New Writing and Art from Wayne H. W Wolfson

Kaiser Mélange

I know of the Cheetah who lives on the limbs of the tree behind the building. Your kisses can trap him. The eyes are the secret, a vertical truth. Stars, the spots on its coat. Always, you must set him free at first light.

There is a bleary eye, the color of a cigarette tip. The record player light. Hours before, the needle had stuck and I listened to the same Strauss aria over and over, until finally admitting a dawn defeat, I got up, humming, and put a stop to it. As to not appear completely beaten, I did leave the machine on though.

Dawn won’t quit, her last resistance, the small spear of light laid to rest at the bottom of the door.

Last night she had called me to have drinks in the hotel bar when there were no tourists to hunt.

There were always things she felt that she had to tell me, although none of it was true. She always thought I would cherry pick her incidents of heart ache for my stories.

Why pretend to care one way or another? How often had I sat in the café across from the hotel which still had a piano of Wagner’s in the lobby, two Kaiser Mélange, waiting for all her work to be done? She knew, she knew and could have used this to win, but never did.

It is now so late that it is early. I lay there with my eyes still closed. Below a car loudly idles, a dog barks. Through two slits, I now watch her. She briefly looks at me, trying to decide if I am truly asleep, quickly she aims her nose at her shoulder and inhales, then she pockets the money which earlier she had assured me that “she could not possibly take”.

Quietly, she closes the door behind her.

Ah, baby there is a cat in the anisette, a lie in your heart, the piano is broken. It is all us, it is all fading night and tired eyes, the spotted coat of a cheetah.

"Rue du Temple" (pastel&paper)

Black Swans and Stars

After all these years, there is still a sort of defeat in winning. I had to go into exile, I kept bumping my head on the roof of the city. Everyone else preferred to stay small and could not understand my complaining.

Exile, I won and now I was spending time with her. My punishment? Or maybe I just thought too highly of myself. I did not want to repeat the same old patterns and so kept my circle of friends small.

Enza was always around and sort of fell into my orbit by default. She had two small black swans tattooed on the back of her neck, heads bent as if supporting hers.

At first I thought she had been pulling my leg about never reading. She often had no idea what I was talking about but liked listening to the sound of my voice.

We fucked but usually as an almost after thought to the night. We found plenty of other things to argue about.

I had just met my deadline, editor happy, I now had the illusion of freedom.

Enza had a new scarf which she was anxious to dirty up. We went out.

The drinks were the prize, winners, losers; the only difference was who had gotten caught.

She tells me about her day, none of that matters.

I am talking to me again through her, a two drink chorus. Now she is just letting me talk. No matter how clear my thoughts, I can not get the stars to reflect off of my fingers.

She has to run off for a moment, probably to score. The waiter with sleepy eyes which people mistake for wisdom watches her go.

Under the awning the heater is snapped on, Votives are lit. I have won and now have nowhere to go. It is not for Enza, I sit at my table and wait. It is for yesterday but a specific one, a far older one than that which carried me empty handed, into today.

My fingertips read the table as of brail. Eyes now wander down, the surface, stars, lattice holes which allow me to see my shoes, their hunger, starving.

I could have another drink. I do not wait, for anything. That first kiss, music of our youth, twirling her on the dance floor, red dress blossoming out with the undulating current of her motion, that first kiss with her, ours.

Believe me, it isn’t coming around anymore. I have forsaken or forgotten it all anyways. How could I not, knowing it would be I who broke that fragile shroud of memory.

Enza comes back smelling of smoke. Her pupils are two large, black pools which when seen from certain angles reflect the stars.


- Wayne H. W Wolfson 2009



One of Bluepepper's most beloved contributors, Wayne H.W Wolfson is an American artist and poet who has just returned from his annual sabbatical in Paris.