But Runs With Wolves
WTF. And who exactly runs this and what unwavering dogs through repertory storage with I get crawling back to imagery and better for it, persistent, opinionated, dies in harness to a sullen where are the free drinks and I do know these things at parties I am usually disguised as the dark works and there it is, a creature from the woods who has arrived there to lick his wounds and leave me alone, I get lot a lot of bullshit thrown at both me and the barn and in a witch’s lament I am sorry for psychopaths who are empowered to make death threats against me, my family, and other people I care for, and, often enough, work with. And I so regret writing those books are cut and dried paranoia, in cold blood, blood for blood, you can find this nonsense everywhere human beings live in hamlets even if today they’re suburbs in Saudi Arabia, who wants to wear a suit to the old ideas the patriarchs have made, Jesus fucking christ why do these empaneled insufficiency-prone and shaken and running over I am going to name a drink: shaken and running over with more rum than watermelon.
And we think that wolves are carnivorous because they are. Shot and killed so fetcherfucking cows off the land and these guys shoot themselves come shoot me every killing season, and if you have seen what I have seen, it would make your pubes shaved off with muse and her fate as the land in the Empire of the Witches. Oh, he kids. Honey, I never kid. Get over yourselves. We are all abused. All the people I have ever known have ran with wolves and many were wolves themselves. Everyone I know is dead. Not necessarily the Smash Street Boys, but from the ranks of the ones — all wolves — who are deceased like open wounds of us that came before a virus stuck its claim to what we were.
But is living really worth it.
I tow the party line.
Living is worth it. Period. I lecture the boys at risk I work with.
Until it’s not.
Mainly not. My second selves all have voices a chorus of voices,
Commensurate flowing honey dripped in skateboard freight on the docks just around the corner from North Beach.
I want to move back there but the literary mafia would run right dry on that one, kicking ill off and what happens is a vast reshuffling, as quietly as you can, especially on the dark nights of half rations most likely a can of beans no oven, but this is at the edges of Chinatown, and there is nowhere else quite like it. I used to teach deaf four-year-old Chinese children how to read and write, and learn both in one year I was bonedust exhausted.
I had gone back to all the various trenches by then, and doing this kind of work means you are a badly paid (if at all) slave and book publishing is the same fucking thing, a grave. The conservatives want us dead, but the liberal community is too exasperated to believe it because they can afford to, and who pays for a politicians’ lifetime of empty boxes.
Everyone goes through a box of Tide detergent to cleanse you whiteywhite. It is a perfunctory fuck in the ass by candles burned at both ends. We camped out in Big Sur. Which is not far at all from the migrant fields. We are bankrupt of ideas and her allowances for the embrace of the destitute among us.
Any. Of. Us. Tomorrow.
For now, all we have is one another. Sanctuary comes to us from many surprising places. I loathe religion. But I have stayed overnight on many church basement floors in a sleeping bag. Denominations are irrelevant. How is it that we are allowed to strut out stuff — America being somehow elevated as an example of moral righteousness, ill-deserving, and unfit. The American family is conflicted. Acid in the morning was a rahrah in the rarahs, who says drugs are bad.
Out on the street in the Haight been there it was brutal, but it was cleaning the street in the morning of the wet on the flowers was to be alive for it. Hose it down like a birthday cake. This thing is poetry because it has to be.
It can only be measured by what poetry is and how it works.
The puppies at three weeks at the wolf ranch near Ramah tore my clothes off. I was sitting in an old wooden rocker and the baby wolves were climbing and jumping all over me and it was a new epiphany of voices on the mesa and you could go outside the tent at Bluewater Lake at night when the moon was saucer white, reflective, stars, and spells. You could stand at the edges of the lake, listening to the coyotes sing.