So the days spun on,

  in a wheel of empty emotion

    spun on

          one strand in a quilt of feelings

             waiting to be discovered

             to be bought on a street corner

                 from a craftsman.

            Because only craftsmen

              appreciate the beauty of simpleness

                 as it turns on the wheel

                      this wheel, spinning on, moon

                          after baited moon

                                 Sun on circled sun


This is what they call life

   This is the name they give to existing

      To trying to feel, to feeling alive

        In this world of sound bites and

            three second advertisements – All attention

                  withered to it’s very base

                      until it

                         is beyond reduction


                  Spinning days

                        one into another, daylight

                                    of visions – visions


Visions muted through the

  stained glass of my own perceptions

     Turning and turning in these

       Spring days and chocolate nights –

            cool and smooth

        Intoxicating with the monoxide

            of automobiles – trapped in

                   the layers of days and

                      days and spinning days.


Kaleidoscopes of years

  turning and turning at the

hand of everyone I’ve met.


Yet, I can’t control the

turning, or what

beads they have

put in to the barrel

Beads loaded on the minds

of ideas – loaded with

beads of wishes

and shards of despair

pain tossed over pleasure

who holds the answer

to the end of these spinning days?


Alone outside of a café, I cannot

divert attention long enough.

I cannot stop waiting

Jas as these spinning, spinning

days cannot stop – turning

   Inside and out.


Brett Simpson - 1996

California Writings

Copyright © 1996 by Brett A. Simpson, All Rights Reserved, World Rights Reserved