lie to me,
                    it's time. 

       I'm barley even in the room
          or in attendance at the banquet
             of my cloudy fingertips
                  
                lie to me it's time to shake
        that old blue saxophone
            down in a rattle-puff
                              fat lip moan
    
          
         lie to me that I'm as real
        as anything that jumps
           into the cotchels of the sky
          toward a well tied noose

               lie to me my
                 magic limbs
                will hold
              and I'll be strong

              despite my hot
                 and watery
            eyes of lapsang souchong,

                    my soul 
                a liquid swirl
                    of smoke
          against my teacup bones

Was it my fault that I asked the larks
 your secret whisper-name?
A small mistake, I won't regret,
 yet I am ashamed.

They said it was Mountain Laurel
 who opened the morning for song-
I was happy,
 half convinced
They were not wrong

The rain could come
 or bubblegum.  
I'd smiled as the flower
 of our nakedness bloomed,
Then withered in the bower.  

Mountain Laurel Girl,
 what wilts your cheek of rose?
Why switch those crimson lips I kissed 
 with blue umbrellas?

Later, confronted by nightingales,
 they blamed the larks of lies-

       "Moonflower is she
     of the slender wrists, she,
            of ocean eyes"

And when I asked those dapper chaps
 how sweetly she did love me
They cawed a song of sunset
 beset with storm, and ugly

In the mountains,
                         obviously, 
                  there were
                          other 
                    philosophies...

           I knew when to shut up
                 and sip my coffee.

                 I know the old
                       rainwater story, of course

                I'll speak up again
         when it's time to discuss
                  the cracked backbones
                  sunken ships


               broken
       skeletons of wood
            dancing
       at the cold black
          gates of solitude

How innocently and wholly she fell for me-
   It's a shame we won't have that again.  
 What good are the taverns and church bells
 When love is the doula of rain?

I'd rather be drowned in red water
   Than have these bad dreams chisel stone in my mind
 I felt the deep call of my meat to the slaughter-
 The marvelous, numbing, sweet nothing, sublime.  

My finest carbuncle I offered, she smiled,
   Uncomprehending intangible worth;
  It's red like the robin's fine coat in the morning 
  On the unfortunate day of my birth.  

How innocently and wholly she fell for me-
   It's a shame she won't have that again.
 What use for the taverns and church yards
 When love is the doula of rain?

for a healing
we gathered
small things

you'd gotten the idea
to bring a paper mâché butterfly

once it was dry-
 holding it above your head
 as if the butterfly mantra wasn't
 at the lip of some rogue amaranth-

you opened your mouth
but nothing
 sound
happened

a halo mocking 
the bitterfly saint

droop-wings of
soda pop bottle shards
plastic coated
paper clips jabbed
in for antennas


later we released 
a pinprick pine spark
toward an indifferent moon

My lovely teacher at love!
 Forever removing
 the sunset dress

My highest teacher of love-
 my ever
 radiant 
 and welcome
guest

My lofty
 teacher
through love,

Your smile
  makes me a mess.

My teacher
 at the table
 dissecting
  weakness



I am a dreamy student
 I never do the reading

You are my finest teacher
 lending agony
       meaning

My doppelgänger is too rough with me
Spoiling my every ecstasy

Tainting the words
I would have said

Tending the bitter chestnuts
in my bitter head

What good to grab his throat
 and squeeze?

It's me
and me
brought to my knees

Stopper of hearts,
   but what have you done
   to all the lads of Ashland?

    Your struggling cheek
   a soft delight
   chaffed against a world of sadness-



The candy shop, no sweeter,
despite it's lollipops and chocolates
than the ******* alive and prideful
at the fluttering of her naked lashes. 

Civil when you meet her,
she knows where the aorta's at-
Squeezing like a vice grip
at the ruddy heart attack

when
 the apple skin 
is fit enough for breaking
there will be
just as you said-
 pomp and merrymaking  

I'll weave a cozy nest for us
 beside a faery dell
and sing the song of stardust 
 on a lute of kitten's paw shell

but when the apple tree is dead,
 though the taste of fruit may linger,
it will be just as I said-
 Unenviable December

the song will chill among bows,
 seldom will be heard the music-
we'll know the place like wedding vows
 broken for our own amusement

  in the autumn, all is woven-
   nests and throaty strings

  in the winter forest
    no birds sing



                    -Brian Bigley

I count myself
in coffee-moons
and pretty ladies kissed

I've never kept a tally
but I know the ones I've missed

Lying awake
for withering
and living
a life 
without 

my cat
among the porcelain
as careful as I should have been
at the teetering knickknacks of your love 


I know that I'll be changing soon-
I feel my memory
disappearing
I'll mail a slender letter 
of hope to find you reveling 
in dragoncloud
sunflower weather
with a man who needs your doting 
while I count the coffee-moons and miss
the lips I once loved kissing

I took my love to Talby Faire
And there, the world seemed right
  To cut the chill that knit the air
  She clothed herself in white

Her gown, appearing linen
A silken symphony to touch
  Although the night was bleeding out
  In us there was no rush

My jacket was a tattered swatch
Some dead man's wife's donation
  Acquired many years ago
  When I was not so cold and thin

Her perfume made a different muse
At the neck and at the wrist-
  I'm sorry but I'd rather there be rope
  On both, with scent betwixt

And as the night, that pale blue mage
Worked magic over Talby Strait
  I wandered toward the bannered stage
  The bone white moon had made

And on the wood, three skeletons
All gentlemen, prepared,
  Took to the task of violins
  And music made they there

And in that din I lost her-
She's a stranger now to me
  I'm left to bow my violin
  And wail to Talby's eaves

I took my love to Talby Faire
We hardly knew each other then- 
  Strange music that the moon allowed
  Has made us strangers once again


                                     - Brian Bigley

The things
that break you open
    in the morning

They won't take you
     away
but for a moment

  when you're going-
Look back
once
    only

  then leave me to my misery-

I'll be the one that used to kiss
your wet footprints
to the bedroom
from the bath

The one who's dreams wandered
      around our house like cats