F.N. Wright

MY PHONE IS LONESOME TONIGHT

on the bed beside me
waiting for a ring
for me to pick it up
dial a number
any number
lover
ex-lover
a friend
anyone
it doesn’t matter
to my phone
like me it misses
the sound of a human
voice
especially a caring voice
or the sound of one
that once loved me
but no one calls
there is no one I can call
I have no lovers
my exes have forgotten
my number
I have no friends
the loneliness of my phone
hurts me deeply
fills me with guilt
loneliness is a sad thing
I pick up the phone
dial 411.

–archives, Deuce Coupe, June 12, 2010

F.N. Wright

Just How Things Are With Me Today

I walk
head down
into a fierce wind
that cuts through my soul
like well-honed straight razors

flashbacks of my father’s
barber shop & when he’d
whip my bare ass
with the strop

my belly has quit growling
& left me in hunt of food

my right hand has fallen off
ashamed of the killing it has done
not to mention the begging for
enough money for a bottle
of cheap Tokay

my past is tired of nipping
at my heels like some angry dog
& will go for the throat
before sundown

the vultures circle overhead
descending with each step
I take
knowing it will be their time
soon.

fn wright

I first talked to Fred 3 years ago this month.  I last spoke to him Feb. 28.  We talked more this last month than in the previous 3 years.  I missed the sign.
We talked about doing a Brautigan tribute book.  He was going to do all the illustrations and paintings, and he would get some big names to contribute. He told me then he was putting his place on the market and moving home to Mantoon and would come visit me in June. He said it was time.  I knew him as a Viet Nam Veteran, biker, poet, writer and a kind and gentle soul– but most of all a friend.  And those are hard to come by.  The pain is gone big man, rest easy.

Below and in the sidebar: the words of fn wright

MOJAVE GREEN by F.N. Wright

I’m out here
somewhere
in the Mojave
desert
about 50 miles
from Barstow
high on peyote
spinning like a whirling
dervish
looking up at
the sky
marveling at
a spectacular
light show
the stars are putting on
for me & only me
I hear ominous
rattles shaking
vigorously
& I know it as a
Mojave Green
rattlesnake
it is dark
& I can’t see
the motherfucker
but I know he’s too
close for comfort
but the peyote
has me in it’s grips
& instead of feeling fear
the music of the
rattles makes me spin
faster
as rhe peyote paints
a goofy smile upon
my face.

TONIGHT by F.N. Wright

tonight
I think I will
silence my voice
listen to music
while recalling
the sound of your
voice today
o, the muse
will still be with me
but the words
she brings me
will be like
whispering feet
gliding across
the ballroom floor
& though they
will be silent
to the ear
I hope you hear them
because they are
for you & only
you.

BLACK ON WHITE by F.N. Wright

BLACK ON WHITE

having ended ass up
in the hospital
quite unexpectedly
I had nothing to write on
or to write with
(they were taking all my blood
for one test or another)
so I began composing poems
in my head

poems about the hospital & nurses
& other things as I imagined
black ink on white paper

the nurses kept wanting to open
the blinds to let the outside light
brighten my room

but to their dismay
I insisted on darkness
so I could picture
white paper in a black typewriter
(an old Underwood portable that
Kenneth Patchen wrote his first
four books on & I would write
my first novel on that Miriam
had gave me)
that sits on a stand of its own
next to my bed

& day & night when not being
poked, prodded, pilled or pushed
the words began flowing

& these words & the image of
white paper in that old black typewriter
& the  sound of the birds singing
outside my window at night
are what kept me
& the words going

ah, the sound of the birds singing
sound even more beautiful &
wondrous tonight laying here
in my own bed waiting for more
black words to spill upon this white paper
of the notebook I am scrawling in
as the typewriter sits smiling nearby
awaiting its turn once again

SING! SING! SING!

fred sketched this out for my chap–hank williams a.d. and me

paintings FN Wright did for my brautigan inspired chapbook

trout fishing–what else?

Haight