Wil Wynn's Poetry...




“…something fierce and wild/ tribal inside/ rose up/ screamed and pushed me aside/ I was running behind it/ although he was me inside…” – Wil Wynn, “We Were Rockers Once and Young”

                   Guillermo Echanique


Poet Wil Wynn, aka Guillermo Echanique, and I go back thirteen years to the days of the Cargo Café.

At the time the Cargo – a rare jewel in provincial Staten Island – harbored poets and bohos. Every night jammed with booze, sex, music, gesticulation and sometimes bloody fights.

Pot smoke fumigated the back alley. Politicos huddled in booths plotting their rise, artists and musicians mused fancifully while lovers entangled themselves in tipsy amor fati.

Poets – or might I say troubadours – like my friends Gabe Lopez, Rob Levine, Nanci Richards, Adam Tamarkin, Marguerite Rivas, JJ Hayes, Al Peters, Debra Behr, Jon Slackman and countless others filled the night air with poetry and spoken word every Monday.

Those pregnant days lasted two years, spawning friendships and partnerships.

The Wil Wynn I know rose from that milieu. He has since become a founding member of both the Sepoy Rebellion poetry group and a performance collective called Elektromotif (elektromotif.org). His poetic method is improv, or as he calls it, just “the bones”.

“Cut off the editor, silence that squeaky voice, just do it!” he writes in the About Me section of his Myspace blog (myspace.com/wilwynn).



Recently, I laid silently in bed reading a sheaf of Wil Wynn’s poetry, alone with his graphic images. Zenic, Surreal and Existential would be good words to describe what I experienced. Capturing moods, atmospheres, contexts for thoughts, he writes with a jaw-dropping musical ear and a touch of enigma.

His themes include man-eating amour and balls-out carpe diem. But you will also read stunned disgust and wretched remorse. Ultimately, you read the words of a man swinging on a thin vine of hope through a contradictory jungle of blues and joy.

He has composed two books of poetry: Trans For Mations (with Adam Tamarkin) and Poems Your Mother Warned You About.

The following poems are some of his latest compositions.


Watch Yer Step!

She talked to me
like the anaconda talks to the dying deer
struggling in the coils.

She held me like the sea holds its drowned
asleep and dreaming of the mystery
of the brine.

she kissed me as the glacial
kisses the eroding mountainside
whose substance is transported
ever so slowly
down.

that was the truth of those pathetic years:
stone and ice and mud and waves and the Amazon
of ignorance flooding the savannah
my eyes closed to the intensity of betrayal.

it was the way it was
a way of learning
to be aware
beware
don't lose it
in jungle
sea
or
mountain






Spring Moon

spring moon arises incognito
over far walls, over battlements,
wears a crescent veil
of hours,
its silver blood spills
and sings
dances on hidden corners,

deep wells reach out
to cradle it.

city moon,
astride industries phlegm
rides a mountainous sky.

sometimes it covers its eyes
averts its white gaze
from cruciform imbroglios.

city moon
four hundred eyes per minute
close forever
a memory enduring in vague retinas
moon's face encrusted
with uncertainty,

much as our lives
endure steely city hours

moon
kisses our foreheads,
bids farewell to our minutes,
welcomes our passing lives

city moon


Partee Hardee

forget the night we wandered drunk with joy
up the silent street
as the great beast of dawn stirred
shaking its mane of light.

forget the fact that we had to drive one mile
on the rim of the right front wheel
after we got a flat hitting a sidewalk
while attempting to avoid
the crossing cat
and we were too lazy to get the spare.

forget the encumbrance of helpless laughter
at my ripped trousers and your unhooked bra,
at my falling down and your helping me up
screaming at the moon.

forget the passing policemen and our hiding
behind bushes, giggling feverishly,
and how when i turned around you had just finished
sending signals with the flashlight
to attract the martians, you said,

but instead a sleepy neighbor from his window said
"hey, what's up", and you said, "see, i told you"

and we laughed as we ran.

Forget all that happened,
forget it was so long ago.

just remember how alive we were, we are,
how each moment could have been then
and may be now

our last.


We Were Rockers Once and Young

it was the beat that got me
that pounding rocking
jaw jarring thumping
fillings loosener
pulsating hotly
beat beating drumming
heavy metal stuff
'cause i had not heard it live before
with gigantic banks of speakers
blasting sound hot as fire
and a crazy crowd verging on a riot
so this one time
i don't know...
something happened

i just went with it
moved like i never moved before and,
even though I thought my taped broken rib
might be an impediment in this scene,
i was gonna fly off rise higher and higher
then dive
into the pit
to lose my wallet
balls and all the rest
and gain heaven and earth
something nothing
in one doomed soaring song

truth is i wasn't sober
even though COOH makes me sick
and all other forms of friendly substances
send me to the ER
where the demons have to wait their turn
while the docs tie me up, ya know?
so when the smoke started
and the screaming
the pounding rocking
thumping fuckin beat
got louder
i said to my friends
i'm going i'm fucking going

'cause I did nothing wild really wild before
could not even think of a sky dive
stuff like that
and something fierce and wild
tribal inside
rose up
screamed and pushed me aside
i was running behind it
although he was me inside
the whole thing getting louder
wilder wilder
i got up and i looked at the sea of arms
rising
and screamed and howled
took the leap
and was pounded
jarred twisted
stroked massaged
punched bitten
passed behind

until i was dropped standing
and that's when i broke
my ankle

but nothing mattered
nothing mattered
because i had
(Apollo be blessed)
survived!

well sort off:
i had a bleeding nose,
my chest hurt like hell
every time i breathed
and i couldn't take a step.

well worth it dudes and dudettes

rock on!



There Is No Who, No Why (sonata)

i dreamed a country
a hemisphere
a world
a planetary system
a galaxy
a universe

a kind of bang
neither small nor big
ethereal manifestation
but real in an imagined sense

stars in their courses
sought to rule the lives
of infinitesimal beings
millions of miles away
i said no way
it's possible
then i felt a pull
a push
a tug
a touch
an infinitesimal
but large immense
gravitational
electromagnetic
quantum ergo
something
that indeed ruled
every fiber of my being
and every atom of the universe
i screamed in joy and fear
in exultation
unified theory at last
extant in my mini-universe

my dog started shaking
his head his ears something bothered him
in my dream i was despondent
but i did wake up
just in time
to realize
i had been my own god
and maybe i still am



Considering Hey!

coming and going

nyc still grabs me by the proverbial

hand

and leads me on

to places long and short

of memory;

someone very old

when asked

what would he have done differently

could he live his life again

responded

(after thinking it over)

"i woudda taken more chances"

and it's true;

we walk around swinging on our safety net

we live our lifes within 3 to 5 miles

radius of our habitual selves;

today, i think i'm gonna expand my chance expanse

by at least a few feet, a few faces, a few words,

hey

all that can be lost is the previous radius!



Double Mute Poem Celebrating Spanish As Official LA language and the Redistribution of Power

the mayor said:
[estabamos dormidos]
in this hopeful day
[golpearon la puerta]
when we see the fruits of our labors
[y gritaron violentos]
of so many years
[y golpearon de nuevo]
arise in words of hope
[estabamos asustados]
of union, power redistributed
[no dijeron quien eran]
transcendent of origins and faces
[nos rompieron la puerta]
skin color or immigration status
[apuntaron sus armas]
today we know
[nos tiraron al suelo]
that the majority rules
[nos pusieron esposas]
and not money or possessions
[registraron lo nuestro]
only democracy and its balm of integration
[se llevaron a Julio]
of patient conciliation
[sangrando e inconciente]
rules, can rule now
[nos gritaron que se yo cualquier cosa]
Do not forget
[y se fueron rabiosos]
Spanish is
[se llevaron a mi hijo]
the official language now!
[que hasta ahora no ha vuelto]

Applause Applause Applause



Friday AM Too Early Awakening

amid early supine travails
tangled bedclothes
and naked butt mooning the wall
longing for my essence rises
from intangible continents
of want,
already lustbrimming at five am
while obsessive possesive thoughts galore
steadily stream from
bygone years,

effervescent
tremor of desire
among multiple
memories
swiftly vanishes

leaves no
traces
leaves only its own endless concatenation

but in awake dreams
samadhi indeed
sometimes

I visit
quiet lost mind spaces
quasi-forgotten
just submerged
subconscious subterranean

near, as near
as closing the eyes
in dark moonless night
or quiet bright day
meanwhile I
adrift
in the lost
continents
of want
whose size and span
stretch forever
no road signs
or maps

wish I could find
my way back to pristine
state at the center
of being

unborn
reborn
primary point aware

tabula rasa
again
each day...


Excoriation

under
the asymmetrical multitude of past acts
that loom crimson in the deepest night
of my distress

her leaving me is an anguished material
underground bloodstream
of anguished cries

here the forlorn heart
the extent marks
beat by beat
of the multiple turgid horizons
on the moon of absent sleep
and thus beckon nights and days of disbelief
that in black and white parade march
followed by the incessant ocelot of want

tumultuous hours and minutes scamper by
leaving no hope no rest no ready body banging
against the anvil of her deeds,
just my deepest desires that
assailed by disbelief
succumb unseen

I want her and I don't want her
what manner of schizoid trap is this
that serves to muddle ungainly fantasies
already awry with the deposed
princes of my angst?

and she is gone
from arms to arms
a transient pleasure

oh live your days away from me
I want not this harsh reality
just my dreadful past-prime-time
erotic fantasy


Downsizing

Father comes home aglow.

We cringe,
go to our rooms,
hide in the basement.
But soon enough
we are gathered
in his work room,
among his collection
of steel wool pom-poms and
miniature monkey cages.

"We are downsizing",
he screams,
"We are streamlining,
we are becoming lean
and mean and clean.
No more health insurance
to mount our costs up,
Our stock will soar,
profits will rise
to unparalleled heights."
He glowers at us.
"No more slacking off,
your duties will double,
or you are dismissed, fired,
kaput."

Just then Mother comes in,
stares at the scene,
all of us in our fake business suits,
cardboard ties, paper shoes,
and she tells Father,
"Time to go fishing".
He slinks off, the Wall Street Journal
now just another paper hat.

"Wish he'd get a job",
Mother says,
before stomping back to the kitchen.


Morning of Long Moments Gone

every day 3 AM or so
my bladder/brain nudges me awake
commands a pee
so I
duty bound not to wet bedclothes
bring shame on to the clan
swaying comply

this dark AM and back in bed
the world outside still...
no fire engines ambulances
dogs ululating bestir
the stagnant summer air
i go back to do what i do best

review, critique, complain,
peruse, negate, exalt, berate etc etc etc.
the multiple concatenations
arising from any and all acts
i shoudda i couldda i woudda done differently then
or will do in the future tense
and on and on
but fear not:
such is the state of mind that i'm in
after perusing all that brain research
that after a little while of mind wrestling i will say

fuck it all,

go back to sleep...

Sweet dreams
my friends!



Rant on Prop-A-Gander

this morning's pensive state of being
tangled in bedclothes
surrounded by
quiet birds of lassitude
hearing daily radio alarm news
by ugly rumors squats
and
beset by defrocked past verities
bygone compounded certainties
gives up trying to understand
goes back to sleep

nonetheless
there is a penchant for smothering old things
methinks, today,
for mythifying custom, habit, race
something anything!
then discard discard while we float
on the new wave

relentless advertising wars call,
from ancient monuments,
from deep fragmented tombs,
from labyrinths of jealous rage
from war from anger from despair
all sprouting madly from TV
all media (indeed)

to mount my morning stage
I need only a small vertebrate push,
a genetic inclination to wake up,
a veracity of intent to move to go to be
a production unit near its end

and now pink underinside of mouth
quiet soles of feet
the whole of me including rafish intellect,
shatters quiet dawn
by standing up turning it on
and gape at electronic torpitude

violence galore strikes front pages,
relentless tv news
repeats endless visual masturbatory
events to shake meek souls,
like mine

I hide under vast sea
of almost grief
at so much waste

pellucid disbelief,
disturbed consciousness of self
rattles lugubrious cage of ancient elements,
claims onerous conceit called certainty
that poliglottal deep throated media certainly do not possess
but they claim nonetheless as moral right
to wake me from my daily torpitude
and send me into another world of gulping down
propaganda
and so it empties up vast repositories of dignity
fills it with desire indeed
until at last, acquiescence takes the podium
and belief, a shattered bird, strokes its
feathers via bloody beak
while my integrity (if any) is removed
sight unseen

this much is certain:
ovary uterus vagina vulva penis testicles coitus orgasm
glory to gods for a few seconds
then lie back
to ponder
how the universe still extant
persists in the face
of my own
and others
obtuse humanity.


The Knocking On The Door Ain’t Who You Think It Is

i was sitting alone
at home
'cept for Freddy my dog
who dreamed of moving tires
or rabbits or bouncing balls
or something equally
unpredictable and fun

while I watched
"The Search for the Indianapolis"
a WW II cruiser sunk by the Japanese
at the very end of the war
(the Indianapolis delivered
"Big Boy", the atomic bomb
that destroyed Hiroshima
and that was food for thought)

when
as i chewed a grape
grown in Chile,
(may I say)
a friendly grape
you know?

(and yes, there had been sake,
I'm glad you asked,
my favorite sub-potent drink
and how damn appropriate
don't you think?
at the particular historical time
in the pix)

when i found all of a sudden i could not breathe

the half-chewed grape had lodged
in my throat
i could not breathe
i fucking could not breathe
i could not breathe
I tried and all i got was nothing
but a helpless feeling
I could not breathe
i could not breathe
breathe breathe breathe I could not
I fukking could not breathe

nor could i swallow

i felt a struggling of contrary demands:
swallow-breathe
i mean i knew i was in trouble
when the sake
unable to go past the obstruction
came out in a stream
like Copenhagen's boy
'cept it was the other end
that wet the floor

while a wave of disbelief
swept over my mind

it's hard to explain
but i watched as i struggled

my mind clear?
weighing alternatives'
and not one thought of Zen
or philosophical beliefs
not one prayer
or moment of clarity
not one desire to see a loved one once again
no famous last gasp
no IDEA came to me
as the door slowly began to close
on all i care for

it was a Boyle's Law perfect storm
just breathe and breathe again...
'cause if you can't
you're gonna die

that's all there was

the alternatives
were juxtaposed in an ascending order
depending on how close to death i felt

1) Stick my finger down my throat, reverse peristalsis at work
all that goes down must come up (if so desired)!
2) Fall on my fists, a self applied Heimlich
3) Go outside, knock on one and all doors until someone came out to help me
4) Give up the ghost peacefully (not even considered)

I felt stridor in my throat
and i knew i would survive
some air was getting down!
and soon I swallowed
could breathe

and now I'm fine
the knock was on another door
is that too much?

Yet I feel upset
as close to tears as an Ecuadorean can be
without too much shumir (a potent alcoholic brew)

because...
well, it's hard to tell
I was sad that there are so many things
I want to do or know
and there never will be time
to do them all

Here is the other realization:
Life (and death) are all about my self
it can and will happen
when I do not expect it
even if I am expecting it, dig?

I won't let anybody kid me anymore:
moment to moment
I must act as if
there is no fucking time left!
'cause, for all I know,
there ain't!

For sure now I will get molar implants, duh!
and do mindful chewing to the max...


Waking Up Dead

clouds high, moon low,
indigent streets shaking with loneliness,

on the day I slit my wrists

leaves and hopelessness swinging in the wind,
great swatches of silent murmurs
cradled by dormant spring

on the day I slit my wrists

electric lights gave out tenebrous screams and,
in the gutter, exhausted souls lay quietly asleep

on the day I slit my wrists

next door my friend Eddie screamed in pain,
cancer gnawing at his hip,
the nurse would not give him medication

on the day I slit my wrists

I went outside: the streets bereft of life
cried great potholes of grief

on the day I slit my wrists

a solitary cat crossed and looked at me
green eyes flashing disbelief

on the day I slit my wrists

and it was one step down,
three miles up
six feet of snow on the string of winter's bow,
it was just I couldn't sleep,
I thought love was something
but it was nothing but a dream
imagined by a constant child, me,
and oblivion was the only thing,
was all I desired

on the day I slit my wrists