner in the dark anteroom she gathers from memory roses budding and leaves falling and roses budding

in a goodbye bouquet ax scented with pine and eucalyptus. the sheet rock is chipped, a foot square round hole in the wall clear through to the next room from which dust blows and circles over her bowed head. am i praying she wondered distracted by winging banners of three airplanes caboosed outside the window overhead lit up with red and white and what words they spell and what it said raggedly and waving in flowing ribbons. a message she thought and smiled at how much work there is, for no more like this again but

quiet quiet now as an outstretched arm emerges n beckons 'come forward' draped with shadowy folds of fabric a loose embrace bell sleeve and the sound of silver bracelets jingling and trembling a heartbeat seems remote but deafening. 'good bye' she said, 'old year in time'

S.B.T. 291

Thank you very much

Y

S.B.T. 290

low yo yo stuff

a gesture

dropt in cool water

the orbit salute of

wheeling atoms

sighing space between them

how infinite pause

they know it is

fingers curl round

a tin cup and handle

the invisible net drop s

we may be caught...

for one moment, almost

shifting backwards,

dueling thru a tunnel

the asphalt seems familiar

peeling random grit and funk

there is a light at the end

a lost intuition

of generosity

S.B.T. 289

in stormy weather

the boat leans heavy

on her keel

her long and weary timbers touch

one wish

with worthy second thoughts

for foghorn wails and sailors knots!

i tremble at the wheel

when shrouds of mist are left suspended

in trust of the sun,

magnanimous ball,

to burn its incorruptible

splendid

and let the rose and compass fall

when warming rueful ruddy rocks

succeed in breaking through,

one lonely step on sand is sacred

one grain of dirt is chiseled true

while all hands on the deck arena

dance to a candlelit concertina

those calloused fingers torn on rope,

still squeeze the bellows n shape the wind

as fierce waves somewhere still may crest

from under earths eternal spin

S.B.T. 288

help wanted

responsibility

includes but is not limited

to

(that which seems uncomfortable' i thought scanning the column

and then further)

• ....the invaluable whateveritis that we do

join a trusted

connecting community that expects to

• improve peoples lives

• declare 'we r a landmark'

• have 50 ways to say the same thing

.....................

it could be huge and there would be no turning back

i dare say,

but, pause for a moment and let me tell u about a product i truly adore. wired ribbon, three inch wide, diaphanous. the sculptability of it is wonderful, it is infinitely playful. and the cats love it too. i used it once to decorate a shrine to lakshmi, formed to unfurl in ringlets falling from the sides. jasmine rose is her favorite color. this one had a rounded gold-flecked edge as well as the select hue. it has been shaped and reshaped often and rarely ever cut, i guess about seven yards of it still long enough to respool just like new. i have had it for three years and it comes in a variety of tone. wired ribbon, three inch wide, good, lasts forever

ok

during interviews when i speak aloud my collar flashes

aflame, fire that covers my ears - just not real fire

but so what. it could be.

tho it isnt. nonetheless it is curling around my throat when to the left a venetian flock of birds lets loose

sprinkled in delicate lines across the silver churl of clouds smoothing the horizon, like fairy dust expelled from a magic trumpet their flight path forms a curve, a g cleff, five lines four spaces curled like a ribbon bebopping w/ mouse's ear on-a-stick notation and fingerflags waving there in the blue sublimity and instantly i am transported from the window to the top of a faraway hill where it dissolves in the sky over view

banking on it, sound parody

S.B.T. 287

a little too late

always just a little too late, it seems. i mean in getting the point or reaching outside the stall for tissue or something. wonder if jonas salk ever thought that he had to invent a vaccine because it was already too late. invention is the mother of intention, or what was that? neccessity, a perky pinkyfinger word. the mother of invention. and thus i cant helpbutt recall the impact of frank zappa. cover that girl with chocolate syrup and love her till the cows come home

"up against the wall!"

huh ?

"I said, Up Against the Wall, hands flat in front of you"

but dont worry it turns out to be a comedian in uniform, doing this laughing cop shtick.

thats just a water pistol, and ha ha, it's fluorescent purple. wish i'd taken fuller note of that before but the excuse is that it was dark in the alleyway

at any rate, he got me

and i got him

fzzz-pishshshsh splat

just a little too late

S.B.T. 286

there is only one and there will always be only one paul squires.

gingatao

there was so much he had to give, and give he did.

he always had a handful of something

jewelled intuitions and memory pearls and ribbons of rainbows

and with the smooth pebbles rumbling in his pocket

you could hear him coming from a distance

one must come to terms with any profound and monumental loss. this one is really gonna take some time

i remember him especially on his birthday, a day, nov 19, which from now on will be featured in my calendar as paul squires day. an international holiday written in bright green. no one works on this day and yet everyone gets paid.

but mostly, i came here to remember that what he gave to me was a wonderful world, full of color and music, people and ideas and creative genius. and here is louis armstrong to sing about it.

dedicated to paul, a great writer and friend, and a gentleman i shall never forget

and to all of the people he loved and who loved him