Tell me this grove will protect me
From World Trade Towers Lightning forking the brain
Why are there trains under the grass
And my butt is wet
Why do you constantly interrupt yourself
My rhythm is the rhythm of interruption
I walked down Wall Street tonight and it felt
As if someone was walking inside me
Another person taking steps for me
Fuck you who told me I couldn’t write
September Eleventh poetry I’m moving
To Eleventh Street I’m breathing again
The world will become a new City
People will hug in the street Elizabethanly
We will invent a new language together
Queen Elizabeth will return from her coven
Covent Garden and all will sing opera La Boheme
on the steps of the Federal Building joining hands
Why are there trains rumbling beneath this grass The Love Interest Woman will not die of T.B. at the end of La Boheme the snow will go away and we will find it again in our pencilcases when we awake firstgraders sweating the first day of first grade and Happy Birthday William Carlos Williams September Seventeenth Two Thousand and Ten How old would you be today what would you say about the towers would you believe me if I told you the unburied dead of Wall Street one of them walked in me took my steps is this my flesh peripheral vision greenery wolverines gnawing at me and vomiting me up a new man with powers to heal Wolfman Librarian Wolfman Wolfman Librarian Wolfman Welcome to the world to heal Happy Birthday Librarian Wolfman go to heal Now Wolfman Librarian go to heal or else lose all your fur and emerge pink with a pus groaning along your collarbones-- Aliens! but not from the video games--The Alien you are is here can you hear him you are him Wolfman Librarian you are her you are not a man a Wolfman or a Librarian
You are a woman Welcome to your first assignment of healing the whole world listening to all the cries of the world KUAN YIN BODHISATTVA no you aren't her you are a manifestation of her are you you are Wolfman Librarian wake up you want to know why there are kerosene torches by the fountain ask one ask the flames ask the flames lie down and nap and find yourself after years of searching napping on the grass the subway rumbling beneath you seven earthquakes have happened and entering from the left Snowman Ice-age How cute of you to bring in The Snowman From The Machine Snowman Ex Machina to wrap up the ending but I just cut his head off with my frisbee. Bill, happy birthday, Dr. Owl, Do you believe Don't you know I felt a spirit
of the unburied Twin Towers dead walking inside me on Wall Street and I could not wake up for long enough to tell you I must pause and nap My Wolfman paws tearing apart the notebook given to me by the librarian gone fishing I'm not listening I'm letting the talk dead through me The dead talking to me remove my eardrums and replace them with earbuds Walkman Disco Fist throbbing in my head I release you and get my eardrums back The peripheral greenery wolverines are eating me and vomiting me up onto a mound where pieces of me are sucking at each other and sticking together to form a new man with the power to heal everybody even with his trembling actor hands Wolfman Librarian, a man is walking inside you who jumped from the South Tower 54th floor who is he he just jumped again you are jumping together SPLAT NO NO NO
you are scaring yourself too much
Wolfman END OF HORRORSHOW Librarian
you look very suspicious in your big beard
and grey backpack are you a suicide bomber
No I’m Wolfman Librarian HEAL IN MY GLOW.
A saxophone player blows NAIMA
by John Coltrane on the Twin Towers side of
this park. He plays me home
just when I thought I would have to
listen to the dead forever.
But I’m already home.
But I only know it because of
The wolverines are gone
sitting on the grass how do you feel
Like the trains rumbling beneath
my feet are turning leaves.
That’s nice but how do you feel now
about preferring nothing, having no opinions.
That’s just a lot of Zen shit.
I love my companions, that’s all, I’m Wolfman
Librarian and I’m a woman
Don't let this dick fool you. It is a pen I fuck with The dick is just there for show. NO NO NO Fuck now Wolfman Librarian Fuck Me now Wolfman Aria Aria Aria fuck me now. Peripheral greenery wolverines are eating me and vomit me up into a pile where I become a new man Wolfman Librarian To heal. To heal. To heal. Wolfman Librarian, heal thyself. Know thyself. Self Self Self always changing, is time itself Then who are you with this trembling pair of actor hands? I don’t know.
Not Wolfman Librarian Not Not Wolfman Librarian I go I go I go to find a pile of healing snow to jump into but all I find is grass to sit on with trains rumbling beneath in the deep the unseen Hades eating his own pomegranate crown spanking Persephone across his lap She's crying she's me I'm crying I'm me NOT Persephone or Wolfman Librarian only me. It's sweet. But you can't forget or escape death by becoming somebody else. But I'm not myself either I'm time, not separate from anything else The circular fountain, the antique kerosene torches, The cellophane rectangle of a cigarette pack reflecting light from grey sky on grass. The sky's not grey. You look up: patches of blue. Get new shoes. You need better traction to walk
through rain on slippery Manhattan streets Wolfman Librarian of Manhattan here to heal The 9/11 11.9 September 11
dead and play them home with the trombone pieces lodged in your throat you are choking cough it up you vomit yourself up out of yourself and wolverines in peripheral greenery are here to suckle your red thread until white milk bursts forth and you sing together beneath the trees wordless songs and learn to breathe awake again. Now the sky is grey. The patches of blue are going. Only the water spirits are protecting you by this circle fountain. Rise, thank them, and move on. The clouds are rolling through the typewriter sun. I really am Wolfman Librarian for the porpoises of this poem sunning on the rocks by the fountain I put them there with imagination--
Not mine Not yours The property of
And Wolfman Librarian
Librarian of the Sun
arranging burning libraries in the sky into one light of
knowledge on a ledge in the Kaukases
Eagle Eagle have another bite of me
Knowledge is better than pate’
and whatever I have to pay for it it’s okay
even your beak in my liver is
lightning even is my birthmark
My book this cloud evaporating
as The Sun reads it closely
a close reading opening The Cloud’s anus miraculous
with his Solar Speculum
inside the humans are in utero
you can see by the way they’re
in the shadow of buildings not there
even nine years later.
We will never heal. That’s okay.
Our wound gives us something to do.
Dress it. Undress it. Have babies with it.
The firstborn is Wolfman Librarian
not daughter not son
but moon and sun and lightning
the train rumbling under the grass
and rising to walk before you pass out
is your only task right now.
If I had legs I would
But peripheral greenery wolverines eat me
and vomit me up and I am reforming
as a new man Wolfman Librarian
knocked down 7 times
Getting up eight
here to heal you
even if you don’t want me and curse me
here to heal you, Wolfman Librarian,
here to heal even you
yourself hairy and trembling with your
actor hands hearing every
distress signal from the three billion
broken sailboats inside.
The peripheral greenery wolverines are eating me and vomiting me up onto a mound where pieces of me are sucking at each other and sticking together to form a new being with power to heal every being by hearing its word for help in 3 billion languages and listening to it descending glistening on wet wolf fur steps to heal everybody with his trembling Wolfman hands no more librarian only night now on on on OM OM OM
Filip Marinovich is the author of Zero Readership (UDP 2008) and And If You Don’t Go Crazy I’ll Meet You Here Tomorrow (UDP 2011). He wrote and directed the plays Skin Around The Earth, Throne Room Snow, and The Karma Bookshop for his theater company Comet Party. His work has been published in Brooklyn Rail, Aufgabe, Village Zendo Journal, and 6×6. He is a poet living on earth for the moment.
Cover photo: “Wolf Angel,” by Filip Marinovich. Author Photo by Tim Peterson (Trace).
Watch a video of Marinovich reading this poem at Occupy Wall Street.