The Outer Wolf


I wrote while listening to this.

Nothing owes me, not even my experience. We see it around the corners, I feel it in my body, the extensions of grace swoop up the prey, and I devour that feast. That bird can’t fly alone, the hunters run without aim, without cause, just a simple need to swallow the energy, consume it like waters flowing down the chests of a beautiful body, becoming liquid in its cascade of no expectations. My arms angle animalistic rituals, my tongue a string, the fish bite, I pull them up into the large circus of matter, molecule, and a lavish hush. We fly away like mother taking food to the nest. Your cameras can’t capture this, or pretend to identify it later in memoriam. I beat the nest drums, circle it again, and again. My hips move, bend, fold into a ball, pop like clichéd triangle tattoos.

So burst, watch the cattle dazzle themselves at the food troughs of their abhorrent America. You’re still, why the bodies move in fast forward, the lights blink, the engines signal, the hearts never stop to feel it. This city will eat you alive, and the woods are so loud you become blind, and only the outer wolves will signal you home. They will protect you from you, and themselves. They communicate with the face of the mountain, their dens inside the valleys of content, without ever having to change. They just howl, they just send the signal, its through the smoke, its in the fire, its below your feet in the street, its in all of us. My wolf hasn’t come home in years, but in the distance, the faint sounds of willingness are revealing his cast, he is alive and on the hunt. I just have to keep creating, and we will be one, again.

They’ve warned me about the clinging witch vibrating in colors. A vivid dream flashing, the crowd eyes surfing, a potential, thick enough to choke it forever, until its gone into another ethers wet spot. Good luck, it’s a forest of wonderment, grab a limb.

My muse is exploding like a heroine fix, your world is folding into spaces I’ve never seen. Those messages dance in the heat of it, we bake cakes, we eat it, then digest the algorithm. Warned, again and again, bemused to death like a marble rolling down fresh concrete. We can go miles, my hand prints locked in for a while. Hold nothing for fear, let it go for yourself. Hold the story for yourself, reading it to anyone willing to listen. Scream, roll down the brush while the whipping limbs scar your face until it fades to red. Your fucking dead now, your matter, earths nourishment, as it births a spec of dust.

I woke up around 4am. My eyes barely open enough to piss all over the toilet seat. The lists in my head playing like a poorly timed jazz band, the squeaks and squawks, the face, god damn…the face. It looks at me in the shadey winters of a mostly simple room, I see it clear like the sunrise, my hand on its cheek.  I puzzle, I stumble into the fresh new home my body has been drilling down for days; a penetrating allure of a gypsy dancing on top of me, tentacles suction the life, the invisible marks on my skin. The music, play the music, repeat the music, digest the music, become the music, don’t live there, RUN!

I turn on into real life, the monitor screens and speaker lights waiting for the orchestration of my hands. Let the build breathe for a few bars, let the sounds elapse and delay your brain to death, as the organic percussion shakes, jingles, and claps beyond the electronics. I hear the patters of my boys feet, they too are haunted by the early beauty of the dark morning hues. The life is a muse, many souls, many hands to hold. I turn to look toward this medium city, but now I see it differently. I want more than the standard level of consciousness. I want to eat the muse, and then be done with this life. I want it intense and funny.

“You want some apples son?”



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