Tuesday, December 14, 2010

taboo
Transcription from the black moleskin, "Dark Matters"

"the nymphet, now with a dash of Irish blood, was really much the same lass,... but otherwise the thing was new and had grown in secret the claws and wings of a novel" - Vladimir Nabokov (1956)

He wrote his story, and then went to burn it as promised,
but the wife stopped him on the way to the incinerator
and saved the final copy.

Commentary:
(Deleted)
obliviously unaware,
of the cock of her hip
I transcribe immoral words
on the soft fold of her

shoulder,
(Yes, less offensive, shoulder.)

She casts a glance back
questioning
(an encantation)
then cast a spell.

Saturday, August 21, 2010

dusk
o'erlooking the great unsalted sea
kilkare cottage
grand haven, michigan



The Phoenix Chronicle by j.b.  

to she who suffered as I came to life
And she that is the joy of my heart,
When the tumult ends, we will dance in silence.
*   *   *

I begin again
over and over again,
always new beginnings
my odyssey
fear not the flames
I am the Phoenix.
What was it I wanted to say here?
What was it I wanted to do that has driven me to this abyss?
To see myself for who I really am,
to touch the place where my heart resides.
The forces of fear have gathered,
what can I do to stem the tide?

The cleverness of my speech is gone,
standing naked to the wind, I am not cold.
A fire grows in my belly, a hunger, a thirst.
I've searched the bull these many years
Still no glimpse of eternity.
I sit me down.

Having tried to apprehend the truth of existence was I successful?
It is not for me to judge.
the first step of the journey

It is said Satori, enlightenment comes in a flash
I have sat a lifetime, still the door is closed
go to knock
I will speak for no faiths
No ism, no cause, save one
The celebration, the sustenance and the surrender of life.
It is the last of my hope
Which I throw away
take no side in matters of violence
sit poised watching the majesty of life unfold
though it is written with pain and bitter tears
there is also joy in life's embrace
and a word, not yet uttered

love

now, forget this too
it is too much this hope
too sublime, too clinging
too late for tears, too soon
we are the dust


Sunday, February 7, 2010

Super Bowl Sunday! At Kilkare looking out over the great unsalted sea, America's great interconnected waterway! Was out writing on Friday night with Mary Robinette, and a nameless editorial assistant. I was writing by long hand and seizing up about every three minutes, my hand cramping. Still there were some good lines. First page He was always rewriting his words. Perhaps like his father before him, he would express himself via the written word only to those he loved dearly, or lusted, lost and longed for. No, that's not really true. It was a fiction page, or so he told himself, not him, well yes him, but him inflated beyond all recognition. "What was it I wanted to say." What was it I wanted to do, that has driven me to this abyss. When would he escape himself he asked. Who is this I?, that I grasp at?