A Cordial Welcome
Cosmik Wolfpack is a playground and laboratory for flash-formed poetry and nanofiction written by The Debtor, a white cisgender male and citizen of the United States.
If you have something to say to the author, send it to cosmikwolfpack at gmail dot com.
4.05.2012
Exterminated Well
3.29.2012
Leather on Fire
3.11.2012
Path to Citizenship
I go away for a sweet numbness and listen to the rising and falling cheers of some gathering somewhere below me. This topography comes blowing out of me and manifests itself on this city. All of it is somewhat less than my sickness of cynicism feels capable of allowing. Cynical, cynical, cynical tight little mass like frozen black blood, digested hair, bone flavored paper wad and clay. Ears floating on oily water. Just ears.
3.07.2012
Put a Label on Your Experience
I would pick one child to befriend, one needy boy or girl with darkness on their brows and hunger and empty shoes. Having watched and waited, I would pick one sad moment when the child's world was like a sack of molasses and I would rise above the cool water and the eye contact would bond us.
And there would be adventures, naturally. There would be dopey sheriff's deputies to foil. Wicked land developers to battle. Bait shop owners to confuse. Victories and heavy auras of champion energy. One day, boosted with confidence and a powerful sense of self-worth, my friend would walk away from the lake forever to enrich the world with whatever the hell it was they wanted to do with their adult lives.
I loved talking about these dreams to the children at school. I rendered them in finger paint, in poster paint, in crayon, in marker, in colored pencils. When they put the kibosh on my dreams, I argued that they were wrong; in their mind they were the experts, but I wasn't happy to accept their cynical bloviating. I noted with bitterness that fairly frequently, they tended to have a habit of translating something weird into something somewhat less splendid.
That's a problem. That's a dealbreaker.
11.20.2011
Shall We Flourish?
I will, however, regale you with the story of how I obtained the unique apparel I while preparing the victuals upon which you are presently feasting. This is convenient, as it relieves you of feeling obligations of conversational reciprocation, i.e. saying stuff to me, too.
Upon Senator Hill, a lovely Lesbian Woman who drives a Dodge Ram has taken up the pastime of leathercraft. After seeing her wares at a local arts festival - of which I am a perennial attendee - I set my mind to the purchase of comfortable britches, a belt, a tunic, a jacket, and a heavy apron to protect the rest of the ensemble from the messiest of the foodstuffs with which I must contend. I've commissioned a cap as well, but this final element is not yet complete, and to be perfectly frank, I grow impatient with the excuses I hear, week in and week out.
I just really love quesadillas.
11.07.2011
Egg One
When you land in the giant's soft lap, don't hesitate to still your mind and catch your breath. Scramble down his pants. Don't lose the eyelash. If the giant's cat harasses you, there is a bazooka hidden behind a potted plant. Shoot the cat in the face and run. Actually, shoot it anyway, harassment or no. I hate that giant's cat. Hurting it will distract the giant.
Don't lose that fucking eyelash! I need it.
11.06.2011
Succor For Tormented Fathers
11.05.2011
Ha Ha, I Wrote the Poem
When I was in a funk, I sold purses on the boulevard. I knew three brothers with different knives and big antelope colored faces. I never fought anyone and I never let people insult each other. By that, I mean that I spoke up and registered my disapproval when I heard one person insult another person. That's the best you can do. You can't stop people from insulting each other. You can't stop some friendly ladies full of ancient worries from chasing these dogs away, either. You just wish it wouldn't happen so much.
10.27.2011
Faux Pas Dudes
I said, "young woman, I think of the pleasures of holding my breath underwater when I see your comely visage. It is my habit, when swimming in a person's pool, to hover weightlessly, curled into the fetal position, submerged where I only hear the throbbing sound of the filter pump. Don't put a pool near an oak tree because of the acorns."
That young woman wasn't too impressed, but didn't turn me away when I offered her smooches, heavy petting, and a nap. So I hope that she might oblige me with something really frisky next time!
Astute readers who are knowledgeable about my biography may look askance at this story. I was raised by two homo papas. Well, I still got to learn a lot about what young women are raised to believe. I learned it from their fag hag. Her name was Chrystol.
10.13.2011
Snow Kone
I am a smart guy who can understand that my impulse was weird. I was angry at them for engaging in potentially dangerous behavior. I didn't want them to hurt themselves. But I wanted to hurt them.
I discovered that in my heart I want to be the only one to hurt people.
8.06.2011
Mango Lassi Enema
7.20.2011
Millions of Kisses and Good Wishes
7.14.2011
Drawer Cream
I must acknowledge that I know you aren't terribly concerned with my choice of garments for this apology delivery. You are concerned with the apology itself, for the mere mention of apology inspires the imagination to concoct a multitude of scenarios, from banal disagreements turned sour to tawdry occurences which will forever stain the offended party's view of me, no matter how gracious my apology may be.*
This apology, delivered in whatever collection of garments I settle on at some point tonight, is intended for a blogger of no small influence. It seems that I, in a moment of revelry, pissed and shit upon the hood of her automobile. Now your imagination can rest, and you can sleep invigorated by the knowledge that I've done something gross to a blogger and it's crazier and worse than anything you've ever done to a blogger; Lord knows that you don't owe a blogger an apology.
*I assure you, it shall be gracious as fuck.
6.15.2011
Grown, Blown, and Flown
10.27.2010
My Goodness and Warmth
holder of his trust. I change His damp linens and when He slays an
angel I am the one who salts its white body and see it entombed. For
these reasons, He considers me His beloved servant, prideswollen at
the sight of me in the distance, adorned in His good colors and
bearing His standard.
He is pathetic and it endears Him to me further. His knotty red
knuckles and quivering eyes are mine to serve and I cry for Him when I
scrub the garments it is mine to wear. Others claim to serve strong
monarchs with tight fists and unmovable hearts in their chests. I wear
my colors because they are mine to wear and I know that these others
are bad liars, bad liars who serve rulers as weak and unworthy as mine
and in their lying eyes I see the same loathing and love that fill
mine. He will be staring into those eyes as he dies in my arms and my
death will be in weeping.
10.13.2010
Cocking
That's why I wear this jacket with its screwy zipper, and these glasses with their incorrect lenses, and these briefs which pain my testes, and this hat with its obviously misspelled word. I offer this of myself to those who I cannot care for, and it is payment enough. Their pity, unwarranted though it may be, offers a validation which far outweighs any effect my imaginary empathy might have.
So suck on that, haters, and please: when you inform me of the mustard stain on this jacket with its screwy zipper, be tentative and patronizing. Hold me in your fat eyelids.
9.02.2010
Chard, Lemons, Iceberg Lettuce, and Meat Fat
The reason we're walking away in this silence is obvious, is it not? As obvious as the dry yellow grass. The little telephone I carry in my pocket starts making a racket and to a distant observer--our piglet, let's say--I begin inexplicably smacking my hip. I whisper "I'm embarrased it's orange." But you hear, "Time for ass, it's on."
Now I'm in a pickle, attempting to explain the unlikely sexual congress that transpired in my recent past. I cannot reconcile the easy lapse of inhibition as our encounter occurred with the disciplined way that I normally conduct myself. LOL
8.26.2010
Shallow Guy Eating Chips
I know about the teachers and the things they believe because I have a hiding place in their lounge. Ever since my early student days, the teacher's lounge gripped me with fascination that couldn't be fully realized in glimpses through the cracked door. I found reasons to stay at school as long as possible: extracurricular enrichments and playing the volunteer. I became the child ghost of the waxed linoleum.
Mrs. Linkage had me assist her with the decorations for Mr. Tolbin's retirement party. As I hung crepe paper owls and twists of tiny incandescent bulbs about the room, my breath was thick and fruity in my chest and my eyes felt heavy with tears. I also felt Mrs. Linkage's gaze upon my deliberate child arms. She felt such happiness in my presence. I was an awed child, calmly appreciative of these teachers, a small walker with gentle footsteps. There was a natural goodness in me that she never recognized in her own children.
None of this is conjecture; my aforementioned hiding place made me privy to such things. In my old age, the ache in my knees is the legacy of my crouching teacher's lounge hours.
8.25.2010
The Ice Melting on the Hood
my jackets. I have too many jackets. In the last two years, I've only
worn one of them, on less than a dozen days altogether. It makes more
sense to wear sleeves long or carry a sweater. Also, most days there
are only a few minutes in the naked outside for which a jacket might
be preferred, and those minutes are only slightly more terrible
without one. So the closet stays closed, and the jackets and the
pebbles are forgotten, dumbly clinged to with hands that aren't mine.
It occurs to me that the path to work has become wild with thorns and
tough little vines, pleading calls from birds in unseen shadows.
Sometimes the scabs and pale scars on my sun-darkened arms startle me.
I'm not getting used to them and the people I know ask if I've tried
this lotion or that salve. I don't prefer to do that, though. The same
as how I squeeze my head in red hands rather than swallow something
benign from a plastic bottle. The only things I actually treasure are
irrationalities, anyway. The way spitting makes me feel in control,
the way spitting fingernail splinters makes me feel like some kind of
victor, the way a terrible mug of coffee validates this whole
enterprise.