Hour of the Wolf
by John Sullivan
triage in Seattle at Broadway & Pine,
2nd night of the WTO (1999)
at 3 AM – a dying time for the people so a lot do die this hour
like a custom so it’s said: like hard time in the cry room for little baby Who’s
like a hot wire buried in the wound of all them little Who’s
(and so, the Why-so Big Who crawls into bed
with dying creatures: sin-eater raven empty
eyeless Big Who says “I’ll see you later,”
Big Who says, “look backward, look ahead, look
away,” Big Who also says, “your ghost is only
yours, so what’s the rub-a-dub, and why
you all so goddamn guileless?”)
old man, dark-skin cold-cold rain falls down
on an old man face-down in the street
shock grenades dumpster barricades full of flame
tear gas drift into neighborhoods tight around
the little Who’s throat coughs hard deep choking on it
(policia = heroina sprayed onto a stucco
wall in Barcelona back-a-days, the Big Who
sprayed me, shot me up with: What? With What?
“And so we all evolve alone,” or so says the
Big Bad Who)
dark-skin old man drops like a rock like a rubber
bullet hits him whoosh of gas final-flat-wallop
sharp ooof! of breath hits an old man right above
his right eye throbs it does (probably)
a deep gash above his right eye, throbs (probably)
drops him down, prone (probably) crawls, he sure, he tries (probably)
toward sanctuary at the bus stop
(The Big Who says “my art infects your life,
so suck it up” – that voice of The Big Who,
all up in my head your head
our head(s), together when
the Big Who says move it, you gotta’ go
do it, Big Who says “Move!” or Big Who’s
gonna’ hurt you bad hurt you bad
lay a long-time hurt-you-bad on you)
two girls one dark-skin, too one less-so, maybe white
maybe not drag the old man dark-skin gash above his right eye
throbs (probably) flat knocked-out (maybe) drag the old man onto
a bus stop bench to sanctuary (at Broadway & Pine)
one girl pulls off her sweater props his head on her sweater for sanctuary
from the cold-cold rain the other girl covers him up with her coat, covers him
up in the cold-cold rain with her coat for sanctuary and turn, they do
together jump back into Broadway into flash gust deep slash of grief
this anger night to fight The Cops again
(“Now I see you, again,“ says the Big Who
to me, says the Big Who, to you.
“Now, I see,” says the Big Bad Who,
“but I lie a lot, too. It’s what I do.
I’ll see you later on, again,”
says the Big Who to me,
says the Big Bad Who to you.)
The Cops! The Cops! squads of feet, flying of boots shouting, battle-bats
gizmos of pure pain and Big Creature will to use them right! in Houston
New York City Jakarta Moscow Beijing Minsk L.A. Seattle D.C.
in Barcelona, Spain
so what little Who would not run when The Cops say: Stop?
or what little Who, instead, juts her jaw stares straight ahead straight at The Cops,
says: Bring It!
(“ain’t no cold-cold grave
gonna’ hold my body down,”
“in your dreams,” says the Big Who,
again, straight up, to the little)
or what little Who else says no mas says scare me you may – you do
in fact – but another little Who is here to freeze to shiver to wait
for the big hit in fear? in mad resistance? to wait for what the little Who
never wants to get it ain’t no gift at all to wrangle inside and out
little Who with little Who with other little Who’s
and yet, another little Who says, yet again: “O-please don’t let my ghost survive me,
do not”
(so pray, now, maybe so
so pray, now, for sure-O
so pray, now: to some kinda’ Who-so-ever?
and ever, for little Who? all the little
Who’s? and Why-so?)
Listen! Listen up! The Po-Lice make a great roar square jaw
heavy brutal teeth a hell-gate unto Po-Lice beat their bats
on their shields make a roar no words: just big thick hard sound
like sharp rock cracks against no relief against your head big fear?
big resistance? up in your head club you back – club you down The Cops
unleash a great tribal roar: their boom-boom-boom cuts open
night and grief
(Big Who’s gonna’ tell you,
Big Who’s gonna’ tell you,
when Big Who says move it,
you best go do it:
“I’ll see you later,
I’ll see ya’all, once
again,” so says the Big Bad Who)
© John Sullivan
Madness Muse Press 