Monday, September 07, 2009

New Work by Wayne H. W Wolfson

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.

"Triple X Theater" (ink&paper)

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.

"Le Millionaire" (pastel&paper)

- Wayne H. W Wolfson 2009
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