Strange Visitations in Pistol City on the birthday of Poe _ for Edgar A. Poe & Ron Whitehead
(after reading some Poe all night before// & waking to read Ron Whitehead's Learning to talk with crows) _
Quite early this morn
a rapping came
Rapping at my door
Ignoring it at first, while sipping
Coffee, smoking & remembering
Dreams
Remembering long ago conversations
On poetry, philosophy & history,
Remembering Learning to talk w crows
By Ron Whitehead &
Tom Waits ‘ Bone Machine echoes
Stars begin to fade from sight
Neck feeling the weight of worlds
Gravity like a mysterious dust
Dead skin collected from long
Lost stars
An hour later as if by schedule
A rapping early on my door
Longing & soft yet firm
A sweet midnight breath
In the madness of musing
I answered the strange moment
There, before me was a raven as big
As an eagle, a hellhound, whos leash
Was held by the perfect image of edgar
Allan poe
A panic chill like some one walked over my
“grave’’
Spontaneously mind recalls a time once telling
A 7th grade teacher; that like Poe
My pen would be the death of me
During a talk in which he introduced me
To Goethe & Faust
The teacher laughed, I had stayed after class
Cause he loved my essay on Nietzsche for his
English class
Yet in the present, I wasn’t laughing
Smiling YES; alas laughing
I was not
Faced with such a visitor on His birthday
Of all days
I let them in & sit back down on my brown
Barstool bought from the Goodwill
As if by telepathy , He also recalls the conversation
With my teacher
& adds that perhaps it be true
That some day all voices will gather
Traveling Lithe
Singing our ballads, odes & dirges
To the living creative fire
We are
The hellhound snuggles at His feet
& the raven chills next to Him perched
atop the television like something out of
A Bosch
After an hour or two of dialogue, & poetry
Where we agreed that the only real true
Freedom is found with in the creative imagination
& that most people never take the blinders
Off long enough to see any thing save their own
Lives; many other subjects were spoken
As daylight began to crawl in to the world
He bidding me fare well handing me a tug
Out of a transparent flask that appeared to be
Absinthe
I began to realize
That I have always been searching for Edgar Poe & his Raven
& the pen that wrote greatest united states literature
I light a cigarette, look at my dog; Sir Charlie Webfoot;
Now asleep under the bed
Still remembering the tapping, rapping , rapping
At my door this morn quite early
While the moon drifts with its fullness
Over southern Indiana
Rainy 3 a.m. (a spontaneous moan)
Rainy 3a.m. (a spontaneous moan)
Rain drops falling to pavement
Reflected from streetlights
The light shimmers beneath the dark
Sitting, electrified by hands of
Lightning descending from clouds
Another night of work done
Mind twisted and mangled like sails
In the storm, this body a boat
Churning in the invisible mood water
Of a sleepy Friday 3 a.m.
Southern Indiana breathes a wet
Sigh as the sky feeds the earth
Mind washed and yet still cluttered
I await the ride home to sit reading
Keats, Collins, and Ramey
Maybe even pen some new universe
That has never existed
Bleeding out in to the soggy parking lot
My thoughts flow
I collect them in to a cauldron to boil
Searching out the pure gold of
Human experience
_______________________
A spontaneous moan__//(just ask Corso)
Without hands strangling reality to fit the way the hands seem to think
it should all fit perfect and precise
the world will not fall apart...
it's a difference between rowing and capsizing...
without hands dragging time through the gutter, it really only
exists in transit as we move
frivolously against ourselves
breaking the tide; here I go again praying to
a god the people made neon
it reads
pain.
without these hands rifling through this soul
i don't think i'd ever get up
no coffee, just pillow
getting head and that's where it all went
down
without hands life is already chaos
it's already a mess
just ask
Gregory Corso.
It stays poop_ (for Rhiannon/Reid)
Trip trap, lost in the forest of relivin'- can not get past the battle wounds-
Can not get beyond the puss covered laceration down next to the soul.
There are often unremarkable images thrown up and out, that the pen dries
Up for the moment and there can be no recording.
Voice. Microphone. Tape. Like a conquering worm slithering
In and out devouring the consciousness, devouring all performed
Moans leaving only garbled mess of tongue between the ceiling & sky-
Levitational madness grips
the barbaric poet as he falls deeper in to the sky
Away from home
Away from reality
He was only an experiment
only a nightmare brought through worm shit-
But it stays poop- "it stays poop", you know just like it stays eternal
wings of change
brings strange transformations- Never does it remain one but many
Many many- Deja vu is i swear- it is proof of transmigration-
Proof of reincarnation- Proof of unfinished business chaining a thing to
Its imperfection
OMmmmmmmmmmm
Field report from a mountain (dec.62001 - written upon finding out Gregory Corso had died)
Field report from a mountain
For Gregory.....
I am climbing the roads to Avalon, and the mist
envelopes me, there are ghosts draining my veins of
joy
There are angels rifling my skullcap for thought
I am tattooed on the devils left hand, riding Cerberus
into dreams, feeding on the blood of stars,
can somebody tell me where the fuck I am.
this narrow hole , this pit where i am collecting dust.
come if you be my friends, talk to me, show me it
doesn't have to be one big shotgun blast
Now here this, you can not have my bones, those are
Calliope's, those are the bruised lovers in the cave,
and here, awe if I survive, is where the word will
last
so tell me do any of you see the arrow-headed moths
flapping there wings in the sky, wanton and hungry
for my white flag
Fuck it. come! here are the veins of sleep,
come friends feed on these hollow horizons,
I give it you, this dark tide,
where my silence becomes demons
where the pain resides
there's no salve for this wound, no patch to hide
thank you lovers for holding me at least for a second
there is no safety Gregory Corso, none; no muse to save
us from this melting pot dungeon
and where do we take the hymns of Osiris,or the harp
of the muses?
lol. I am rolling now, and the allies grow gnarled
tooth walls dreaming of my gluttonous taste
No more Gregory, no more do they weep or praise the
Frankenstein poet of the blind seraph,
and this is funny
old hollow men sitting on a shanty porch just out of
reach
out of reach, the hand of gods
Wolfpack Contributor: Merritt WaldonSome poems from Merritt WaldonPoem by Kushal Poddar : The Smile Craft (for Merritt Waldon)
Merritt Waldon. Born September 12, 1974 Madison, Indiana just few blocks from the Ohio river.
Born and raised by U.S. Air Force veteran of Viet Nam and his best friends sister. Merritt was almost named Stroh’s Waldon; after his dads favorite cheap beer after rotating back to world. As long as he has been able to hold a writing/drawing utensil he has dreamed of being a published writer. spending a lot of his late teens & early twenties traveling the united states & writing constantly, eventually returning to Indiana marrying having children divorcing marrying etc divorcing; still writing living . Has had work in Sun Poetic Times, Mojo Risin’, Beyond The Pale, One Hit, RoaDDawgz a magazine for the voice of the homeless ( under the pen name Ru mi), Smalltown Monthly, Crisis Chronicles, Cheap and Eazy Magazine, The Brooklyn Rail, Twizted Tungz, Fearless, Voices From The Fire, Bedroom Anatomy Lessons, The Rye Whiskey Review, The Black Shamrock, River Dog Magazine #1, FeversoftheMind, Be About It #18, Americans & Others anthology, A Cooch Behar American poetry Anthology, Strange Gods From The Prairie: A Gasconade Review Anthology, The Sparring With Beatnik Ghosts: OMNIBUS vol 1., and Cajun Mutt Press Features. He has three books of poetry published; Oracles From A Strange Fire co-authored by National Beat Poet Laureate Ron Whitehead published by Cajun Mutt Press, then Pistol City Blues & Madison Street Screams and Smoke Break Poems published by DeadManns Press Ink. 47, he lives and writes in Austin, Indiana.
Blind to street names, they drink, love & sleep
Killing time, mending silence & loneliness
the irresistible urge to feel another's
skin
Couches on fire with undiluted dreams
Eyes meet, music plays loudly
As she opens a mason jar full of memories
Haunted with beer breath kisses
& nude 3 a.m.'s, where minds idling
Become secret eternities
Mystic Candle Light
High pitched droning unfolding in to words
Toes drag across beige shag carpet
A cigarette burns in an ash tray where
Prophesy mingles up from finger into
The blue smoke
Dreams & vision warm themselves
Next to the mystic candle light
Nowhere awakens burgeoning
With deep song
Transcendent Eye Meditation
Sun slow cloud filled sky
Blue field golden pages
Dug out a cathedral like cosmos
Prophetic blue eyes
Stars emanating
Soaking in & consuming all
Projective realities
Transcendent eye
Formulating the song of ages
While imitating an Elder tree
Reaching for the sun
Sheltering the lost children
Of the future
Hymn to Sleep
Narcoleptic eyes burn
Air dehydrated against
fluorescent light
Necromantic power naps
Retrieving bulk messages
Written beneath our tongues
Perpetual Dream Machine (for Robert Desnos)
Troubling future now
A “woke” generation
Lost w/o true knowledge
Lost w/o robert desnos
& his perpetual dream
Machine
Bio: merritt waldon 47 year old poet from/lives southern indiana has been in quite a few publications has books by cajun mutt press Oracles from a strange fire co authored by Ron Whitehead, second Pistol City Blues published by Deadmans Press Ink.