Poetry: Selections from Isaac Wolfe

welcome to the indigo circus

damning and complaining

and damning and complaining

damning damning and complaining

and damning and complaining,

they fire off tickets by word-of-mouth.

 

in grocery store checkout lines,

in rush hour traffic,

at any social gathering

admitting an audience.

 

at mustard-shirt-stained baseball games,

while regaining cable access,

while competing with the Joneses,

or at the office.

 

their indigo circus pounces,

strips the stripes off tigers,

leaves the lions yawning,

the elephants forgetful.

 

their indigo circus maddens the clown car

murderous,

and they grill their ringleader as their first

vehicular victim.

…labors the tightrope slackened,

the ring of fire extinguished,

off-balances the acrobatics

and kills the crazed stunt artists.  

 

…leaves their crowds stampeding

themselves

into a mad frenzy,

turns the horrific proceedings

into their own blood orgy.

 

their indigo circus demands

their audience be devoured

by their blues,

while we search in lunatic panic

for any means to punch our tickets.

prey

time ticks with the mercilessness

of a dead mouse in the mouth of

a stray cat. messy, exanimate,

and gone before you know it.

I drink to it as if overindulging

in communion. Christ sits pissed

in the audience of my mind,

but he is lucky I invited him here

in the first place. I’m not religious.

but there is only so much one can do

before he asks for forgiveness in his

chamber of nothingness, in the

hollowness of his holy thoughts.

the work week stalks quietly

upon me, grows stronger

in the husk of my hangovers, hungry

in the wake of my anxiety.

my blood is pumping …

and I run across this line as if chased

by a predator.

with a desperation as stubborn as rigor mortis

they arrive with a feeling:

 

like soldiers into a desperate skirmish,

like needed quarters dropped into

a homeless man’s cup,

like free beers secured on a good night out,

like intoxicating books acquiring territory

on your bookshelf,

like bonuses you didn’t expect,

like memories you are glad you lived,

like a pantry filled with groceries,

or the less-than-expected price tag

for two new wheel bearings,

like quitting your job and writing out your woes

for a living,

like money in the bank,

bills paid,

and apples in the fruit bowl,

like a good woman wanting only

half of your soul,

like thruway freedom,

a full tank,

and something blasting on the stereo,

like childhood snowstorms and no work

to drive to,

like wine drunk writing frenzies

and no orange juice blues

to suffer through,

like mundane living glorified

by Fante or Bukowski,

those good hard lines arrive.

 

and I try to clinch them like a priest

dead

with a crucifix still

in his hand.

funny

immortality delusions

during graveyard visits.

Three Olives bottles,

no food in the kitchen.

Sunday service trends

like fashion statements

to Saturday’s sluts.

 

Fireball bursting

in a Phoenix gas station.

miscalculated grieving

by a family accountant.

a decorated official

in an empty apartment,

drinking a neat whiskey.

 

tin can dreams

on a yellow brick road.

book burnings featuring

Nooks and Kindles.

a CD skipping on

Tempo Circle.

getting T-Boned while

listening to Soft Kill.

a perfect picture framed

slightly crooked.

rainbows wished upon

in oil puddles.

1984 by George Orwell,

for we certainty

couldn’t be subjected

to that sort of treatment.

 

American health care

insurance,

the expense of everyday

existence,

the rent,

the cable,

the electric,

crusading like some

all-encompassing directive

from the National Grid

Gods,

or the Spectrum Serpents,

the Landlords,  

or the Federal Government,

each wrangling in my dollars

like dizzy wild horses

and laughing at my confusion

for living.

 

funny,

like your rejection letter stating

“we would like to read

more from you

soon.”

Isaac Wolfe is a charismatic deadbeat and occasional observer of life. If asked for enlightenment, he will point to the obituary section of the local newspaper; for knowledge, to the mechanic, carpenter, electrician, plumber, or tradesmen; for life advice, perhaps the town drunk or an overpass bum or a man who has just lost his love. His bucket list includes bar brawling with Bukowski, painting by numbers with Van Gogh, and people watching with Picasso. Train Wrecks on Polaroid, his debut chapbook, was published by Two Key Customs in 2022. His work has also been published by Laughing Ronin Press and Wild Roof Journal and is forthcoming from House Journal.