black cat passing under waning moon

we're moving to london
or paris or somewhere exotic

it's time to go.

let's quit our jobs,
pack our bags
and leave without saying goodbye.

we'll go by pseudonyms
eat pastries in cafes
smoke cigarettes in alley-ways
run from the rain
adopt pretentious accents
make friends with strangers
and read newspapers written in languages we can't even speak.

let's just get the fuck out of this town.

in a room painted burgundy deep
with brass fixtures and porcelain hanging from the walls
you gaze at me and witness in my eyes a scene of quiet desperation

outside the window is rich squalour and cheap glamour
you can't buy this sort of happiness

nothing in life is free, he said to us
but we laughed it off, telling ourselves the secret of life
why not ask for more?

i heard someone whisper the other day
about me, about you, about her, about us
and i pretended that i couldn't hear

we were disappointed when she left
but we soon realized that you can't keep a good girl down

submission four, Song of Solomon
[postscript: I'm finally out of my rut! -BB]

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black cat passing under waning moon
as if he owned the streets
and the streets were his.
I look briefly at you and you’re
looking back at me; awkward.
we both focus on the wayward cat
as if it really matters that he’s lost
or that he never had a home.
you don’t really care, or at least
I don’t really care and you
never had a thing for cats.

broad daylight and you run
the meadow like it’s easy,
like it isn’t acres of field and
like it doesn’t tire even the
steadiest of mares. it’s your
freedom and your home inside
your mind where they can’t
see or intrude upon your ecstasy.
no one has to know you’ve
never left the city once.

what purpose does it serve,
I ask in vain for you’re looking
at the cat intently, with concern.
they can call you crazy but it
doesn’t change your point of
view; the view is too pretty
from here to let go now.

don’t let go now. hold on to
what you’ve got and don’t let
me convince you otherwise.
as the black cat chases the
floppy bugs that dob the dirt
relentlessly to no avail, you
chase your dreams and find they
are exactly where you left them.

days and nights
what are the differences between these two dramatic contrasts?

a love running deeper than rivers run and longer than the burning sun
my heroes have always been stronger than me

these sacrifices are getting harder and harder to make
and if I had any intellect or insight at all
I would be your philosopher-king
writing books
and books
of the history of the world

there’s speak of revolution
and dickens can’t be right
it didn’t take me long to reach the age of chivalry and therefore I am now what is called an atlas

yes, an atlas filled with pictures of this day and maps with lines and dots
and little dentures where the mountains lie.





[This is a poem I wrote a long time ago. Everything I've attempted lately has been execrable and I wanted to share something, so I chose something mediocre from my sketchy past. The novel is not progressing at all. I'm at an impasse. There are too many important decisions to make and I'm fickle. We'll see how things go. -BB]

I wish that I could knowingly lie to you
and tell you that he's perfect
and that you'll live a perfect life together with a perfect house on a perfect block with perfect children and housebroken dogs and a dishwasher that's never broken and dry towels on the rack and wet towels in the laundry where they belong

but I'm not going to lie to you
you could do so much better, girl
it's like you want to get hurt again and again
just to prove that you can

it's like you want my sympathy when he leaves you
it's like you want my shoulder to lean on
but I'm not going to be around forever
and I'm not going to lie to you forever

starting today I'll be nothing but honest
dishonesty but an imperfection I can tame
starting today I'll be nothing but honest
and I really think that you should say the same...

if you were honest with yourself
you'd know that what you're doing is wrong
what you're doing is wrong
what you're doing is wrong
what you're doing is not okay

how can you keep living life this way?
I want to ask you but I keep it to myself
and with windows down I drive you home.

I think I'll remember you this way
uneven hair and speckled nose,
your toes getting dirtier as you
make your trail through the old
and new and the burrs cling
tight like they want to be carried
to a new town, however far away.

you hear the same thing every night
and can't decide if the monotony
is driving you insane or if the
white noise simply offers solace
to a lonely boy on a quiet night.

I think I'll remember you this way
and how you don't give a damn
about what they say and what
they think because they'll never
understand you anyway.

I can't look into your hungry eyes
without feeling somewhat insecure,
denying in earnest what you have
become: an aging antique on a
thrift store shelf, indulging your
surrondings and admiring the
dust that begins to settle,
quite like fragmented memories
escaping from an endless rest
atop an oscillating ceiling fan.

I don’t have the tendency to weep
at stories of two passionate lovers torn from each other’s grasp
or at funerals
or the cutting of onions.
I am cold and growing cold cold cold with time;
I don’t remember truly feeling my heart beat within my breast
or feeling the raw hard deep deep hard raw pain of love
because I haven’t lived and I haven’t loved.
Should I be so lucky as to never love,
or at the very least,
to never love again.

I don’t have the tendency to weep,
not much anymore, anyway, anyhow.
I am seemingly empty and just living
dead but living daily empty-hearted.
The doctor can prescribe a pill to cure a heartache
but of course there’s no efficacy there
if the patient, however impatient,
never had a heart to treat.

I don’t have the tendency to weep
so refrain from treating me like a child
or a fragile woman
of the times dating back before the liberation of the female gender
when women were expected to obey
and courteously demure.
Nevermind my harping, mind you me,
for I’ve forgotten that I’ve mentioned that I never
had a love or a heart or a tendency to weep:
I probably wouldn’t listen to you anyway.

submission three, Song of Solomon
[postscript: thank you for reading. I appreciate your feedback and the "demand" that this has created.
I'm glad y'all like my characters. Just remember that I am not the one in control... the characters are writing the story through me.]

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submission two, Song of Solomon

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Note from the author: I have decided to include several portions of my novel, tenatively titled Song of Solomon, in this writing journal. I will be posting in installments and this will achieve the effect as if it were written in a series. This almost gives you an "incentive" to continue coming to this journal so you do not get behind in the lives and times of the characters. It is somewhat reminiscent of the way my hero, Henry James, submitted his novels in portions to weekly literary magazines. Please stay tuned.

submission one, Song of Solomon

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[rough draft edited 5:30pm 7/11/04]

The tracks in front of him had obviously seen many years before his birth. They had rusted golden-brown and the wood planks connecting each rail had deteriorated into what resembled petrified fossil logs. His shiny black tuxedo shoes were starting to look less new; they were beginning to show signs of wear and were scuffed in various places. Shoes like these weren't made to run away in.

Visions of the wedding replayed rapidly in his mind. The genuine or phony smile on everyone's faces was disheartening to say the least. When the rabbi concluded and the glass was broken and even he had murmured, "Mazel tov," he stood, applauded briefly, and made his way from the synagogue in haste.

He didn't bother getting into his car; in fact, he threw the keys in the front seat and slammed the door. He took great strides toward the bit of woods behind the synagogue, disappearing before anyone else had exited the great front doors. After passing through a clearing and a stretch of farmland, he had stumbled upon these brokedown railroad tracks that he had never before seen.

He sat down on the rocks that stood to one side of the tracks and held his head in his hands. ( ... )

i wish i could think the way i thought at 7:22pm when everything made sense. the stereo is buzzing lightly yet again and the vcr blinks 12:00 for all to see that it's perturbed by sudden outages of electricity. i can't tell you what i want to say; it would be... imprudent, to say the least.

a steady sound of beating drum could salvage what's left of this brokedown fiasco. i could find myself in the wilderness. i see myself on the wings of the dove but the beady eyes pierce me and it's gone.

i want so desperately to be austere. a cold autumn in the city would fit this cold and heartless royalty, but the coronet is makeshift and beginning to crumble. the long and sticky days make me feel like i should be trying to accomplish something. so, what's your point? feelings are inevitable yet rarely very relevant or particularly valuable.

do you think i'm even listening to anything you have to say?
i don't care for your opinions or your heresy.
god, damn me and feed it to the dogs.

somehow
the conversation always turns to you.
you don't even have to be around to haunt me... your ghost shall keep you satisfied by luminescent fireflies that twirl about the scene and tell the office workers in our brain to file this memory under the heading of "romantic."
but that was then and this is now and no matter what kind of beautiful memories that we shared you've said goodbye and that's what counts. you smile as i pass and when you stare into the mirror, how do you see past the deep-seated recognition of my heart in your reflection?
the weatherman says it looks like rain. these are the last tears of the season.

october gets colder and colder as
the days wear on and the moon
wanes slowly the light is effervescent
and the grass is chilled beneath my
feet where are you now? why aren't
you listening?

i see a falling star, streaking across
the orage sky and the blue in the
distance starts to come into focus.
are you that distance? do you hear
me whisper?

my soft lullaby is carried on the
wind of an evening in october,
searching far, near, two weeks
away.

do you see the shooting star and
do you hear my singing? is the
grass cool on the soles of your feet?
the sun is setting now and i see
you in the sky and you are hanging
with the stars where you belong.

every time i see you standing there and talking to those friends of friends and smiling at me as i pass my heart breaks a little more. i will never be strong enough to let you know how i feel, nor will i ever look on that night without remembering that i fell in love. you were descending those concrete stairs in your prom dress and laughing at our shared tendencies; ascending that same staircase with newfound "soup" for your soul. you offered me a hit of stardust, but i declined, knowing that if i were tipsy i might say something i'd regret, such as "i think i love you."

we clumsily made our way to waffle house and laughed and shared a diet coke. it was just like old times, except that they were new and it was just beginning and these times would be the old times in days to come. "stay sweet and sexy" the dirty man hollered and we shared the greatest laugh of all, falling into each other's arms.

we laid on the floor together, talking about disorder. you attempted to clean everything, but that's just you. and i was wearing kevin's shirt and tuxedo shoes while you were comfortably clothed in such out of character t-shirt and shorts. the phone call was our exit plan and we had to leave; separate cars? my heart was sinking, but i obliged. the car was filthy and i was whelmed when we arrived and i gave you a run for your money as we counted wheat pennies and you gave yourself a scar; something to remember me by.