Articles by Wayne Wolfson
Can't Get Started
by Wayne Wolfson
I had been thinking of home when I died. “Do you want a drink now?" she asked. “A drink-drink?" “Mais oui." The modus operandi of an angel with a mean streak. How had I gotten here? Her place, I had been here once but that was as part of a crowd which became a roving party, stopped only by the first rays of a new day's sun. That ...
Continue ReadingBop Addict
by Wayne Wolfson
She clutched my hand deciding to worry about how to deny having done such a thing later. It was Sabbath's first time leaving Brooklyn and she was nervous. Of course I was all right, I had been until we were well under way and past the point of no return. Passing through customs had been fine as it could have been anyplace crowded by humanity for some kind of holiday sale or concert and did not feel of being somewhere ...
Continue ReadingRites of Spring
by Wayne Wolfson
Spring was the sweat running down the back of her legs. It is the pack of young dogs running down the street in their best clothes, new haircuts and fresh packs of smokes always kept in the left pocket of their sports coats. Ready to offer one up to a beautiful or willing lady, unwrapping the cellophane in front of her, the pack as yet unopened granting the illusion of being overly flush. There is plenty more where that came ...
Continue ReadingBrilliant Corners
by Wayne Wolfson
The last words of his hero still echoed in his ear but they brought no inspiration as there was a fear he had misinterpreted them. I met myself ten years from now on the Rue Grand Augustin. He did not have the patience to answer questions that he thought unimportant. Rolling his eyes at me; yes, I still hated throwing a hat away no matter how worn out it was. Looking at his watch he cut ...
Continue ReadingThe Harlequin Years
by Wayne Wolfson
I had been the third dreamer that she had lived with. Immediately preceding me, a 5'3" guitarist whose long hair was almost equal to his height but thinning, since it was taking him so long to “make it" as an established musician and then his friend, from a well to do family but considered incapable of ever running the family business. He was an art dilettante, plucking away at a bass and working menial jobs between allowance checks. ...
Continue ReadingCords
by Wayne Wolfson
Every person, friend, family, enemy and lover is a string, one end attached to you. Tethered to life. We go through our lives getting all tangled up. When someone dies the cord is cut. Gazing down, your hold the severed line in your hand and wonder about the cut. Even with the courage to go back to the opera in Vienna or that little bar with no name, it is no longer the same. Without that lifeline, everything ...
Continue ReadingFine and Mellow
by Wayne Wolfson
I head home. Even if I had, had money, I was just too tired to sustain the illusion that something, something may happen. Most days the possibility sustained me, that and the music. There was no place to go anyways. The rain made the sky waver. Off in the distance a plane, a dull gray bird no longer bothering to flap its wings. In-between showers, the wet pavement gave up its distinct perfume. My cigarette no ...
Continue ReadingWisdom of Loss
by Wayne Wolfson
It was the day after Paula's going home party. Helium worn away, one lone white balloon now shrunken and flightless, sits on a hedge looking like the bleached skull of a sacrifice from some pagan ritual.Even in my better moments there was a certain degree of fatalism, a lament for the finite.How many more kisses, late nights spent wandering the back streets behind the Pantheon. A march ending in predawn eggs cooked to a Zoot Sims ...
Continue ReadingStar Eyes
by Wayne Wolfson
Occupying the neighboring stools, people come and go; the tide of humanity gone thirsty. Cocktail umbrellas litter the bar lying to all of her good fortune. Cheap tobacco, blues, the girl I need you to be. She is a sphinx two drinks from leaving home. I suck in air trough my teeth to further the cooling effect of my drink's kiss. I have one set left to play and I may not go back to her ...
Continue ReadingRehearsing Lullabies
by Wayne Wolfson
For CaracolI am by the fountain where we used to meet, rehearsing lullabies. The man I could have been stares up at me from the surface. His head, surrounded by the gem like halo of the street's neon offering. Ah baby, I am sick again, get him to carry me home. While I wait, I rehearse lullabies for you to sing. His disapproving look brings down my foot, water seeping ...
Continue Reading
