happy New years eve.

Party at Wolf’s House.

It was a big thing around here.

Every September 23. Wolf would throw a party.

It usually started around eight in the evening,

And wind down around eight in the morning the next day.

Some years he went all out.

If it was a momentous year coming,

Other years it was just a huge pot luck dinner,

And the partakage came after.

I know,

It’s not really new year’s eve;

Albeit, It was for Wolf.

He explained it to me once.

I’m not going to get into all the philosophical,

Religiousical, historical, psychological, physical,

Insanitical parts of it,

You’ll have to let him explain.

I’m just going to tell you

 it’s his new year’s eve.

So as I sit here on the back porch.

Drinking a beer,

Knowing somewhere

Wolf is partying,

Cause tomorrow is his birthday.

I’ve been quiet with all this shit going on this year; albeit, I have to say one thing. ‘Does your conscious bother you?’ Cause mine doesn’t. If I’ve done wrong I’ll be the first to tell you. and apologize. What am I prejudice about? I don’t give a SHIT about your color! I don’t give a SHIT about your sex! I don’t give a SHIT about your financial situation! I don’t give a SHIT about what you do! I don’t give a SHIT about your religion! I don’t give a SHIT about where you came from! I have learned something from all. But I am prejudice about assholes, bullies, Cause well, I know how it feels to be on the other end of that. (I have to thank alot of people for protecting me from that. And yes they were considered the cool people in Athens and Atlanta, but to me they were friends cause they protected me from the assholes. When my sisters were no longer there to protect me.) I am prejudice against rapists, No one has that right To abuse another person sexually To enter another’s body without consent. And yes I know how that feels, Though I have never spoke of it before. And most likely never again. I have forgiven And want to forget; But it changed me. Closed me. I have prejudices against war, murder, hate, Greed.

to my little drummer girl,

she taught me sex wasn’t a violent thing.

but sweet and loving.

she came to my house

and said

‘someone needs to show you how to make love,

I’m in between boyfriends.

so I’ll come by for awhile and teach you.’

I was 19, 20, 21, don’t remember the age

I might’ve been 22

those years kind of go together for me.

it was a month maybe two

not sure

but I learned I have sex to a sixteenth beat.

I smile when I think about this.

then one day she came by

and told me she met someone

and yes

they married

and have kids now

but to her I have to say

thank you

it was one of the most sweetest things any person has done for me.

1996, Compassion Fatigue, Picasso's Incandescent Angel, Struck by Lightening, Syllable Tapestries

Shadow Boxer

The phone rings,
your name prints up,
black bold Chicago letters
accompanied by your number.

I’ve weighed the matter in ounces and grams,
pints and half pints,
through minutes, hours, months, years,
even a millennium
before my hand reached out to grip the phone;
securing the call, before the answering machine.

Via microwave and long optical fibers,
strung up on crucifixes which parallel the tar river
in rack and file.
Your voice prattles in my ear:
A trickle,
a fog which blanketed the slumbering fields,
crystals of light bouncing about the leaves;
then a coyote sticks his head out. Yaps.
You wanted me to see,
without comparison
without using the word karma or slut.

I tried.
I swore to myself,
I would see,
however, I failed.
My focus was too feeble.
You are restless.
You wanted to tell me
how you felt inside.

You wanted me to listen,
yet not be reminded of the dense fermentation
of inescapable memories which permeated the air.
You talk as if you cared.
I struggled.
I’ve listened close,
walking about the house
cradling the battered black cordless phone,
tightly between Ear and Collarbone.

What can I tell my bones?

Trying to become godesque,
is far from becoming god.

The frames of the film pass through the gate
transparent enough for the sun to peer through the clouds.
Don’t talk.
Keep your distance.
Don’t tell me you care.
Just let me close my eyes & sleep.
Please let me Dream.

I could only understand
by hoisting knives and tongs
establishing myself once more
in front of Stainless Steel,
Heat Lamps & Cutting-boards.
with a french stove burning my soul.

“Working makes you feel better.”
Replied Grandfather Chef,
as he deboned a Gini Hen with his machete.

The tomatoes reduced to paste upon roasting bones.
I pull ‘em out of the oven,
Plop ‘em in the stock pot.
Placing the roasting pans on the stove,
deglazing with red wine
and scrapping the fond off with a spatula
from the bottom of the pan.

The rain washed the air;
everything which had been mistakenly cast-off
now stained the ground bright lemon-pollen yellow.
I no longer grieve,…nor dream of the dead.
I observe the beef stock boiling,
contemplating how much seasoning
should impinge the soup once it had reduced.
However, when the time comes,
the words make their own way out.
They didn’t need my silly input.
I will not explain you away with a book,
as I have done before.
Salt to Pepper, Garlic to Basil,
over this damp grave,
I speak my last words of love.
and stir it all in the soup.