Johnny Francis Wolf

Weihnachtspoesie

 

 

feign

 

hard, it is, to squint one’s eye

when semblance holds your face in lie

 

harder, still, to render hate

when smile seems to radiate

 

cross from cheek to shining cheek

cloaking gall and hiding pique

 

+ +

 

is it safe to keep within

all the flame behind a grin

 

or brandish sword and strike a blow

the other side would surely know

 

how you feel and feel it dear

with blade you’ve drawn and sunk like spear

 

 

glue

 

and as it was on Christmas Eve

the yearly ball of balls

smacked of Vogue and make-believe

with red and green the walls

 

he had the gown, the only one

where rubies hung in drips

peacock sequins fully spun

all that, and bag of chips

 

*

 

neckline plunged and skirt was bouffe

his wig was piled high

shoes, Dior and like Tartuffe

their label was a lie

 

but who doth care when oozing luxe

and bleeding grace a charms

all these things and rings cost bucks

he finished shaving arms

 

*

 

applied a bit of eau de this

and added eau de that

a combination musk and kiss

and pussy (i.e. cat)

 

squishing manhood, tucked away

and other things he fluffed

as much as could for bustier

though sparsely was it stuffed 

 

*

 

touches left, but velvet gloves

and bracelets over those

feet in shoes with push and shoves

the evening not for toes

 

stole of mink, of course was faux 

brooch upon it, pinned

paste for jewels, but who would know

his matching earrings, twinned

 

* * *

 

floating out the open door

his basement flat was cheap

beneath the dollar discount store

the steps were snowed in deep

 

stiletto heels do help a lot

keeping hemlines dry

Madonna would have turned back, NOT

he raised his skirt to thigh

 

*

 

and hailed a cab this wretched night

of blizzard mixed with sleet

no such carriage nigh in sight

he focused on the street

 

knew his way through darkest cracks

and crannies, to be sure

a shorter course, he could relax

his worries premature

 

*

 

through alleyways and unlit lanes

whilst wearing but a gown

perhaps unsafe, the fact remains

would help him hie, cross town

 

teeter-tottered, swiveled, swished

wobbled, wavered, stopped

assessed the route, a prayer he wished

and then, abruptly, plopped

 

*

 

crinoline didst break his fall

tangled neath the tulle

heel was broken, hope was small

the angels’ whimsy, cruel

 

for these were but the perfect pumps

to complement his dress

life does deal us scrapes and bumps

but this, a holy mess

 

* * *

 

“I GOT !” he heard, a cheerful cry

from somewhere neath a tarp

wondered what it meant and why

listened further, sharp

 

“epoxy, dahling...   instant gunk

the kind that dries too soon”

didst pull our lovely out his funk

he gathered up the strewn

 

*

 

that lay upon the slush and snow

his wig and heel and clutch 

he thought with glue and off he’d go

would not be late, too much 

 

scrambled up as if were on 

a frozen pond of ice

slipped and slid and thereupon

“your offer, very nice”

 

*

 

for nothing ever kindly mild

happened to our lad

heretofore and since a child

was manifestly sad

 

oft alone, afraid of those

who questioned why he cared

for feathers, frocks and frilly clothes

polite ones only stared

 

*

 

but most were not at all that sweet

to solely glare with eyes

wouldst break his heart and bones complete

and revel in his cries

 

disavowed by folks and friends

he forged another life

turning tricks and odds and ends

his isolation rife

 

* * *

 

and from behind a cardboard box

a faerie did appear

with soiled clothes and tattered sox

and sightless eyes, I fear

 

“feel free to search my shopping cart

I think it’s near the front

I heard you fall and felt it smart

it’s there, you’ll have to hunt”

 

*

 

“oh I remember in my youth

would walk divine in heels

you need some money, tell the truth

how you fixed for meals?”

 

and all at once, a darkened mass

of moving shadows rose

frightened first, the dread did pass

he wrinkled up his nose

 

*

 

not so much for clash of scent

his fancy vs. piss

but more with grin, their good intent

“it seems I’ve been remiss..”

 

“meet the ones I share my space

my very closest kin

on Christmas Eve and just in case

we gather here, within”

 

*

 

“for never know if year from now

the family that we made

of friends and strangers, here we bow

for blessings left unpaid”

 

asudden in a flurried flash

a flush of festive fuss

fire lit in barreled trash

boombox playing thus

 

* * *

 

Salsoul Christmas disco air

with throb and thump and bass

in broken heel and wigless hair

began to dance, in place

 

taught the Vogue to those who cared

to others showed the Twerk

and when requested, tangoed paired

and screamed, “you better work !”

 

*

 

hostess, blind, was pouring drinks 

in tiny paper mugs

mostly nog and rum, me thinks

from proper gallon jugs

 

mistletoe was making rounds

and seated by her side

our child making kissy sounds

our hostess mortified

 

*

 

to match her blush our favorite lad

applied a little gloss

shadow, liner, powdered tad

the lady at a loss

 

“you remind me who I was

when once my eyes could see

be my friend, well, just because

please visit often, me”

 

*

 

no one found the glue that night

heel was never fixed

the ball, it seems, an oversight

for him the gala nixed

 

somehow in the all of it

forgotten, nonetheless

found a world, a home, to wit

the boy who wore a dress

 

 

Noël

 

 

Cherub with a French accent.  Should hardly surprise...

 

Clearly a flaw in my own design that hearing a polite and obliging ‘merci’ slip from the lips of this well-muscled Seraph would spark a set of distinctly raised eyebrows, on my part.  At least, more raised than his strapping segments had already conspired in my frons’ hairy ascent. Feasibly, and quite flagrantly so, uplifting other personal measures as well.

 

The towel I tendered, for which he was grateful, was blue.  Not too dissimilar a shade of purplish azure than his own lissome, limber fingers -- now tipped with the numbing white of either especially cold pool water, or maybe an Angel’s purity.  

 

I could assume both.

 

---

 

The University was empty, this December 22nd, 1943.  

 

Christmas had arrived, weary, in America.  Two years hence our foray into the War, hopes for a quick resolve were dwindling, newsreels from Europe, calamitous.  And yet, kicking and screaming, Holiday cheer entered the fray and refused to yield.   

 

Divinity students, while insulated from deployment (for now), felt the guilt more acutely this time of year.  Some of us divesting the very Faith that kept us safe -- like untied balloons whose stretched lips issued fitful starts of sibilant air that hissed too loud and left one limp.

 

My fraternity brothers were, doubtless in plenitude and parity, navigating a Mom’s endless minefield of questions and intimations -- as to clean socks and Campus food and, “Have you heard, Jane is home at least ‘til New Year’s, your Brother sent a lovely, long letter from somewhere in Italy, you never call or write, General Eisenhower could do well with our prayers, another piece of pie?”

 

---

 

He and I, veritable strangers (and how odd that was for such a circumscribed school) and seemingly the only ones left of our respective dorms, found ourselves separate yet together, in the Gymnasium.  More specifically, milling about the spa areas -- pool, sauna, steam room. And though I kept to myself, towel wrapped squarely and trunks modest, couldn’t help but notice his more cavalier attitude when crisscrossing from cold dip in the pool to heated sauna, often forgetting his towel... 

 

which is where our story began.  

 

Aside twisted torso, half smile, muffled blush, and feet lolling in the cool chlorine, I picked up and passed the blue cotton terrycloth as effortlessly as any well-palmed relay baton, gainsaying my inner tremble.

 

With his one gratitudinous word he wetly padded toward the hot rocks, removing his already scant swimsuit even prior to reaching the sauna’s entry, spinning round in a stumble and slip, a dance of sorts, ‘til the woolen knit was clear of feet.

 

Turned with a wink closing the door, perhaps to be friendly, perchance to hide the wings I was sure would materialize at any moment.

 

I may have followed him in.

 

---

 

His family, now in the United States, lucky to have left France in 1938, was solvent enough to send him to College (keep their firstborn out of the trenches, albeit pro tem) but without a cushion to indulge trips back and forth.  No home for the Holidays.

 

Despite our very different backgrounds, our Festivus marooning was identical.  And talk of Yule and ghouls and Family traditions helped to ease the wistfuls and pinings piling up like drifts outside the window -- as the over-adorned Tannenbaum, lit in the Quad, spilled its colors cross my room, turning our cot into a bed of Christmas stars.

Made no sense disturb paired sets of covers and blankets, rooms for that matter, for one sleep shared by two.  

 

No easy feat, this slumbering, knowing June and Graduation would find Conscription looming.  

 

Yet arms and legs folded together effortlessly, as if his wing’s feathers cushioned our limbs, like down.   And sugar plum faeries darted and dashed whilst twilight dreams of Kings and lambs and swaddled Child all weaved their way and found us forgetting.

 

---

 

Christmas Eve.  

 

With Eggnog absent nutmeg (thankfully not so the Rum) conversation was rife with remembered recipes, not one of which was subject to the War’s rationing in these, our selfish imaginings.   

 

And whose Father carved the tenderest, most toothsome Turkey — hotly debated with no immediate resolution — was helter-skelterly followed by spirited forums on white vs. dark meat, wishbones that never seem procure as promised, cranberries in the shape of a can vs. whole.

 

Said and more accruing, insurmountably contested sticking points fueled by more hooch, threatened the very silent in the evening’s ‘Silent Night’.

 

---

 

Appeals to our long-distance kith and kin to arbitrate such Christmas culinary conundrums cued two ears be pressed to one Phone Booth receiver, hunkered half-in, half-out the fluted doors, huddled together, barefoot and PJ’d, shivering outside the Cafeteria...

 

with faces too close, hair nigh to halo, mouths mid-word save mute --

 

as I couldn’t follow the French his Mère whispered too thick, 

nor he my Mom, whose English spoke through tears --

 

our own, yet fairly frozen, 

left lashes tipped with diamonds --

 

sparkled as his bleary gaze grazed upon my lips.

 

---

 

“Have you more dimes?” I managed...

 

my query quelled when Cherub’s breath drew near to mine and lids of two drew closed.

 

---

Snow and Steam and Seraphim were welcome diversions that Winter.  All the details I know by heart. 

 

Bing Crosby still croons, whistling from the vinyl plate gifted me that Yule, and only on the RCA entrusted my care, the eve before his regiment shipped out.

 

A now seasonless and evermore scratchy ‘White Christmas’ spins in woolgathered reveries each time I need recall (often)...

 

long abaft an Angel died, battle near Ardennes, 1944.

 

 

 

Johnny Francis Wolf is an autist.  An autistic artist. Designer, model, actor, to, more recently... writer. Somewhere in between all those professions he found time to be a hustler... maybe hustler-lite more apt. Worth a mention, his acting pinnacle – starring in the ill-famed indie film, TWO FRONT TEETH. The fact that it is free to watch on YouTube might say it all. Homeless for most of these past 6 years, he surfs friends’ couches, enjoys the occasional bedroom offered him for a finite spit of time, paying what he can and doing odd jobs. Of late, ranch hand his favorite. From New York to LA, Taos and Santa Fe, Mojave Desert, Coast of North Carolina, points South and South East.. with his many friends, has had many adventures. His love of animals, boundless. Currently working on a ranch in Florida as laborer and horse whisperer, saving his pennies, endeavors to move back home, New York, maybe soon.