Category: 1996

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

Shadow Boxer

emorywolf3

1.
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,
forgive;
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.

Break
2.
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.

3.
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.

1996, High Flying Stowaway, songs

Acrimony

emorywolf3

walking down the road
feeling mighty mean
got a switch blade knife
in my pocket you see
cut you mighty quick
cut you mighty clean
tried of hearing your lies
and a digging your holes

Rabbit’s got a fast jet-set life
BMW, credit card style
digging his hole
all he knows is take take take

chorus:
It’s not my place
it’s not my way
It’s not my face
It’s not my problem

My head is a spinning
and holding my ground
walking down the street
going where I can’t be found
ain’t gonna sit
ain’t gonna dig
that troubling hole you should know

Turtle going mighty stoned
at least he knows which way he go
at least he’s not digging a hole

chorus:

I’m a walking and a thinking
thinking about the day
never had a head on my shoulders anyway
you can’t hold it up
and don’t want it round

Little Peter’s running and he can’t be found
little bitty brain’s working over time
holding up my body and making me
whine whine whine

c:

Little bitty rabbit is a digging mighty fast
putting himself away from ole coyote
The turtle keeps a going though mighty stoned
at least he’s not a digging a hole

Holding my head it’s getting mighty tired
no one can tell me where I’ve been
don’t even remember last night’s drunk.

c:

Ole rabbit done dug his hole
and the turtle keeps moving
holding his head, looking kind of mean
knows he’s got some plan be seen

Then comes along the big bad wolf
digging a hole what does he see
rabbit stew
hum hum hum

1996, Season with the Huntress

Season With the Huntress pt 1

emorywolf3

PART I

“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.

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.

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.