Poetry by Rupert Wondolowski

Dreams Are My Social Life

Publishing Genius, 2023

From his long list of music projects (currently Mole Suit Choir and Wondofeather) to his proprietership of Normals Books and Records (Baltimore’s best used media shop & home of the legendary Red Room) to his long-running Shattered Wig Press and several books of poetry, Rupert Wondolowski has been an indispensible contributor to the Baltimore arts community for decades. His newest book of poetry, Dreams Are My Social Life is available now from Publishing Genius. There will be a launch party on June 4th at Normals with fellow writers Adam Robinson, Megan McShea, Linda Franklin and music by 0.1 Grand.

Dreams Are My Social Life

We were beyond restless.
We changed parking lots—

Time is muscle torn
back in the mindwebs
of that musty bar.
Summoning holes of grief
to pour sweet granny caulk into.

A little owl seamstress
made a cottage from
the day’s textile picnic,
but then that guy doing
Cherry Bombs fell through it.
Please don’t let the light
be from a road cop’s flash,
and don’t step in the back room
with Mullet Mike.

I Am Balding, He Is Balder, Hair Is for Girls

For Neil Feather

He said it was good to hear my chuckle of the damned.
We decided we both had the mantra lazy coward.”
A recounting of the body down the slippery slope.
We both knew everyone else was doing much better.
But as a therapist might say, define better.
But first define therapist.
My old one dug feverishly in her ear.
A real Fudd going down the twisty hole
for a wascally wabbit scenario.
She arrived late to our first meeting and said
What does this tell you?

They Made Cough Syrup Bitter So You Wouldn’t Put it on Your Pancakes

It was a shining moment to explore
the deepest recesses of your stomach with
the gnawing teeth of anxiety.
To promote old pieces of clothing
to Most Lucky” or Most Comforting.”
To watch slasher movie marathons
as homeopathic remedy.
Things fell from the sky.
Things that should not have been
in the sky went up there.
Clown shoes were found abandoned
as the escaped jokers climbed
the unguarded scaffolding of public acclaim.
Breath was watched.
Hands barked by washing and praying.
The rivers swollen with hat racks,
Mylar balloons and Silicon Valley startups.
Kerouac’s Ant Orchestra plays on, but
with bent trombones and crenelated tubas.
There is nothing without the
proclamation of frogs at dusk.

Rupert Wondolowski

Twitter: @RupertWondolow1
IG: @rupertwondo

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