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POETRY, Season with the Huntress

I have paid dearly for learning how to die

emorywolf3

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.

POETRY, Syllable Tapestries

The Blisters

emorywolf3

Taxi cabs.
Street lights.
Neon signs.
Thunder storm.
Take cover in a bar.
Have a Heine.
Flirt with a long legged lady;
her black hair danced with her raven wings.
Outside
a vestment of stars
blurred
by rain.
A whiplash of light,
unmeasured fury
permeates
the sky.

Blisters form on my heart
Don’t think Aloe or Vitamin E will help.

POETRY

A Person to Cook Rice

emorywolf3

Just cooked myself dinner:
some veggies,
and a seared Red Snapper.
What would I call it?
I don’t know,
it’s ad lib cooking;
let’s see what’s in the fridge cooking;
albeit,
as I put it on my plate,
I think, man, I need some rice.
But it’s too late.

I need someone to cook the rice.
When I cook family meal at work,
one of other cooks asks “what can I do to help?”
I reply. “Cook some rice.”
I almost don’t remember how to cook rice.
It’s been so long.
I’ve got rice here. I just don’t cook it.
Maybe, I need to put an add in the newspaper,
or on Craigslist or some message board on the internet.

“Help wanted.
a person to cook rice
stay around and talk awhile
and eat dinner with me.”

POETRY, The Kitchen

the blessing of the kitchen

emorywolf3

Chef came up to the line,
looked at me and asked.
“you ready, Lobo,
you’re not gonna fail me,
are you?”
“No, Chef.”

I pulled out my little maraca,
Rev. Larry gave me years back
to use to call forth the Kitchen Gods;
and danced on the line
back and forth,
shaking it.
singing a prayer in Ianish.
An’ I was off.
Chef started calling in the tickets.

Songs played in my head
and I danced all night.
spinning and turning.
and putting the the plates out,
wave after wave
until we all started asking.
“Is the last ticket in?”

“Time to pack up, clean up, and leave.”
Chef replied.

I cleaned my knives, spoons, and spatula,
put ’em in my knife roll,
and rolled it like a cigarette;
then I went to Chef,
before I headed to the bar down the street
to meet with the rest of the crew.

“Well chef, I did the dance,
walked the walk,
blessed the line.
we came through great.”
He smiled.
“You forgot to bless Pastry”