wml-1

my grandfather was a son of the soil. his joys were found in the pushing of the plow and the farming of the land. a wise old owl he figured out that if you had animals of your own nobody would care what you did with them.

during the boom times harold hampson thrived, during the lean times he did better than survive, for we all have stomachs to bow before. harold hampson grew hemp, he grew corn and various other fruit, vegetable and nuts. besides a mighty strength, the wolfman, maintains a superior night vision and incurable case of insomia. thus, while the other farmers were sleeping or out dining with their wives harold was in his field weeding, picking or any of the other demands a farm could bring.

it must be stated that harold hampson life was not all light and joy. he battled with his first wife over the existence of his mustache. she pressed upon him the joys of a clean shaven life and he upon her of the joy of the calloused hands and the stroking of a fine plump mustache at the end of the working day.

carol would shoot back, 'a woman could do no worse than having to kiss such a furry beast hello every morning.'

harold hampson would go for the throat with, 'well the door locks from the inside and there is no guard at the gate. if your looking for a clean shaven man, i suggest, you start your adventure as soon as possible for women only have so many child bearing years.'

'how dare you,' was a terse response.

harold hampson sat at the dinner table sucking the juice and blood from his steak. carol hampson would stand, would tap her foot would await his apology that was not coming.

'you rotten so and so, it would be a scandal,' she said.

'the tide is always changing, even rocks can not last forever,' he would respond.

'love cannot speak to you, your heart has gone cold to this...mustache?'

they are silent. harold hampson leans in his chair, mind drifting from answer to answer. developing a way to ease her mind and fill her heart with light and joy. hampson was developing an apology closing his eyes to formulate the proper words.

the silence was almost perfect. to raise it up to the level of absolute harold hampson hand absent mindedly found the mustache and he began stroking the sides. while his mind drifted he moved from the thinking man to the sleeping man. he supposed it had been a light cat nap, but when he awoke he found the morning sun had returned and that the night had swallowed dera carol hampson.

'all good things must come to an end,' he thought and returned to stroking his mustache listening to the sounds of the farm come alive.

4/2 wml prelude

i come from a long line of wolfman. the appropriate way to say, when talking of a group of us, is wolfman. there is no plural. we, wolfman, would appreciate if you could take this to heart. thank you in advance.

my great grandfater was a clock maker in london. i have never been to london so will not go into any great detail about cobble stone streets or terrible warm beer. as a matter of interest i have never been on an airplane for any great distance. i fear that a full moon could appear at any moment during such a long flight causing me to change and maybe eat the pilot. it was family lore that my great grandfather hid in the boiler snacking on mice and the loose negro attendant.

his name was harold hampson just as my father's name was harold hamson just as my name is harold hamson, the name goes down the family ladder as well as up all the way to the first harold hamson whose real pronunciation was whatever they translated harold hamson to. harold hamson the great grandfather to yours truly, appeared in new york and immediately felt the draw of the west. he would sit on a stone in the out lying lands and dream of what could be. he traced the moon light with his half man half wolf paw hands out over the expanse of tree to the black of the unmanned space.

though the forest and thousands of miles of land was not completely unattended was a fact based on your opinion of the indian. i, for one, have always believed in the equal standing and treatment of all humankind. why the atrocities faced by the red man and the negro would have sent me into a frenzy.

if you look through your history books, deep enough, you will find a hampson in the middle of every struggle for human rights. as wolfman of distinction and more than a little economic success we believe in giving back. not only for the christian ethic of our soul but also to repay the community, to reduce our guilt burden for the moments when our better angels have seceded from the body wolfman and we may have eaten the random orphan or working woman.

it should be noted, right up front, so no one can call your dear author a phony or a crafter of half truths, that wolfman maintain a constant struggle against their animal hearts. we are a community of aesthetics. we enjoy the arts and support them mightily. we enjoy reading on current events, political activity and taking part. yes, wolfman, come from a culture and familial history of interest and involvment. one could say that the ideals of the wolfman family have been coopted and applied by the most famous of american family. president kennedy would write to and on the rare opportunity visit with harold hampson to discuss matters of great national import.

it was a hampson that demanded the pursuit of the moon. it was the wolfman sent to cuba under the blanket of night to strong arm a young castro. why every president has been able to call a harold hampson a friend. this tradition was lost during the last two term president, who shall go nameless, that brought with him the witchcraft bastardization of american born again christianity.

for the last few years i have been hiding out, living in the portland oregon dreaming of the life to come. was this the end of the hampson life style? to go forward we must take time to reflect. there is more than a little to be gained by watching the river ala siddhartha and seeing where it might lead. when we have studied to our satisfaction we can then wade into it's deep waters of evolution and see what our history has for our future present in store.

as i sit on a stone in a small cave nestled in the bosom of mt. hood gnawing the femur of a fallen climber i return the western gaze of my grandfather from so long ago.

for whats to come we study what has been...

wml redo

it was the mustache that sent me packing. while others in my age rage could only grow a small clipped banker style mustache i had the ability to grow the behemoth. it was raven in color and came past the edge of my nose. it was full and fluffy like the pillow in hookers bed. magnificent and well worth the price of admission, this mustache, was also my downfall.

it should be noted that, i am, a wolfman. i am a werewolf descended from a long line of werewolves. while most, now a days, are converted from the werewolf bite i was born to a fine pair of monsters in the late seventies. i was born to cynthia and hamsun strasse at st. luke hospital in boise idaho during the early hours of the first day of march. this was not a full moon.

not only was i descended from a long line of werewolves but also from a great tradition of mustachios. it was great great grandfather, walter strasse, who invented the ax handle mustache. he wrote in his diary on that day, 'dear diary, today has been one of fantastic discovery. while i was out chopping some lumber i happened upon a nest of bees. in previous encounters all would have been lost for, as you know, i am allergic to their sting and especially sensitive about the ends of my lips. as they launched their attacks i figured all to be lost, and what a way to go out! for you see i had developed quite a hideous looking rash on each side of my lips from eating too much raw meat. so, instead of looking like a monster, i had grown facial hair about each side of my mouth. now when i am laid to rest and they open the casket all will recoil in horror at my final state of dishevelment.

'just as i had begun to fear the final moments and hear the mighty roar of the bee army a most magnificent thing happened. it seems that the side growth on my mustache repelled their attacks. not just defending me from their terrible sting but almost cutting down their soliders like an ax to a tree. you see that while they strike against the face their stingers get lost in the hair, get tangled and removed leaving them buzzing away stingerless and dying.

'with this discovery i am, soon standing with confidence against their weaponry. i laugh in their tiny bug faces demanding to know if this is their best. if they have must continue their attacks them let them fail, let them die for their is no way to survive my ax handle mustache.'

with this entry, the strasse, went from a rather private quiet multimillion dollar family to boise's cultural champions and the first name of idaho's mustache society. it was this event that started the slow ball of fate to roll. it was this desire to foster the mustache, to study and perfect it, that has left me laying in the woods bleeding shot down by charlie simmons.

we will come to that in good time.

3/17 the wolf man lament

it was a silver bullet through the night. that son of a bitch used a silencer, i should have known, when i heard the twig break, that rotten bastard charles j simmons was behind all this. that fat grey haired mess of a man. that sore loser. i should have known. as i lay here bleeding out, feeling my life sliding away my mind drifts back to the beginning.

my father was a whiskey drunk and my mother a wolf woman desperate for a baby. it was boise idaho during the go go seventies. it was boise during the window boom and, my father, was rolling in dough. he owned a seasonal weather window company. these were wood framed double paned windows of the highest class.

my father had a name, jack, and a physical beauty that could stop a woman in mid step. there were pleas from the crowd to run for office. there were many advances from woman, married or otherwise, on the job sites. some he accepted some were denied. my father was pro mustache and anti bell bottom. he would wear carpenter pants a many pocketed field shirt and a neckercheif. jack kept his hair well groomed, he was a tall athletic fellow with a wry sense of humor. he was a man who could stand out in anytime and the only thing that anchored him to this time, the seventies, was the side burns and car model.

juliette, was my mother. she was a wolf woman during the full moon and a model the rest of the time. she was tall and lean with chestnut hair. she would try to stick to a vegetarian diet but during the full moon found herself chewing whatever meat she could find. it was because of this that she stopped owning cats and leaving near farms.

my mother was beautiful. it was her beauty that kept the men at bay. no one dared ask her to the dance floor or out for a nice dinner because they were certain she was attached or just out of their league.

jack bumped into juliette during a st patricks celebration. he had ordered two irish car bombs, one for himself and the other for himself, and while backing away from the bar they met. they collided, is more accurate, causing the drinks in his right hand to slosh and almost spill.

there eyes met, there was a spark and from there they moved as if by providence.

'for you,' he shouted.

'to ireland,' she shouted.

'cheers,' they said and drank.

3/15 intermission

the shepherd left the gate

gone savage

my sheep self

to the wolf grass

and temptations

gone to

stomach growls

to booze

a calling

to the whistle of

the all american

ruby red lips

that catch a heart afire

who to blame

who to blame

who to blame

out here baahing

sticking my nose where

it ought not to be

a preist can't have it

all

you know

cat call from the stage

'be good or be damned'

without responsibility

blame the sheep

or blame the shepherd

or leave it for

the judge

at the throne of heaven

i can't keep track of it all

my mind a mess

i push rocks

i push mail

i stare at things that

need to be fixed

if you don't want

you wont be

ashamed at what

you don't got

blame the shepherd

for rushing home

to his wife

and children

blame the sheep

for eyeing

the horizon

and thinking

what i want has got to be over

there

christ is coming

christ is here

chirst is looking for answers

any or all of the above

it is never any good

one must conclude

to take your eyes off

the floor

and wonder about more

than gnawing grass

__________

i have no reason

to write on this thing

my ear hurts

it is five thirty

and my teeth are

going bad.

no one told me how

poems go

or

why they rhyme

i don't stare at anything

in

par

ticular

but sometimes happy

children dance or laugh

in the recess of my mind

i can smell

idaho

on the breeze

i use to think i should

be a divorce lawyer

to the stars

i wish i could work

at a cubicle

and have no compulsion

to tug on strings

or imagine things

i watch my son

i watch my daughter

i watch my wife

good people

hope something is got

to pay off

right?

_____________

should be more honest

pray for

fallen leaves

and the evicted

milk men

things change

evolution

even us christians

can

acknowledge that

3/11-7

she sits, she crosses her legs, she sucks her teeth and twists her hair. if she had gum she would pop it. her leg bounces on her knee. nervous. she hasn't brushed her teeth, this morning. she hasn't used the bathroom this morning. she just sits and waits for the other one to talk.

the other woman, the wife, is slumped in the tan rocking chair. her eyes are open but she is gone staring out through the window, down the road and over the horizon line.

she wants to be polite but sometimes you just have to pee. she HAS to pee. she stands up her clothes are young, short and tight. she has a sweatshirt that she doesn't want to wear but feels the need to put on. she wants to be polite, make a good impression if that makes sense. she was a good student. she made it to the city college and has begun to study business.

the other woman does not stir as she passes by her. as her body rubs against the wall with all the family photos. it is quiet, save for the ticking of the grandfather clock. she had no where to go or she wouldn't be here. it is too late in the semester to get a dorm, besides there is no way her parents would pay for it now.

the porcelain is cold to her flesh. she has a job that barely covers her costs from home.

'now what?' she thinks.

this is a large house. she could live here, if they would let her.

'how they gonna let you live here? c'mon,' she thinks.

these are desperate times. her friends may let her crash for a few days, but couch hoping is no way to get through a pregnancy. there is no telling how long her dad will punish her. he was mad. m a d mad. she has images of his slumped to the couch crying. she has images of him banging the table. she has images of him throwing her clothes onto the ground. he did not care enough to pack them. it was her mother who came ten minutes later, it was her mother who suggested bringing the test strip and showing 'the father of this child what he has done,' and it was her mother who watched her eat one last sandwich while tussling her hair.

at first she left. after that sandwich she was gone, clothes left on the porch splayed casualties to the fire fight. later she returned and scene had been scrubbed clean. there was money. there was a note. there was no one around. there was nothing more to do.

the knock surprised her.

'honey, you hungry?' the voice was weak, tired, worn.

'yes, ma'am,' she said.

'listen, i do not know how we are, but we are going to make it through this thing. okay?' came the voice, her voice it cracked but did not break.

'...' she listened.

'we just got one ground rule, one rule between me and you.' she said.

'...'

'my husband, is my husband. we are not going to share him. this is my home and my family. now i know what you got growing. i know what you got in your life and i know his responsibility to that. but it was just one night. so before we move on we got to have an understanding that you are no longer interested in him, that you are not going to pursue him, that you are not going to make this mistake anymore,' she said her voice straining.

she is on the other side of the door waiting for her answer, face red, eyes wet, trying to hold back the fury that is boiling inside. trying to hold back tearing the door down and strangling her.

'if she says no, then it's over,' the wife thinks.

'if she says no then i gather the kids and we go,' the wife thinks.

'if she says no then i get the best lawyer, then i crush all these hopes and futures, then i tear that picture wall down,' she thinks.

'if she says no, what about my kids? you selfish little ____, do you know what you could do to my kids? they are innocent. they don't know better. their father their hero. do you know what you are going to to do to us?' she thinks.

'alright...' comes the voice.

there is a pause, but before the wife can push away from the door.

'i'm sorry. it won't happen again,' she says.

there is a silence.

'honey, you want a towel, you want your bag so you can shower?' the wife says.

'yes ma'am.'

the door opens. as the bag exchanges hands their fingers touch. there is a pain to it. their eyes meet there is a sadness there.

broken things can heal. just got to take some time.

'kids are going to be home soon. i got to make breakfast. it will be alright. if i don't break down and kill you. or kill him. ha, don't worry....hard, but alright,' the wife says and retreats to the kitchen.

the young girl turns on the water. she cries. the warm water feels good to her skin. with one hand she holds herself up while the other absentmindedly rubs her stomach.

3/10-6

cold. the dew stains through her shirt causing the fabric to cling to skin. cold causing the hair on her harms to stand up. cold. she is feeling the rocks through the grass now. slowly her eyes fluter open. she wonders for a moment if it had been a dream. she wonders for a moment how she ended up out here instead of in their bed.

she is connected to something. there are heavy arms wrapped about her waist. she is pulled or cuddled close for warmth. he is wheezing, moaning and the dried blood about his face causes his nose to whistle. she pulls herself free. she stands. they are not far, few football fields away. she can see the top of the roof, she can see the chimney.

'let's go,' she says.

he opens his eyes and is startled. he tries to stand but loses balance.

'____", she thinks.

she will hold him. she will carry him. she decides.

he keeps his eyes closed.

all hard breath and sweat. all tight muscles clenched beneath the damp cloth.

'_____ together,' she says.

there is the sound of dogs barking. there are no cars. she has no watch to put the time. the only noise that is close to them is the sound of feet. two feet walking. one foot stepping and one foot dragging. beyond that, their breath then we must go further out to find more noise.

'why now?' she thought.

'why me?' she thought.

there were moments were she could have let him down. she could have dropped him into the ditch beside the road they were walking.

'it is not like i never had my opportunities,' she mutters her brown hair clinging to her sweaty brow. her clothes clinging to her skin. she is a mother, things will always be clinging to her, always leaning on her, always depending on her kindness for survival.

'there was ___, i should say, there is ___. he has been after me for awhile. maybe i should just do it. i mean what is this marriage now?' she says through clench teeth.

the moon does not rise or fall but loses it's importance as the star begins to appear. she begins to see the black of night lighten, the first hint of day erupting for the eastern soil.

'he is always at the coffee pot when i am there. he is always at the same lunch table or near the same tree. he keeps coming at me. what is that? i use to think the devil. i use to think this is the test, the temptation of a marriage. i shouldn't say use to. this is how i think. but now what? maybe he is a good man. maybe this is a life line to set me free. from this, from you. maybe. though you were a good man, well you are a good man. everyone has doubts. everyone has moments that test or push our character to it's limit. some fail. some fail but that, what does that mean? we've been in love, we've been sweet hearts, and we've trusted for so long. is it one mistake? is it an eye for an eye? is it the universe moving us apart so that i can actually find my true partner? what about the kids? we can't napalm their life. this life. this life is about their life now, as much as my freedom and joy.'

she can see the top floor. she can see the rocket curtains that decorate her children's room.

'everything is set in motion. everything is set up for this, for us. now what?' she bites her lip. his eyes are still closed, he is wheezing. he is leaning. he is drag footing but still she does not let go.

'it's about trust. it's about knowing i can whisper secrets to you and they won't get repeated. it's about mutual sacrifice. it's about sitting there on dead head nights and giggling over the television cuddled up. now what? i don't want our children to get sick, to put our heads together for a solution and think the idea you are giving me aren't just yours but yours and this new voice.'

the first floor is starting to rise from the bend on the road. she can see the windows all dark, save a corner, the living room where the television is on.

'i don't want to look like a fool. i don't want to say x and y are our family beliefs. i don't want to say to people i know, i work with, inlaws, anyone that our family is x and y that is who we represent. i don't want to trust that to you and find out it was a lie. find out you are running around town like a rogue with a whisper campaign that describes yourself as an independent agent. i have to trust you're a part of this thing. you're the husband and father that we are described as. trusted as...____ it's now that i am the fool. now i am some wounded sick thing. now i must be attended to. even if i move on. even if i go with ___ or never choose another man. people are going to walk on eggshells around me. some fragile thing that has been dealt a blow.'

they are on the porch.

'so with all things being equal. before all this i would not choose another man. before all this you were my soul mate. my one true love, father to my children hearer of my secrets and catcher of my tears. with this, i don't know. but the fact that i don't know means there is a chance, the fact that i don't know means you are still close enough to be considered. for my children. for that one chance. for that closeness, for that history i have to stay.'

she opens the door. there is a rush of heat. it feels good to be home. she sees her curled like a child on the coach, television light dancing over her eyelids, blanket pulled tight to her chin. she almost drops him. she almost vomits. steadies herself and helps him upstairs. she puts him in bed. she kisses his forehead.

there is a violent anger that swells but she white knuckles the door frame. but she takes a deep breath. it is not gone it is caged. she heads downstairs she has breakfast to make her kids will be home soon.