Waiting For Werewolves
I can never find you.
I look and look and look, certainly not torture in such a place, but can never find you.
Lost, every time, amongst so many square faces, not one whispering a hint.
I so look forward to seeing you.
You are my first wander on a day of what will be many.
You have a disciple in me, to be sure.
On one pilgrimage, again after some looking, I feared
you might’ve been shipped off to live somewhere else.
Do you travel in a case so formidable, like the one that
crated the DaVinci dog paws?
I should certainly hope.
I need my secret wandering spots.
This place is like the chamber sets of catacombs, but
with inks and oils where skulls should be.
Ladies and gentleman and birds from the hunt.
Salvation and damnation and visions of the dead.
I pass by some because they have too many colors, but am seduced by simplicity, deep into others.
Magnets grasp filings from my iron eyes.
Are they talking to me?
I’m sure Mussorgsky’s pictures had entire conversations with him.
But where, o, where, is your corner?
It’s just through the door, and a hook to the left.
You’re alone on your wall, alone at night.
I recognize that ballerina.
I’ve been in this room.
When I find myself in the land of littler lands, smelling the mineshaft overgrowth and feeling the hot sun on the sandy temple stone as I take part in tree trunk academics, I know I’m close.
However, I still need assistance.
Every time I ask, they know neither where you are nor who your father is.
During my last visit’s search, I think I woke a young woman from a standing slumber.
Still standing, yes, and impressive, but drooling.
“I would check around that area,” if I may paraphrase, not that it matters, her uselessness will not change with a proper quote.
So I checked.
There I was, once again, the ballet recital.
You have a beacon within you, its color and luminescence locked on the back of my eye.
I need you to guide me toward the rocks, and into your tempestuous arms.
Do I need to ask the nearby totems?
I certainly would.
What an honor to sit humbly before such awesome animalmenanimalmenanimalmen.
I want those carved faces to stare me straight in the eyes before the day is done-
Ah! Here you are!
Here you are.
They need to get a bench.
You are something else.
I am exhilarated, and I am intimidated.
There is so much happening.
I wish I had a crown with eyes where gems should be.
I am the guest, the passer-through, the tiny man.
A brief bow of my head, for the rocks are slick.
I will step with caution and attempt to disturb nothing.
The air is cool with preparations for winter.
A startling mist greets my face every now and again.
Shocking every time, but I don’t mind.
It reminds me that I’m in a wild place, a place that takes breaths.
A chilly kiss from a titan, and a warning that I am so small.
On it rides the strong scent of cone-bearers.
Are they your sentinels, keeping a high watch for unwanted poisons?
If they’re watching me, and I can guess that they are, I don’t think they miss much, tell them I’m here as a friend.
I wouldn’t last long if they thought otherwise.
I want to stand with them and beneath them and enjoy them.
You should certainly feel safe.
How long have their roots been digging?
Hundreds of years?
Thousands of years?
Do numbers even apply?
They are confident and steady and faithful.
As anchors hold fast, their spiny tops are battered by the worst of it.
This wind is causing them to bend so and challenge the balance of the juvenile limbs.
I’m expecting to hear a harsh snap any second.
But I won’t, will I?
I don’t think that’s a loyalty that bleeds and fades.
Those needles are certainly not dipped or coated, but rather saturated with newborn greens, forever awake.
I have foreign dust in my eyes, so the infinitely real seems unreal.
That’s my poison.
Truth. That’s all it is.
I know some change must come.
You thrive in flux.
You are flux.
That mist clings to these rocks.
An exposed bony architecture to guide a bringer of change.
I think I’m going to stay on this side.
Walk its banks, but not cross.
I don’t need to cross.
I‘m not here to bathe and rinse off my dust.
I wouldn’t want someone to spit into my blood.
And I only have one pair of boots.
And I bet it’s very cold.
Where does it start?
Or where did it start?
Does starting even apply?
A cloud-high peak on which sit gods and goddesses on thrones of snow within halls of ice?
Sculpting its way free from the deepest rock lairs, re-mapping the underworld?
It sure knows its purpose.
Its aggression is necessary.
It has to be so many places at once.
Even in this limited light, it is so clean.
Impatient melted glass courses through a craggy artery.
So many irregular faces are looking right back at me.
Light orange-brown and white-veined.
Marked and scarred, not a twin among them.
Some stab upward, some accept compromise.
They probably love it down there.
There is a definite thing churning above me, but I don’t have to tell you.
It has weight and mass.
These dense smoky cousins have pushed their puffy cotton relatives aside.
They roll and fold and roll as if being kneaded by great hands never satisfied.
Lighter, more delicate groups attempt to move forward, but are swallowed and then expelled by their leviathan brothers.
Expelled, not destroyed.
I have always been fascinated by such fronts, so intense and so affective, capable of impressive change in seconds, and sometimes leaving just as fast.
Flanks of messengers ride in, deliver some very wet correspondence, and are then gone.
I know these are a part of you, but I get the impression that they sometimes stir up trouble.
The drunk friend that gets a little loud?
However, you can’t put them in a cab home.
They have a plan.
You certainly keep me on my toes.
My friend, my friend with the good German name, met you and said she expected to see werewolves run by.
Misty breath passes through moonlit teeth.
If you have those kinds of things prowling around in here, even better.
Were those dog paws?
There’s something else.
This is the closest I’ve ever been, and I’m tentative.
What’s going on in there?
It doesn’t flicker and it doesn’t dim.
So much bright strength, it must have quite a personality.
And like everything else, impressively clean and potent.
There is a serenity, but different than the black glass of a night lake.
More of an equilibrium reached by witnessing the kinetics of a pure state.
If I dipped my hand in, would I pull back a treated palm or fingers seared for my intrusion?
Is it the master of this place?
Is there a master?
Does master even apply?
Maybe just a reclusive comrade of yours, only now tilting its head for a peek at me?
Will it mind that I’m here?
What the hell am I going to do if it does?
A place that takes breaths, to be sure.
Where have I wandered?
What is coming?
Is something coming?
When I go, I’ll walk out in my old footprints and fill them in.
If I can’t, I’ll need to build a shelter.
Either way, I’ll wait.