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1996, New York City

The ghosts

emorywolf3

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;
asking
and I can’t say no.
They pick my bones.
pick ’em clean:
bleached white in the gas heater.
I look frantically
for herb
liquor
beer
anything.
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,
searching
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.
Attack.
Eat.
Attack.
Help me if you want.

1996, New York City, POETRY

New York City pt. x.2

emorywolf3

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

emorywolf3

1
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?

2
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?

2002, POETRY, Struck by Lightening

Hair

emorywolf3

Each hair on my head
has its own idea of where it should go.
There’s not much left of it now
to clog up the bilge;
‘cause, I took my chef’s knife to it
two days ago in a marina bathroom,
which rocked back and forth
as I sawed
with knife in one hand
and a clump of hair in the other.

When I came out
brushing strains of hair from my cut-off shirt,
a leather skinned woman stared at me,
smiled and said.
-a little hot out there huh kid?

-yeah. I laughed.

2002, POETRY, Struck by Lightening

Thrown into the River

emorywolf3

Wordless, I am
in this wave of wanting
satisfied
pure
for life flows within this river,
in which they threw me.
I did not die,
I flourish.

Moist flour, garlic, thyme and lemon grass,
these scents float through the air,
as you lean against me.
I embrace you.
I live of you.

I have a muddy heart,
for I have lived in the river a long time.
The night mud was my home
With the catfish, eels, and tadpoles.

Albeit, life lives within these waters,
surging through the excrement of death.
So love flows through time.