Archive for fn wright

A Poem for F.N. Wright by S.A. Griffin

Posted in S.A. Griffin with tags , , , , on March 18, 2012 by Scot

Fred Blows Out The Sun’s Electric Candles

for F.N. Wright, 1940-2012

and makes an infinite wish to celebrate the
happy birthday of everything

trout fishing with Brautigan
along the shores of golden eternity
somewhere beyond the cartoon apocalypse
of this whorehouse sadness

inside some tropic of light

Kenneth and your beloved Miriam
to catch you in their nets of love and language
and you are here

the crickets playing your song
fuck fuck fucking
as we all sing along

ride free Fred, rest easy
the war is over
The Lady’s loving kisses
(with roses in her hair)
to bring you home again

S.A. Griffin


–Pictures courtesy of S.A. Griffin


Posted in F.N. Wright with tags , on March 11, 2012 by Scot

I’m out here
in the Mojave
about 50 miles
from Barstow
high on peyote
spinning like a whirling
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
& I know it as a
Mojave Green
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
as rhe peyote paints
a goofy smile upon
my face.


Posted in F.N. Wright with tags , on March 11, 2012 by Scot


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