Category: 1

~Instance of Id~

09/17/2011

~the soul is left to wander~
~dazed & confus’d searching~
~Jim Morrison~

~there is an ethical aristocracy just as there is a spiritual one~
~Nietzsche~

~children as our conscience~
~spirit guide intentional~
~WordWulf~

~Instance of Id~

At some very deep and necessary level, my children have been essential masters of my spirit. The singer in me might have sung himself to death, the writer written himself over the edge to the other side. Harley Davidsons, brothers of the blood, cocaine nights and meth weekends would surely have claimed me, consumed me body and soul.

Staring into campfires shared with night riders never compared to family camps, marshmallows, snipe hunts, shaking bushes and grizzly bear growls. What a thrill, the handsome squeals of boys and girls afraid to be scared, delighted to be so (and safe). Always my children’s eyes have been in the campfire speaking, “It’s okay, Daddy, come on home now. We are waiting, faces in the window.”

Not being a man of virtuous patience, I have led a full life with the hammer down. Standing in line leaning on a shovel, burying fellow madmen over the years, I have wondered what made me different from the good men died, that shovel full of dirt on the last mortal door slammed shut.

Freud described the psychic apparatus as being composed of three parts, three theoretical constructs. According to his model the id is the uncoordinated instinctual self, ego the “now,” organized and realistic piece. Lastly, the super ego is critical and moralizing.

In consideration of this philosophy my super ego has most times been staring into the eyes calling out from the flames. My damned ego was dancing around the fire, flames spewing from the spout of a five gallon gas can. It howled until it could howl no more then took gulps of gas and spit flames into the face of the night and the astonished crowd ducking and moving on the dance floor. Within the undeniable hunger to create and survive, I find my id, a deep well of desire for creativity, no value judgments, a reservoir of no fear.

Such a place in a manmade like the man I am would demand a kind and attentive master. Shot at, stabbed and run over, six decades of life behind me, I understand at last who they are, these keepers, how well I find them and me in their eyes.

http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com & wordwulf@wordwulf.com

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~Come Weigh the Night~

09/07/2011

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~Come Weigh the Night~

~poor folks aspire to the common~
~just out of reach~
~hunger & failure wear them down~
~they snarl at their children~
~quit bitching~
~you’re alive~
~aren’t you~
~the answer to that question~
~yes~
~the one deeper sadness~
~ready to go~
~never begun~

~Come~

~we were born gathering stones~
~piling them into burlap bags~
~hefting the bags onto our backs~
~toiling up steep inclines~
~past lilacs & hummingbirds~
~to the tops of modern day pyramids~
~where masons wait impatiently~
~to place stones in the wall~
~down we go through the streambed~
~dammed up & damned down~
~stone whistle~
~holding our water~

~Weigh~

~our fathers before us knew~
~the empirical weight of masters~
~hollow rewards & always~
~the whip & the threat of the whip~
~biting into flesh~
~mind & spirit~
~now the masters’ masters’ children~
~are the new royalty~
~their hands soft & born to wield the whip~
~we are dispatched to slay~
~whomever they say~
~& be slain ourselves past fields~
~of butterflies and katydids~

~The Night~

~a man feels it happening~
~something snaps inside~
~that feeling~
~“I can’t lift that bag o’ rocks no more”~
~the sly ones carry half-bags~
~fooling themselves, “The bosses won’t notice”~
~the not-so-sly fall down~
~literally break under the load~
~everybody knows what happens~
~to the sly and the not-so-sly~
~you dig that damned hole~
~take a rock out of the bag~
~use a two-fisted grip~
~smash it into your face~
~past the ant-lions and head-lice~
~you fall yourself down~
~your brothers carry you~
~sons cover you up~
~sisters & daughters~
~come weigh the night~

http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
~good tidings, Momma~

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~Come Weigh the Night~

06/29/2011

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~ poor folks aspire to the common ~ just out of reach ~
~ hunger & failure wear them down ~ they snarl at their children ~
~ quit bitching ~ you’re alive, aren’t you ~ the answer to that question ~
~ yes, the one deeper sadness ~ ready to go ~ never begun ~

~Come~

We were born gathering stones, piling them into burlap bags, hefting the bags onto our backs, toiling up steep inclines past lilacs and hummingbirds to the tops of modern day pyramids where masons wait impatiently to place stones in the wall. Down we go through the streambed, dammed up and damned down, stone whistle, holding our water.

~Weigh~

Our fathers before us knew the empirical weight of masters, hollow rewards and always the whip and the threat of the whip biting into flesh, mind and spirit. Now the masters’ masters’ children are the new royalty, their hands soft and born to wield the whip. We are dispatched to slay whomever they say and to be slain past fields of butterflies and katydids.

~The Night~

A man feels it happening that feeling, “I can’t lift the bag no more”. The sly ones carry half-bags, fooling themselves, “The bosses won’t notice”. The not-so-sly fall down, literally break under the load. Everybody knows what happens to the sly and the not-so-sly. You dig that damned hole, take a rock out of the bag, use a two-fisted grip, smash it into your face. Past the ant-lions and head-lice you fall yourself down. Your brothers and sons cover you up, sisters and daughters come weigh the night.

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~Momma's Truck/The Coloradoan~

06/27/2011

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~ we were city folks ~ my stepdad grew up on a farm ~
~ bought a rundown ranch in Wyoming when he retired ~
~ Momma asked what I wanted of her things when she passed away ~
~ I refused to consider an answer ~ I said simply ~
~ I don’t want your stuff ~ I want you ~

~Momma’s Truck/The Coloradoan~

It was six months, Momma, before I found the courage to knock the Wyoming mud off the wheels of your truck. It was six months more, today in fact, before I cleaned the inside. I found a penny under the floor-mat

and a book of notes written in your hand. They are where you left them, as much a part of the truck now as the wheels and doors.

She cleaned up real nice, Momma. My son, my Tommy, tuned ‘er up and she runs real nice. I told you I would never accept a thing if you left us and I meant every word. It was a wise and sage move on your part to put the title in my name as well as your own. I’m glad you did. There’s no way I could ignore that. Aside from my old Hawg she’s the only vehicle I’ll ever drive.

It was difficult for me when you followed your man to Wyoming to spend your last years on that far hardscrabble ranch. I tried to go with you but returned to Colorado less than a year later. Yes, Colorado, my home, the place where I was born and raised by your loving hands. I’ve never owned a license plate with a cowboy on it but yours hangs in a place of honor over the back of my bed.

That Ford of yours looks good with mountains front and back and I keep my share of your ashes in a black box on my desk. My siblings followed your wishes and spread theirs on that Wyoming wind you said never blew.
Forgive me this bit of selfishness. It is true, I’ll never let you go. I’ve asked my wife and children to put me in that box with you when the time comes and keep us together always in close proximity to my writing and music.

I used that picture of you and dad, 1949, Hideaway Park, Colorado, where I was conceived, for the cover of my second novel, “Frail Monsters/Wounded Souls: American Camp: Momma’s Rain.” I’m a Coloradoan, Momma;
so are my sons and daughters. It is a good place to be from, so good, in fact, I will never leave and so are you, a wonderful place to be from. I think you knew I’d eventually bring you home and spend the rest of my life finding my way back into your arms.

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