I am a photographer in NYC that loves to travel. I would like to create awe inspiring, intensely vivid images that force the observer to question sexuality, identity, and boundaries....enjoy.

Wednesday, September 29, 2010

"Fevers in the cemetery" - by N.H. Wolfe

Fevers in the cemetery.

Fevers in the garden.

Life and death both make me sweat.

The trick is to get this whole town to hallucinate with me.

Then everybody could see you all the time. And nobody would ever have
to ask me again why it is I love you.

And soldier cannibals: Little-bittie gunboys crouched in elephant
grass itching their ass.

They wear evening gowns and Kalashnikovs and they say they’ll eat your
heart right out of your chest.


Be my guest.

This is the document.
Every song a siking monument

Irregular body temperature, tightness in my chest and a twitchy,
fluttery little heart.

Still it’s nice to know that you’re there sometimes.

One night we got so bored we called the cops on ourselves. We put on
black hoodies and gave them a good chase into the middle of those
woods. All in all not a bad night.

Something bringing together all of these different stories about
political turmoil and genocide and massacre.

And heartbreak.

Well, it didn’t kill me but I couldn’t quite say that I’m any stronger.

No worse off than when I came I suppose.

Wist ye not that I must be about my father’s business?

Children of God.

Operation Blue Star.


There’s something on the block, around the bend, past the corners,
under the alleys and above the rooftops of this cold winter city.

Something lingering and waiting patiently.

I can feel it. Come on feel it with me.

The autopsy report revealed numerous large skid marks…on the victim’s

I’m a driver. I’m a winner.

Things are gonna change.

I can feel it.
And the mascara that dripped on my pillowcase.

Now I understand Mr. Pollock.

I’m sorry miss Jackson.

Nothing is real.

Oh yeah. Put that in the report too.

“Morgellon’s disease? Nigga please! I got kids to feed.”

This is the document.

Puttering with my precariously paired preoccupations and pedantic
pontifications. She picked a predatory pretender as protector. The
poor man’s Pol Pott perhaps?

I remember almost all of you in dreams
And very little else or so it seems.
I don’t recall at all the day or night you left
So this will have to be the document

Sprouting from doubt is a mountain of old, dead lockets. It’s a land
filled with heirlooms and the stink of hilarious death and life, you
could cut through the vibe with a knife. They’ll be young lads out
here on the corner, memorizing frayed bits of poetry, some which I
might feel inclined to write down on here or spray painted on the
cantalever, at the edge of the house from where we promised this God
we wouldn’t wander. There’s a flock of painters up here on the second
floor getting a pretty good picture of the war. The windows and doors
will stay locked and we’re stocked up on groceries, and I’ve had
enough mani-petties in the last month to last through the year. The
girl wanted someone to take her fishing. It doesn’t seem so
unreasonable to me. Though it’s hardly feasible in the San Fernando
Valley, where it’s hard to find anything that flows at all.

Even the air’s gotta be sucked from the little grooves where it hides
if you should happen to  even care to survive. It’s easy enough for
all of us come reach the other side alive but what hurts and what
kills us is just the memory of what we survived. 1
I had a bride to be, I had brothers in fraternity, I had a pot full of
tea and a quickly fading memory of the days that we built, of the
blood that we spilled and how little all of it really mattered to me.

I’ve forsaken things far greater than her. And I’ve laid waste to more
beauty than most people even think exists in all of this. Now you’re
just another tired set of eyes staring back into the black of this
 Are too proud to allow me a little bittie kiss goodbye? Too shy? If
your answer runs to neither I’ll be glad to tell you why. By this
time, we are both old enough to know what most of the show looks like.
I am pitching my tent, I have run fresh out of rent, and I’m pretty
sure that you were meant to have come back to me by now. Your still
lifes don’t look quite right: a slice of life inside a slice of old
food. Or maybe I’m just not in the mood for something bold. The
landscapes are just aping our fears. The rolling plains look insane,
and the sun is just a blunder of ugly bright color and far too much
heat. The insane paintings of a lass who honestly believes this
poverty is just a fad, and all this season’s colors are just sad. And
it’s sexy to be mad, so she’ll let me. This old elevator goes straight
up to the gallows of another’s desire. And this sad old streetcar will
only go as far as the graveyard, she inspired. Now I can see how this
old world gets us all to trade our souls and most important, and
vital, and difficult thoughts, for recompenses of petty, and facile
and childish pursuits like her and you, and all the rest of us. It
takes a real swerve to avoid this all just to preserve the simple
sanctity of memory. And It’s especially hard with to get around this
stone mountain of old dead memories, you left for me in the backyard.

It can be as twisted and slanted as any of us damn well like it. What
sort of man is it who scares himself away with the sound of his own
horn? A man with no plan…and a pair of rusty old saxophone hands. It’s
as if I’ll never ever break away from you, you horny toad, you boring
and late Amtrak tram, stopped suddenly at dusk amid a golden pool of
dying pines, and I think it’s time to push rewind, pull this train
back along it’s hairpin axis, as curved and long as a pirate’s blade.
And CUE: Dancers in full body suits of opaque white latex, exchanging
a multitude of costumes and silly social graces all the way from the
back of coach to the nose of this Amtrak train. When the Frankenstein
monster from the faded baseball diamond, the perfect kind of monster
to cross the lines we keep in our mind and burst in on us NOW!

 The room is always dark and so when we look in we tend to bend from
side to side…don’t we? A distant laugh track, a mile or so back down
our lollipop-guild lollipop path. Light seeps in from the bottom of
the doorway to black, and that faraway laugh track is back carrying
whispers, winding waves sounds, and whistles with it, till all of it
passes leaving nothing but silence behind it. “Shhhhh!!” “Shhhh!”

The silence that comes at the end of a war is a big and sad and silent
blast that’s tick tick tick tick boom and silent songbird
pitter-patter-pow-wow-art is sweet and subtle enough to shatter all of
our glass hearts and leave the sun-slicked city street littered with
whatever’s left behind…a jigsaw-jumble of jagged shards, asphalt as
diaphanous as I’d imagine diamond dust to be if I didn’t already know
for a fact that it was just
Nobody ever really comes back.

The end of the war ties your tongue to the back of your throat; Ties
your heart to the back of your soul, it melts the sandcastles with
heavy fog, like a big, steamy, steamroller of a lawnmower. It was a
handsome cop that caught my attention at that big fat, frothy,
frosty-mug of a parade they just up and threw in the frozen blue of a
winter afternoon, with snow-flake ticker-tape, Homecoming Hearse
floats dragging ass like tall grass in the path of the underwater
breeze, like something maybe you’ve felt and everybody sees. The
whispers tumbling down from in between the highest leaves on only the
tallest trees, “Strange,” you think. “I didn’t feel a breeze.” An
errant paratrooper, a rogue falling man, sputtering and spinning
wildly in the lawless air which lies atop the white sea, he lands in
Alaska in the 70’s amid the mercenary chaos which had followed the
construction of the Trans-Alaskan Pipeline through every bend, twist,
Dip-di-dip-di-dip, and ramalamadingdong of it’s peppered pied-piping,
permafrost-pounding, petroleum-promising, evermore-plummeting path
toward progress, toward prosperity, and toward Polaris, north. The
Guide for the lost through the of darkest of nights, night light of
the northern sky, The frozen devil’s tiny diamond eye. A standing
ovation of sparkling rain-wine, dancing stardust valentines,

Oh eye patch
Give me o me (my soul) another chance
Drumbeat come come complete me
Oh, come and hum another chance (for me)

Oh I can’t kill, or cheat, or cry
For a reward,
But thank the lord
Oh I will,
For at least I still can lie
O Come in here
Come and hear
Oh I can lie! I can lie!
So I guess that I’ll survive another year
Perchance I fear, for us to suffer and to dance.
Oh we will suffer
To be sure,
But perhaps this time we’ll dance

Fire spins in slashing and metallic orbits around the polaris and
solaris diamond eyes of a clay death’s head in the Mexican night,
twisting orbits of flame cutting through a heavy blanket of rainfall,
a telegram “But I will pull out of all of this in Taormina, under
Etna.” A dog snarling and growling and barking with it’s fangs
exposed: Junkyard Johnny, Carter The Wolfman, Icer Greenbelt (Jew),

Barroom window, all fogged up, faint neon-red glow from within,
intensifies its glow as a finger scrawls the title in the fog of the
window “I Want To See The Bright Lights Tonight” “The Great Shark

Flashes of things far away and then close up. You tap towards the
reflection of your fingertip in a doorknob, swooping in and out of a
planet, zooming in and out of a planet quickly and to the beat.

Ahab was a man who didn’t know his shoe size, or rather failed to
realize that the rather abrupt and gruesome amputation of his leg
which had occurred (Aug. 19) aboard The Trudeau, off the very tippy
top of the big toe in the what they often call the boot of Italia
(which is clearly just a worn and warty old foot in a frayed and
stinky old sock to anyone who bothers to look close enough, I was a
soldier then, or rather, what felt like an actor playing a soldier
nearly all of the time. Stationed in and off of italy, holiday leaves
in Rome, the RLS’s (Raving Lost Souls) wailing and cooing a chaotic,
callithumpian caucophony, a coughing and clumsy old Chorus of
Corinthian Cry-babies Co-opting Cot Cusack’s complete control, (like
any actor who knows their role). In the village was the lonely widower
Icer Greenbelt, whose Kosher butcherie glowed white like a sacred
stone in the Obertyn night, A flood of light flowed damp through the
spotless air of the frozen, butchered dead, in too-bright-a-light,
really, a desperate deluge of broken levee light as pure and noble as
an ocean of spitballs poured over with invisible blood, translucent
viscera, and all manner of creepily Cleanly Carnage camouflaged
between each and every cleaver-creased cuttingboard counter, trying
their hardest to lay low below the pale glow of crisscrossing
colorless currents, tearless clouds and dead rainbows in shades of
black and white, those dancing dusty rust-shaded haloes that somehow
seemed to welcome you to  “Icer Greenbelt’s One Star Cut Studio.”

Thanksgiving Day Ray as an excessively violent piper.

A Pied Piper.

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