Werewolf in Nuwara Eliya

That night in Nuwara Eliya
when Dom and I stumbled
into the Grand, we had just re-met
and every moment was precious.
It took us ten minutes to find the bar.
It was cold for Nuwara Eliya and we
needed a drink, desperately.
A single malt for Dom and a Port
for me. This was in 1993.

I turned towards the barman to place our order
and stopped, shocked. Next to us was the most
extraordinary man I had ever seen, he was about
7ft tall. He had pointed ears nearly as large as his head
a beard that tapered to 30 degrees
his sideburns, thick, wide, reached
his mouth.
A sweet smile. It was disconcerting.
Basically, your friendly neighborhood werewolf.

He bought us a round of drinks and
seemed very glad to meet us.
We drank with him.
and must have chatted
he was from Northern England.
We said our goodbyes

Staggered outside into a sea
of mist. It was midnight
the moon was full.
Shining bright with light
to show us the way
to the car-
we drunkenly
drove the windy
road back to the club.

Quietly distressed by the
meeting of the man
who looked like a wolf.

29.5.2017

 

Sweater Weather

 

 

Short days in Michigan

When the leaves turn to

colours of the earth.

 

The old man mowing his lawn

Wearing his slate cashmere v-neck with

holes under the arms, has never bothered

to get the thing darned.

 

Billy used the season to shoot

He would walk out into the woods with his Colt 45

Looked for Rabbit, Deer, if lucky, a Bear.

He wore a brown, round, wool neck sweater

that kept him warm.

It also camouflaged him really well.

 

No-one mentioned the time he was down by

The creek – – a body floated up, face down–

bloated and gross from being in the river for over

A week.

The sheriff hushed It up,

Billy was his son, you see.

 

The Sheriff wore a red lambswool sweater

to suggest authority, or perhaps, danger? and to keep visible.

He was beautiful to look at – A Cary Grant—with manners.

How us County people respected him.

The sole reason we never pursued the body story.

His word was Final.

 

Me, Autumn in Michigan, meant road trips—a six pack of

Molson in the car;  Ruben sandwiches and my best girlfriend.

We’d sing to Joni Mitchell and Carol King—perfect tunes for a fall sunset

that seemed to last forever. At night, Deborah Harry

blasted from the CD deck the stars shining brightly.

 

We did not need the moon or headlights to show us the way.

My girlfriend wore her purple sweater, made of Angora.

It smelled of Opium. I wore a cashmere jersey

in lime green.

 

We drove for days hitting the west coast

Got down at Full Moon Beach.

Threw our sweaters off,

and with it, our angst spinning emotions

Jumped nude into the Pacific Ocean

 

The water was cold.

We could very well had been swimming in

Lake Michigan—but,

It was worth it.

For the Road Trip.

2261 miles of it.

NS May 7th 2017.

Machine I loved

A low slung Volks
turbo charged, fast
(naturally)
did 130 miles on
the Arugumbay
Moneragala road
“A poor man’s porsche’
my friend said.
Leonard Cohen crooning
as we looked
at the mountains
whizzing by
light poured in
the driver seat
comfortable enough to
race in.
I down shifted to third
then, back to fourth, fifth
as we turned the corner
on two wheels
the car did a one eighty
and smashed against
the hillside
we poured out
stunned, bruised, bleeding
we were ok
the car ok, too
German engineering
I thought
I loved this car
I was biased
Thank god we weren’t
driving the Prius.

NS FEB 13, 2017

 

FROM HOLLYWOOD TO BOLLYWOOD At BAREFOOT GALLERY till 17th March

http://www.sticknobillsonline.com