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I live in a tiny rural town in Northern California. I began
writing a few years ago when my musical equipment was in a
state of disrepair. At first I wrote short stories and poetry for
my friends.
After a while, I discovered the type of concentration
I used to improvise music could be directed toward writing.
When I made this discovery, it was as though a dam had
burst. The volume of my compositions became much too
large to share with all but my most literary centered friends.
One of my oldest friends who is a professional writer
directed me to an internet group for prolific writers.
Since that time my work has been featured on numerous
poetry web sites and Ezines.
The artwork featured here are collages I composed from my
digital photography.
Creativity is the engine of the universe
Gravity is love
I’m writing to remember how to boil a frog
I recall something about slowly raising the temperature to avoid
detection by perceptive living surfaces
I’m writing to free the bumblebee trapped against the window
persistently hurling its tiny fragile body against the smooth hard
glass
I’m tracing the complex path of invisible wind through undulating
waves
of tall wild grasses
Mesmerized by shimmering ripples skipping across the surface of
the lake
I illustrate the imperceptive movement of clock hands
Attempting in vain to understand why it’s so unwise to always
believe
my eyes
I’m watching a blue jay battling its reflection in the drivers side
mirror of a shinny new SUV
Shocked to see the highly animated bird puff up its feathers and
thrash
the air with its wings, becoming more an more enraged by the
provocative gestures of its two dimensional doppelganger
A startlingly loud report dances the early morning air as an angry
beak
strikes its mocking reflection
If I don’t imagine it, how will that frog ever hope to leap from his
deadly Jacuzzi into the warm loving arms of that beautiful princess
B.Nice™
4/12/2004
New Black Republican Right
Available now with limited sight
It must be hard to take a shit with your ass that
tight
They will haul you off to jail
Not because you fail
Its embarrassing them to see
The way your spirit sails
Through rough seas falling rocks
As you tumble past the shocks
Rock your own new style of frocks
Take control of your own music
Language
Art
It's almost like you want to start
The game all over
This time you'll be rolling in the clover
But when Bull Connor was calling Rover
Some of these folks were there
They were sporting processed hair
But they was trying to set the pace
Be credit to their race
Never disgrace the family name
Fall down into the burning pits of flame
Perpetual torment awaits the sinner
They just want to get the party started early
But let's try not to digress
There's much too much stress
For me to express the depth of my
disappointment
At the media's attempt to anoint
The new Jesse Helms in black face
As a spokesman for my race
I am perfectly capable of speaking for myself
thank you
©2000 B.Nice™
My middle initial is W.
I was considering changing it to an
inverted M.
Am I the only one that doesn't know
Which way to go
What seeds to grow
What seeds to cast to down onto the
cold hard cement
W. looks like a pair of volcano's getting
ready to blow it
M is more like a couple mountains
separated by a pass
Past presents future shocking pink
flamingos
Speaking broken lingo
Long lost spring
No touch backs
Swing batter batter batter
Swing low sweet Cadillac
It don't mean a thing
Tracing paper tigers
Hunting haunting melodies
Blazing trees on bended knees
Searching for the lost words
Embossed words
What cost words
I toss words aside
Past words
Like keys
Mysteries unfold
B.Nice™
©2/7/2001
I am trying to remember who it was that heated that long black straitening comb
Glistening with molten grease at Nana's kitchen stove
On that hot summer day
A thirst for knowledge unsatisfied by Kool-Aid
Who plunged hot metal into my brain
Relaxing tight nappy thought clusters
With all the subtle dexterity of a strip mining operation
All the while telling me of a blue eyed devil with the power of the sun
An evil so monstrous
It must be emulated
In thought and deed
When I told my dog this tale
He howled with laughter as he sniffed out a mouse hiding in the tall wild grasses and ate in one bite
©2000 B.Nice™
There's a dead zone
Five thousand eight hundred square miles of lights out nobody home in
the Gulf of Mexico
Like the empty stare of a soul departed
Or the cold indifference of the broken hearted drowning on dry land
before the healing begins
We’re playing a game that no one wins
Time out
There's a dead zone in the Chesapeake Bay
Devoid of living entities
They say oxygen deprivation is the cause
No pause in the fertilizer runoff that feeds the deadly algae bloom
Worms, perch, striped bass, and crabs are bobbing lifeless on the surface
What greater purpose could possibly justify this slaughter
There are dead zones off the coast of Oregon, Peru, South Africa,
the Hood Canal, Puget Sound and the Mississippi river delta
I am amazed at our capacity to sit idly by while it all slips away
Tell my great grandchildren I am sorry
We really didn’t mean for it to turn out this way
I guess there was a dead zone in our hearts
Hypoxia
B.Nice™
© 8/19/04
