2018, A Mythological Autobiography of a Wolf, poetry

a night at the opera

Sarge glances
through the glass
that lines the kitchen
people, waiting to be seated,
stare in;
as the kitchen
shows ’em controlled chaos.

Sarge spots the black dress
and goes back to
making deserts.
he spins around
and takes some more orders
as the printer
prints ’em out.

as he goes about
building plates,
he starts to hum
and then a song comes out
from under this breath
as he puts the desserts
up in the window;
and begins the next order.

‘Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey.
lookin’ thro’ the window of my cage.
watching her with my gaze.
Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey.’

sarge spins around.
opens the cooler door
behind him,
and grabs a creme brulee. spins back around.
to the rhythm of the song in his head.

‘Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey.’

he puts some sugar on the top of it,
levels it out.
reaches out
and grabs the torch
lights it
and then flips it.
singing his little song.

‘Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey.
looking thro’ the window
kinda going crazy
thinking ’bout a lady.
Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey.’

he drops the creme brulee on a plate
he has ready on the stainless steel shelf
drops a mandelen on the top
and spercels some powdered sugar over it.
and starts singing again.

‘Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey.’


Notes on today 17may18

Strange day

A lot of cuts today

Not just me.

Mine was quick early

And still hasn’t stopped bleeding.

It wasn’t a large one.

But as chef said

‘You bleed a lot anyway.’

‘Yeah, I replied. But bleeding cleans out the wound. I don’t get much infections.’

Three other people cut themselves

But all here nicks.

There was an off campus function

At a Jewish movie thingies.

I went to it a few years back.

It was cold that time

Cause I wore my east German wall guard coat.

No at work has forgotten that.

They bring it up every year.

They call it a Nazi coat.

But every year

I have to remind them

It’s Soviet.

It rained all night.


Thought 14may18


One wonders

What’s brings you to this point

Why are you drawn to a certain person,

And what is that person like

And why?

It’s a question that is out there.

Hanging about.

What makes you,     you.?

What makes you do the things you do?

Be it God

Or gods

Or just neurons firing off,

Caused by things of the past.


1996, New York City

The ghosts

The ghosts
I can feel them come in.
They open the door,
show themselves in.
Don’t even say hi.
They just sit down on the couch
pull out a cigarette
and fill the room up with smoke,
the smoke comes to me
says “I’ll hide you
cover you up so you can be one of us.”
My skin crawls
off my bones
onto the floor
and out the door,
leaving nothing but a skeleton
in front of their eyes.
The ghosts come up to me taking,
always taking;
and I can’t say no.
They pick my bones.
pick ’em clean:
bleached white in the gas heater.
I look frantically
for herb
It doesn’t matter what.
I need something to ease the pain,
the scream.

I cut my knuckles off one by one,
Stick needles In my veins:
a sacrifice to the gods.
however the gods don’t listen.
They don’t understand.
They only laugh,
so hard the ground shakes and opens up
letting more demons out.
The demons encircle me,
run me around the house,
for some defense,
some place to hide;
then I hear music,
a pounding I my head.
I want to sing it;
but the words stay in my head
and I scream
until my lungs are dry of air.
The pounding continues.
I cannot sleep.
Please let me sleep.
I am.
These ghosts are not.
I am real.
These ghosts are not.
But they seem real,
coming up to me
sucking my blood from my veins.
“Open yourself to me.” You ask.
I want to,
but you will leave;
because the ghosts will attack you soon.
Help me if you want.

1996, New York City, poetry

New York City pt. x.2

I did not come here
to be judged and cursified. [1]
for your sins and failures.

I will not carry your cross of fears on my back,
thorns piercing my brow,
my bare feet bleeding from the cuts
given by the sharp slivers of glass
hidden in the cracks of the sidewalk.

I see you are not one I can trust;
though you say differently,
you’re trying to peel my skin off with your words.
I have closed myself to you;
you can never enter again.
I’m afraid you might steal something else.

1991, New York City, poetry

New York City pt. xiv

I gave you love in bits and pieces,
the only way I know
protection maybe
but you don’t have the right
to stand there
screaming at me,
accusing me of hating and using you.

There’s nothing that says
you can’t call me.
You accuse me of drifting,
of being tortured.
The words confuse me,
disorient me.
I feel like a traitor,
drifting confused.
I feel bloated from similar feelings.

The answer:
knocked out with Ludes and Scotch,
and sucked into a deep deep sleep.
What should I have done?
What should I have said?
What I didn’t say.
What else are we caught between?
Another sky?

I found myself walking down Broadway,
long fast strides
my arms slapping my legs:
ropes on a flagpole on a breezy winter day.
I was trashed,
drunk, stoned, and wired.
I was cold,
real cold.
Thoughts jumped around in my head;
but I could never keep one down long enough
to see what it was.

The prophecies speak for themselves;
nothing can be added.
They bred among themselves.
But what of us?
Do we have lives then?
Can we change fate?
Can we decide,
we don’t want to move the arm that way
but this way,
and the fingers like this?