A name... my name... called at once, distant and far away and as near as my shoulder. It is not a siren's call, not the voice of some disembodied far away apparition. But, heard in the whirring of the fan overhead, in the electric hum of phone lines and airplanes, in the rustle of papers blown by the wind, in the busy cacophony of passing vehicles in the street, it is your voice.

I turn half expecting to see you-- casual, comfortable, smiling-- perhaps, laughing lightly, mocking my seriousness. You used to laugh at my seriousness, but only lightly and with love. I turn and you are not there. No one is there-- Not a shadow of someone disappearing around the next corner, Not a mistaken stranger or some other friend. No one is there.

I find that I often think of you. It is because I am alone that I think of you. It is because I am in company that I think of you. It is because I am happy that I think of you. It is because I am sad that I think of you, what you would say, what you would do, what you were-- forever now a part of what I am, haunting my solitude and my pleasure. You live in me, a memory of friend, and somewhere in the world or the universe or the body of God, perhaps, I am as much a part of you.

(Written July 19, 1999)

AngelPie_Mouse (J.B) © Copyright, 1999; All Rights Reserved

Flowers on the water. Roses and carnations wilting in the sun and brine, Tumbled and torn by the surf, Lapping upon the sand then cast back again In mockery of such false displays. They are gifts to satiate an absent deity, Offerings to our supposed loss Little sacrifices, comforting no one.

Candles on the water. Sodden lanterns set adrift, Tokens of bereavement, Glittering icons meant to satisfy who? Surely their brief light guides no soul on its journey And the sea takes no care of such treasures-- Neither on the surface of its swells; Nor on its margins.

The legacy wore unevenly on his shoulders. He was neither prince nor statesman Though others would have raised him so On the pedestal of his father. It was a long shadow and a tower too high For us to recognize his reality, who he was. He was just a man, Daring more than some, paying the price.

I will not deify him, call him martyr. I will not go to the sea which shrouds him now, Neither will I anguish over a loss that is not mine. I did not know him, except... As an echo of the past in a photo opportunity. Important only to the curious few; Important only now that he is gone, And only until the next supposed hero is taken.

I pray now for his soul As much as for the girl found in the alley. Homeless, clubbed over the head And set ablaze while she was still alive. They do not know her name. They do not know if she was fourteen or forty. She was stranger to me also And as much my kin.

What right a benevolent deity? But it really isn't God who is absent. It is our sense of proportion and purpose: That we do not take better care of the living, That we do not dare more for ourselves. How much cheaper the cost of flowers and candles, How inexpensive the spectacle of grief, Than to erase the needhaving you.

(Written July 21, 1999)

AngelPie_Mouse (J.B) © Copyright, 1999; All Rights Reserved

becalmed and yet restless I stand at the open window my arms folded and leaning upon the ledge the night hangs heavy with the hint of rain and the promise of wind but there is no breeze and no rain and darkness closes forming an envelope as tight as the air and unbreathable

I push my face forward the tang of the metal window screen fills my nostrils I taste its oxidation on my tongue it is in my lungs and saturates my skin and touches me like a hand touching me

somewhere in the night I imagine that you similarly stand near an open window I almost sense you there as the darkness becomes your aura behind me, surrounding me and the air becomes your hands brushing my cheek

we are slow now, we wait when the rain comes when the rain finally comes we will surrender to its torrent its dispassion only in proportion opposite to our thirst, our hunger and equally unrelenting

and when the rain slackens when it has spent its energy and I find myself standing alone at the open window I will be left wondering if we will ever speak of the coincidence of our dreams

(written August 10, 1999)

AngelPie_Mouse (J.B) © Copyright, 1999; All Rights Reserved

In the morning, she walks from her door to the sacred river to bathe, where the cattle are watering, where the flush toilets of the Europeans empty to mingle with the run-off from the factories up river, where the ashes of the dead have been thrown. The water treatment center also up river sits quiet, unused, amid bureaucratic red tape. Who should be allowed to work there?

It is a matter of tradition. She is untouchable, her parents were untouchable, and their parents and theirs and theirs and... Does anyone remember why? By official decree, the government made it illegal to discriminate, illegal to name some "untouchable." Though the practice persists. It is also a matter of convenience.

She dresses for her work, a plain unadorned garment of traditional design. She braids her hair, saying her morning prayer: "Let not my children follow me to this labor. Spirit of the world, let them find other work, other means to feed their children." Then she leaves her house, travelling down the road her neighbors use also walking with her neighbors into the city to go to their jobs serving those not untouchable.

They pass an enclave of those not untouchable. Unemployed, they sit on their porches in the shade, watching the untouchables pass. The untouchables are required to remove their shoes to walk barefoot in the dust past these houses. If they challenge this rule, they will be beaten by the gangs of the not untouchable, who have no other occupation. Only the morning and evening parade of the untouchables gives their lives dignity.

In the heart of the city, she begins her work. The work her parents fulfilled and their parents. It is the only work she permitted to have. If she does not do this job, she will be allowed no other. Her children will go hungry and without medicine. She works for the city, for the government. So she cleans the pit toilets used by the non-untouchable. Scraping the excrement into honey pots to be hauled away to be dumped in the sacred river.

And the gleaming concrete and steel of the water and sewage treatment center remains quiet and unused. A model of modern convenience and environmental efficiency technologically beyond tradition and already obsolete. No one can decide who should work there.

AngelPie_Mouse (J.B) © Copyright, 1999; All Rights Reserved

The old women sit with their ankles crossed and they fan themselves with silk fans with white silk fans with roses painted on them that came from China by way of the 5 and dime. They sit on porch swings and fan themselves. And they lean a little into them as if searching for a promised breeze And the swings creak and the warped boards of the wooden porches painted blue-grey over the cracks groan like old bones. And the fans move to and fro, to and fro and back, and the women rock front and back, front and back and there is music.

And the old men sit in the shadows feet apart with their elbows on their knees backs bent and leaning forward shirts wet and open and rimed with salt. They've given up looking for a breeze. They aint looking for anything but peace and who won the ballgame. And the old radio sitting on the windowsill facing out so you can turn the knobs. And they turn the knob up and down searching for the station between the crackle of static and the boom of rock and roll they turn the knob back and forth and there is music.

Down the street on someone's abandoned front lawn the children play "spy-tag" with a searchlight down on Main Street the big searchlight in front of the auto dealership which sweeps the night sky saying "come to me." But the children don't come. They run back and forth, pushing at each other frantically until the light is almost just overhead and someone shouts: "hit the deck!" and everyone shrieks and falls flat in the grass until the light has passed over and they jump up and start again and there is music.

And the crickets in the tall grass, and the flutter of moths battering themselves on porch lights and the slap of a mosquito and a dog barking and a baby crying and the crackle of ice in a tall drink and a tick of a clock-- the unhurried herald of time passing-- a day gone a moment frozen beyond the melting of the Summer sun and there is music.

(August 24, 1999)

AngelPie_Mouse (J.B) © Copyright, 1999; All Rights Reserved

Lying on my back, I extend one small foot toward the ceiling. It looks quite small. I examine its dimensions along the long graceful length of leg. The ankle fine and thin and firm. The toes symmetrical and straight. Small toes, maybe a little too small. They could be longer. The arch of the foot curves slightly to point the toes. The whole effect is quite elegant. I approve. I like my foot.

A smooth sweep of flesh sliding over muscle and bone describes my calf. When I arch my foot like that, the muscle tightens; the whole becomes hard as concrete. I have pillars of granite for legs, finely chiseled, a marvel of the sculptor's art. Every woman should have legs like mine. Tight hips and firm buttocks. I wiggle a little on the bed to get a better sense of how saucy the roll of my hips can be though, of course, I would never do that in public. Well, maybe never. I approve. I have terrific legs.

The mound of my belly is more a flat table. It hardly curves at all until you get to the navel. Running my hand over its contour, I can feel it shallow below my ribs. It is flat and firm and ready. Not exactly abs of steel like on the infomercial, but Botticelli would have found me a poor model, and Reuben would not have looked at me at all. I am just too thin for their lush extravagance although maybe I could lose a couple more pounds. But notice, here, where my rib cage lifts and here, the small firm breasts, though not too small. They seem to me to be of perfect proportion that is: they would if I were the type to notice these things. Some one should paint my body, immortalize its curves in oil and canvas or perhaps sculpt my likeness in marble. Venus Adonis at Dawn. I have a very good body. I approve.

And these arms, my hands. I do not require the false spikes of long nails to embellish their perfection, not manicures and red polishes to disguise them nor any other decoration. They are hands, more beautiful for their simplicity. Small and strong, ready for the labor before them. I would not want my fingers to be longer. They are delicate enough yet very capable. And the wrists, the elbows... I have good elbows. There is the scare there on the left one where I feel off my bicycle, but it is small and no one ever notices. I flex my arms there is good solid muscle under this flesh. Not garish, not over developed. I don't have the muscles of a man. But good solid arms to hold one. I approve.

You may wonder at me making this Narcissistic journey of exploration. I really don't need a reality check to inform me that not all eyes would find beauty here. But this is my temple built of God and grace hardened by storm, if a little weathered at the corners And yes, I owe more to DNA than to self-construction but since I live here, I have a right to approve of the place.

(August 26, 1999)

AngelPie_Mouse (J.B) © Copyright, 1999; All Rights Reserved

Arc of sunlight drawn, bridging present dawn with past; I trod more lightly.

AngelPie_Mouse (J.B) © Copyright, 1999; All Rights Reserved

I trod a shining path, as black as raven wing and with its sheen, which stretches out in clean lines, a radius toward the center and with greater darkness on either side. I walk neither with dread, nor with any quick desire, but with measured, heavy step somewhere between. My feet are not mired, and yet they are not free to move lightly. They merely move me forward toward my destination, which I have no care to achieve, which I have no want to turn away from.

Before me, a tower-- white and monolithic in grandeur, simple and without seam, a single obelisk pointing to the sky. It seems to lean over toward me and bend away, both at once, and yet remain as hard and unfeeling as stone. Round its top circle white birds. Circling in silence and unbent wing, they seem unnatural feathered creatures. They make no sound, but circle so as if waiting for my company.

What sound there is comes from chimes upon the wind, the sound of frozen glass striking similar object, and also from the wind itself, though it ruffles not my hair neither does it brush my cheek, but crying out, seems to pass without troubling anything at all. And too, there is the sound of my own footsteps and the beating of my heart, which seems to thunder, louder and more loud as if this walking were more a matter of soul's dread than of footfalls.

Forward I go and on. Never seeming to reach my goal. I sense voices whispering somewhere near my ear and yet far removed from me. Not a voice, but a thousand voices. If there are words being spoken, I do not apprehend them as words. And yet there is message, clear: "Do not forget me."

And then I wake.

AngelPie_Mouse (J.B) © Copyright, 1999; All Rights Reserved

Black water thick with algae and bacteria the run off from the plowed fields the cattle feces though now, the cattle do not choose to drink here.

The mother takes a stick and skims the surface of the water. She dips the gourd shaped water vessel. She draws the water. In her house, her child lies fevered and dying. She knows it is from the water.

She shrugs. What can she do? This water is the same water she drinks. This water is the same water her mother drank. Typhoid, cholera ... diseases the Western people no longer understand with their sugar cubes and Dr. Pauling.

The European doctor comes. The American field advisor to the UN. They look at the water. They look at the flies swarming and the maggots in the still living flesh. They tell her what she already knows. It is from the water.

If you boil the water, it will be safe to drink. If you boil the water, it will clean enough to wash. If you boil the water, your children will live and grow old. You must do this.

There is not enough chafe in the field to fuel the cooking of her food neither wood upon the hill, nor coal in the ground nor dung of the beasts. And by night, she dwells in darkness. How shall she boil the water?

After considerable debate the international community decided We will advance the money for the digging of a well. And the well was dug and the pump installed and from the bowels of the earth there rose up clean water.

In her house, her child lies fevered and dying. She has buried her husband. She has buried two other children. She goes to the well each day and pumps the clean water. She knows death comes from the water. What can she do?

They put a yellow tag on the pump. They painted the pump yellow. One hundred three pumps. The water is clean but the earth contains arsenic. And in a village nearby they are digging another well.

They point to the black water. You must use this water. You must boil it. And you must pay us for the pump. She shrugs and dips her cup into the vessel of well-water. What can she do?

AngelPie_Mouse (J.B) © Copyright, 1999; All Rights Reserved

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