Blog

1
“Let us build a friendship” She stated.
“Nothing more.
“We will never have any memory of dying.”
Then she slithered away into the wanting parking lot,
nestled within the city’s gut.

A generous light,
splinters its way through the foliage of the buildings
and blesses the multi-colored flowers,
scattered impulsively about the cracks,
amongst the broken bottles crumbled cellophane wrappers
and crushed aluminum cans.
However, the earth remains silent,
as I pick a flower from her sanctified lips.
I touch her and she quivers.

My hunger seems so blatant.
my stomache makes such obvious sounds,
the texture of my words, such obvious Enunciations.
When she exited the room,
closing the door behind her, I could not help but watch
with the yearning to partake of the Tree of life.

I can say. I have suffered things in the Street,
spread myself, and turned over whole lives,
changing skins, names, beliefs and license plates;
regardless, it was I, who walked this way.
No one else forced me into the ashes.
It was something I had to do;
something I needed to find.
I must face the consequences for doing such.

I can say I lost my heart, piece by piece,
giving too much to loves
residing within the dark crevices of the cities’ walls.
Or was it not enough?
Regardless,
the want to pick ‘em up and glue ‘em back together,
is not here.
I have gotten used to that harsher terrain
where no one wants to love.
By giving no answers,
One can say “I didn’t understand.”
Yet where does that get us?
A little farther from the Great Mystery?
A little farther from love?

I could say that I walked those streets,
without seeing, without feeling, without longing,
but I would be lying,
for, I am of man.
I watched every time she walked.
I could feel those firm potter’s hands
grip my neck
her fingers press light steady circular patterns
and knead themselves down my spine
and farther . . .
It’s strange, perverse
it’s as if, it is something my body craves, needs
I cannot deny it.
Maybe, it is not a woman I want;
but all women;
and, I hunt for them in those around me,
one by one.

Ask me where I have been, and I will tell you;
however, ask me where I am going,
I could impart nothing.
I only know of the thorn’s language,
and the taste of Red Chilean wine in a flat bottom bottle.
Regardless,
the tracks I have left behind will be hard to follow.
My heels leave barely a trace imprinted in the concrete,
they will disappear with the walking of the wind;
as the day’s newspaper circulates the night air.
You will not be able to find me.
You will not know me by my tracks,
but only by the skins and tears I have shed

2
I have paid dearly for learning how to die;
so much so, I want to live.
But having seen death,
can one truly be alive?
Can one continue, knowing that the outcome is for not?
Is that what the prophets mean by the Great Mystery?
Perhaps our natural weakness is suspicion and anxiousness.
Our only strength, hope.

“Here’s my place.” I declare.
Strip myself.
Lie face down into the earth.
I use a piece of paper to keep the ants from nesting in my nose.
But it seems, this course of inaction was but an experience,
not the prevailing wind.
I am not the ground, dirt, nor rock,
which is to be tread upon;
however, I do know how it feels.
Though realizing it is not my path.
I stand up, brush the dirt off,
and announce, as I walk out into the world. “I am free.”
“Free from what?” the wind gustily inquires,
blowing the ashes of my own destruction into my face,
reminding me: what I am, and what I have let myself become.

My ash-filled eyes
bleed forth such an unboundable light.
My tears act as prisms to show me rainbows:
The dreams that fade as I wake.
But how can I hold on to those patterns and shapes,
the images of my life?

Blinded by my own darkness and desires
I crawled about the ground;
buzzards began to circumvent me,
while they waited for the immanent death;
However, by my thickening want to live,
or by destiny itself,
I killed those buzzards one at a time
with word and bite;
I plucked the feathers off each
to construct a pair of wings for myself.

When I finished, I spread those buzzard feathered wings.
The wind gripped me and hoisted me up into the sky,
elevating me above man, and his seven deadly sins.
For a moment, I almost believed.
However, I got so close to the sun;
its heat caused the feathers to combust.
Gravity did the rest.
I plummeted,
and realized, in trying to be free,
I was only attempting to jump while already falling.

I plunged into the ocean.
Submerged within the womb,
I siphoned fluids through my stomache.

What can I say without wanting to touch the Earth
with my hands and lips,
to taste her soil across my tongue?
I have been in the water so long,
that I have become a prune.
My fingers are no longer plains;
but deep valleys cross their width.

3
The river is constant
always flowing in a circle
not as the snake which in the end eats itself,
that is death.
No, that of the sun and the bear,
false deaths and resurrections.
the longings of the ways of skin,
to suckle the water and honey of life;
the surge of my body buried into hers,
flexing ambiguous staggering perfection,

Drenched in my own natural waters,
I come of age.
A little late it may seem.
A secret reserve gave it back to me.
A blue bitter song, I learned so long ago,
Unmoved by itself,
helps me recall my unique disclosure,
which pulsed through my veins
as I stood naked before her,
presumptuously barking out words
and sentences with my guttural rasp.
& She, walked around like a holocaust,
no tangible discretion
nor flimsy consistency.
“What are you really saying?” She probes.
Her eyes were unbreakable,
and her voice,
with words cooked low in the heat of her rage,
began to elevate about the room.

No, I have not forgot it, that wet leprous kiss;
then suddenly seeing the fallen face of an angel
peer angrily through the window,
as my hand reached up to unsnap the clip.
Nor can I deny the want to do it again.
I guess, there was a desire for every woman;
I wonder if these things were that well hidden.
Can I look at a woman and not want?
but that is the man,
the spirit wants something different.
How can I satisfy both?
Can it be found in one woman?

copyright 1996 Emory Laughing Wolf

The kids from upstairs
ran down the flight of stairs
egging each other on
while they ran to Mr. Emilio’s apartment.
They halted at this door, and knocked.
Ole Buddy Gump came to the door
barking at them through the wood.
The kids grew silent
waiting
listening for Mr. Emilio’s voice.

“Buddy stop.”

They knocked again as Mario announced their presence.
“Mr. Emilio, it’s us. Can we come in?”

“Sure.” was the reply through the door.

Mario cautiously turned the door knob
disengaging the door jam from the frame
and launching the door forward.
He could see Mr. Emilio sitting in his worn lazy boy,
his pipe in hand ,
smoking what he called ‘tobacco caca loca’
and Buddy Gump, his eyes fixed at the door, sitting next to him.

The kids could not wait much longer,
with the door unlocked and open the kids bolted in.
Buddy Gump got excited and stood up;
however, before he could go met the kids,
which were coming towards him,
Mr. Emilio placed his hand on the dog’s rear.
Buddy sat back down.

All the kids knew that Buddy Gump was known to bite,
or nip as Mr. Emilio would say.;
nevertheless, that did not deter them from gathering around Mr. Emilio
and sitting at his feet.

Emilio gazed at all of them and remarked.
“My, My, what have we here?
Looks like a story half-circle.”

Emilio elevated his head
shifting his gaze toward the kitchen and his wife, Domina,
who was standing at the Frig holding its door open
and staring inside.
“Honey, can you bring something to drink for theses kids?”

“There’s nothing in here to drink.”

“Yes there is, There’s a pitcher of Tea.”

“That’s been there for days.”

“I made it last night, after you went to bed.”

“Oh” Domina pulls the pitcher out and removes a glass from the sink,
washes it, pours herself some tea. and starts to put it back into the Frig.

“Domina, can you bring that in here with some glasses?”

“Emilio, I’m busy, and all the glasses are dirty.”

“There are some plastic cups above the Frig.”

“It’s gonna cost ya.”
“a movie.?”
“tonight.”
“OK”
“I pick the movie.”

“Yea”

The Kids laugh “Mr. Emilio, tell us a story about Wolf.”

Emilio turned his eyes back to the kids squatted about him.
“Wolf, huh?” He smiled. “You know, I haven’t seen Ole Wolf in awhile.”

“Pleeeeeeease!!” they scream in unison.

“Well, well. Let me think here.”
He took a smoke off his pipe…………………

“Emilio” came Domina’s voice from the kitchen.

“OK” Emilio punches the pipe into the crevice of the chair.

“There was a day,” he began.
“a beautiful day.
it wasn’t too hot,
nor was it too cold,
and the sun was out shining brightly.
It was one of those days,
that made every other day before
seem just a step to this day.

“Ole wolf was out in the alley,
running about, playing,
make believing, as his mother once told him, when he was yawl’s age.
Wolf was having too much fun to think about having to go to work.
Which he did have to do that day;
considering the fact, Wolf had bills to pay.
For awhile though, he could make believe he didn’t.”

Just then Buddy Gump stepped into the middle of the half-circle
dumping the ash tray;
then sheepishly glancing up at Emilio and wagging his tail.
Emilio laughed, as he cleaned up the ashes on the floor
with his handy Dust Buster he kept beside his chair,
just for this kind of situations. “And Buddy Gump spills the ashtray, saying ‘I dumped the ashtray, pet me.'”

The kids laughed,
and at the some moment
Domina strolls in with the pitcher of tea and the plastic cups,
hands them to Emilio, torts “seven-ten” and walks to the bedroom.

Emilio hands the cups to Mario,
who disperses them among the other kids,
and then Emilio pours the tea and inquires.
“Now, where was I?”
Little Jennifer was the first to answer.
“Mr. Emilio, you were telling us about Wolf,
and how he was make believing he was a kid.”

“Oh yeah,
Wolf was make believing,
but not that he was a kid.
Nnnooo, he was make believing he was in the Jungle,
that he was an Inca warrior
stalking his spirit through the vines which ran along the many trellises with their plump red fruits,
Peruvian Apples.
He picked one,
biting down upon its flesh
he recognized the distinguished taste of a tomato.
He came out of make Believe,
concluding that it was probably time for him to work
and that he needed to see what time it was.

“He wondered while he strolled into the building
if it was already time to go to work.
He hoped not, he wanted to and play some more.

“Now you see wolf was a brizare character,
he liked to think that he was practicing his math
as he read the time.
so each clock about his apartment had a different time.
The one in the den was fifteen minutes fast,
while the one ion the kitchen was only ten minutes fast,
as for the one in the bedroom, that was tricky,
it was 23 minutes fast.
After his subtraction,
he had to then add his estimated time it would take him to get to work.
By the time Wolf finished his math,
he concluded that the product of his equation
meant that he was going to be late.
And this made him think,
‘If I am already going to be late,
I might as well sit down on the sofa in the den
and talk to Steve for a few minutes.’

“Well by the time wolf got to work,
he was 23 minutes late.
His clock in his bedroom told him that after some math.
Now Mr. Chef wasn’t too pleased about Wolf coming in late.
He had diner for a hundred or so people to think about,
and he didn’t need the worry of whether or not Wolf
would be in to do his part.
Mr. Chef told wolf as much and that was retaliation.
Wolf then asked, ‘Well Chef, what do you want me to do.’

“Mr. Chef thought for awhile, wondering what.
Wolf realized Mr. Chef didn’t know what the punishment was going to be. and remarked ‘I’ll go home.’
‘no.’
‘Didn’t think so,’ wolf replied. ‘Listen chef, I know I did wrong,
but it’s not like I was thirty minutes late.’

“‘you were seven minutes short of it.
and by the time you put on your chef’s coat, and hat it will be.’

“‘It’s not like I was an hour late, or two.
Hell, Chef, I could have just called in sick,
or just come in and picked up my check and not come in at all.’

“Mr. Chef just shock his head. ‘Wolf what am I going to do with you.’

“Wolf knew he couldn’t get out of this.
He had played make believe that he didn’t have to work
way too many times,
and on the account of that
he had been late way too many times.
nevertheless, he too had been thinking while Chef had been thinking
and remarked under his breath just loud enough for Chef to hear.
‘Please don’t throw me in the Dish Pit.’

“Chef pulled up from his thinking
glanced over at the dish pit and then returned to his thinking.
Wolf still mumbling about not wanting to go wash pots,
walked off to the locker room,
and put on his chef’s jacket, and his black chef’s hat,
which laid down flat upon his head.

“You see, in the kitchen, the higher your hat was,
the higher your rank in the kitchen.
Wolf had worked in the kitchen most his life,
and by the Chef’s standards, his hat should have been higher and whiter,
nevertheless, wolf preferred the thought
that he knew nothing at all.

“Well wolf walked out of the locker room,
tying his Apron on,
wondering what the verdict of the Chef would be.

“Chef was talking to Sue Chef,
and when he saw Wolf come out,
he proceeded toward Wolf.
‘Well Wolf Sue and I have decided you get to go to the dish pit tonight.’

“Ole Wolf ambled over towards the Dish Pit
trying hard to hold back the grin which was forming upon his face.
When he got into the pit he started laughing
and dancing about.
‘Mr. Chef, I was born and raised in the DishPit.
This is my home.
Ole wolf laughed and laughed,
chatted with the Mexicans as they washed dishes,
got wine and food from the waitrons,
while he and the Mexicans made believed that they were sailors
on a ship during the times of the Ancient Sea Kings,
before the time of the Olmacs,
sailing through a storm.
He knew he would make it out alive,
that at the end of the night he would go home
sit on his sofa and talk to Ole steve.”