Ron Koppelberger
The Wolves Harvest
Fortune expressed the passion and praise. He fixed the earth and the cool rain with a bidden eye. The sun shone through the drizzle in customs of satisfying will, gray clouds and remarkable columns of brilliance provided shelter and warmth amongst the moted rays of light and shadow. The invention of his choice would amaze the rabble the onlookers who found themselves in the presence of a curious demeanor.
His source was determined by the sweet nectar of daisy blossoms and honeycomb. He sipped at the mixture of sugary tea and chaste blossom ascension with the greatest of understanding, an instant of predetermined portrayal, an instant of depth, width and height. The saffron glow agreed with the gentle rain as beads of liquid slid across his skin and the tall glass of tea. He surrendered to the moment and growled in contented bliss.
The fur bristled across his body and his skeleton conformed.
The silver wolf hung loosely about his taunt neck as he padded through his meandering evolution toward wild fields of wheat and saffron. The sun shone again through the mists and again and again as he found the distant horizon, the yielded sacrifice of substance for soul, as a wolf, the man in search of secret freedoms and love borne only by the passion of wild eyes and ancient passage unto the metamorphosis between long nights and days spent expecting the reward, the wolf at moons call, the faraway lands of golden wheat where men trod with the will to find freedom.
Ron Koppelberger
The Reckless Wolf
An honest importance, an intimate arrangement with the rubber mask. He tasted the bitter gambol in divisions of smokey breath and the chemical powder that coated the interior surface of the mask. A taste of alum, the mask was a graceful projection of werewolf fear, fangs and yellow eyes.
He followed the corridor to the back ally in tense rendezvous with fate, he pulled the convenience store door open, it read employees only. The flow of events became a kaleidoscope of screams and inhalations that galleries of everyday circumstance defined as intense.
He pointed the gun at the clerk and gamboled a grunt, “Empty the register!” he threw a black silk bag seamed by thick string at the clerk. Unforced, native sunshine defined the countenance of a smiling middle aged woman; suddenly her smile faltered and she screamed and spit in terror. Homespun glory filled his mind and he found creation, god in that moment. The woman screamed and the door clanged as a gulping ghost in white flew through the door. Wrenching the bag from the grasping clutch of the clerk he ran, exalting the spirit of the mask. He ran and sang the rhapsody of a newly proclaimed spirit in secret. Again, he ran.
The fortune of gilded dreams and absurd intuition arranged a rent in the rift of time. A warp in the conflict, discernable by the rare care of fate. Vaulting through the metal door he found his way whooping, “YEEEEEHHHHAAAAAWWWW!” as he ran into the back ally. The sanity of passage and the secret, the wolf in silhouette, the image of blaring sirens, enigmas and signs of happenstance, all told him to soar, to run wild in free spirit, in search of the day.
He saw the man at the mouth of the ally and in a rush he nearly tripped over him. Manners of fast faith argued the fate of destiny intertwined as he threw off the mask and ran into the brawny arms of a police officer.
The wolf mask lay near the man in the shadows. He grinned and moved forward to Vista Rose, the cemetery that used his care. Concealed in the palm of his hand, a sprig of wheat as pure as the shining sun. He would visit the graveyard in the thrall of hope. He prayed for a miracle as he donned the rubber wolf mask and moved forward again, to the limits of life, to the limits of freedom and the day that the lines of fate would converge to form the bond…..between man and the soul of a wolf……he thought, the police and the robber, were they told in a breath or was the sprig of wheat the answer to the mystery.
Ron Koppelberger
Scraps
The tawny walled confession, passion, passion in sensuous sympathies of substance and reason exampled the warmth, in extremes of sweet blessed asylum. The coverings were primal, fury and tempered by release from the bond of woven stitch. A scrap for the sum, a scrap for the honest roll of waves and carefree abandon unto the instinct of primitive attire. Raves and fair battlegrounds in sheepskin and the blossoms of asylum full in wash, full proof of the decor and the sentiment defining courage.
The hallucinations were an opiate silk and the honey oozed from every pore of his body, in thrall of wheat and amber sunglow the tides sang sheepskin blessings of shelter. He was in clandestine array with the scraps of sheepskin , sheepskin that adorned his walls in rejoicing breaths of life and discourse unto the will of a man, a touch of heaven. In discourse of blossoms , marigolds, roses and dandelions in fearless sworn allegiance to the rift, the fury and the sharp toothed allure of chronic bounding adaptation…..wolves and men by the advance of wheels and machineries of evolution like a great rainbow weld gone to the wont of bonded instinct. Tales of brothers in savage pleasures of rhy whiskey and sheep stuffing, he loved in this and prayed and his prey approved of his passion. Imbibed by the wild dream of wolf unto the need of mere men, free affections and journeys of awe, by this he extended his consciousness to the twilight tide advance as he ran without fear toward the hand of god.
Ron Koppelberger
The Dark Wolf
The distance between yesterday and today was a decade of sacred hours and anesthetic. The anesthetic was a satisfaction that the urges were encased by cement and iron and the hours spent in quiet contemplation of the illness, the malady, the bother of need and sanguine aching force.
Astor Scow sat solid in his tethered moment of captivity. He was enveloped by the bond of prison existence. He drank in the thoughtfulness of half-starved desires. Nevertheless, he yielded to the asylum of metal bars, the dissension from the row, the hungry certain caress of time passed. He sighed, the blood fresh in his mind, the carnage, the cringing seizure of a later vagabond occurrence; in violence and equally measured themes of sin he had killed. Asphalt and barbed wire ran the length of the yard. The croaking roar of a siren descrying its irritation in songs of freedom to Astor.
He had chewed the fat with divisions of death, sated slaked in blood and rage. He had killed, for need and desires of testimony to the wont that coursed through his arteries. He had killed for mad passions of power and efficient evolutions of unbroken transfer, the transfer of fountains and the spirit of necessity. He had killed in guise of eternal secret and picket fence fantasy, in flourishes of love and ever alert reverence, in reverence of the drive toward expediency, torn, engaged, unwearied by the push of wont. The distracted wholes of feeding wolves and nihilistic men he thought in a certain contemplation. He had killed the length and breadth of homeward bound berths in wolf rule and in faithful prayer.
The siren continued and the cell door slid open with a clanging of gears and steal sliders. Tentatively, Astor explored the exterior of the cell. The resonant whoop of prison clamber filled the halls and maze of cells. Astor, undisturbed and full of purpose, moved through the open gate near the end of the cell block. Fundamental transformations began to overwhelm his senses as he traveled through another gate, closer to the outside world of freedom and chance, the chance of a lifetime.
Darkness filled the exit near the visitors booth . No guards and a myriad of screaming inmates. Astor moved through the exit at a lope then a trotting caution then a galloping run, his paws fresh furred and clenching reflexively. Sanguine wolf sashays of freedom tinctured his escape. He saw the silhouette of another wolf for a moment, unbidden, near fields of saffron and wheat, near god’s touch. The vision faded and scorched pathways of scared earth lay before him, his destiny.
In the grace of a winter reckoning Astor looked to the arid desert sands and agreements of dusty cactus bloom as he found his purpose.
Ron Koppelberger
Seizing the Moment
The movie was a raging tangle of relationships, specifically the relationship between machetes and pliant flesh. Saxon Crisp dug his hand into the yellow and burnt umber colored tub of popcorn. The giant Cola had cost him four dollars and the corn five. Crisp mumbled something unintelligible and bits of popcorn tumbled from his lips. A dark stain of cold moisture from the icy Cola stained his wranglers with the secret moviegoers stigma. Saxon watched as the masked maniac cut and slashed his way through several screaming teens,
“ Yaaaaaaggggggghhhhhhhaaaaaaa.” he said through bits of corn. The nocturnal spirit sang and Crisp pounded the arm of the plastic and metal seat. “ AAAArrrrrrrrrggggghhhhaaaaqa”, darkness filled his eyes for a moment as scarlet rivers flew in cascades of beaded mist in giant projected offerings of wild abandon. “OOOhhhhhhaaaaahhhhhaaaaa,” he sighed as the Cola spilled to the floor in a sugary ice cube spray. “OOOhhhhhaaaaahhhhhaaaaa,” he moaned. His arms flailed and a shower of popcorn flew in all directions. “ AAAArrrrrraaaaaaaggggggghhhhhhaaaaa,” he screamed as he stood and striped off his shirt. Crisp screamed at the top of his lungs and dug tiny ten fingered trenches into his chest. Unbound he ran to the fr5ont of the theater screaming and whooping like a man in the shadow of an urge, an urge to ignore the withering wills of stoic reproach, calm reserve and jaded poise. “ AAAArrrraaaaaggggghhhhhaaaaa,” he screamed as the wolf took hold, dreaming him to sylvan express and wild extreme. Saxon padded up the aisle and into the maw of human breed as the theater resounded with screams of terror and shock borne of decreed fangs and fear. Saxon Crisp seized the moment and howled in silhouette to the applause of evening-tide shadows and the wan face of a dappled moon.
Ron Koppelberger
Mismatched Blood
Fury and overfed wraths of beckoning mayhem whiskered the wolfs slumber with the temper of bitter cream, curds in sour blood, the flesh of a dazed chafe and mazy portent. The wolf dreamed and in firebrand agitation, forward unto mismatched blood, a type of fury and unbidden allure in fuzzy goosebumps and ecstasy, all bliss and desire.
He dreamed of her, snarls and growls, howls and grumble-rumble convocations in yellow eyed consent. Fine-spun futures in flame and ash, in cinders and burning accent, he dreamed and in that dream he found release, release unto the elder gods of freedom and hunting passions. He dreamed of his mate, the mismatched blood, the contradiction in fanged arrays of whelp offspring, “Good seed,” she whispered to the dreaming wolf, “ Good seed my husband.” He saw jet black in twilight shadow and silhouette of an absent sun, black and devouring with an acquired embrace, a gentle surrender to the charcoal fur and clawed ambiance of the female. A dark peck and a wicked pact with the ancient alliance the midnight demons of err. She cooed in his mind and all the substance of ethereal futures revolved around him in delirious celebration, “ Evermore my love, evermore.” The wolf shuddered at the bad blood and the mismatched assurance of scarlet terrors and bloody heedless wont. He fought the urge to yelp in tangled scratches of wire, screaming and oblivious pulling him closer to the edge of desolate abandon. He fought and when he awoke he remembered the mists of what might be, he remembered the chase and the hunt, the divine satisfactions of an angel in alabaster feather and gossamer contrast. He remembered love and the promise of Eden.
Yawning and tasting the cool dawn airs of morning-tide life, he thanked the heavens for the start of a new day and the treasure of insight. “Straight forward.” he thought, “ Moving in paw sure paths toward the divine.” He soon forgot the mismatched blood and prayed, otherwise unaware of the currents, the fates that guide wolves and man. He strode ahead and into the fable of cerulean skies bought by daybreak sunshine.
Ron Koppelberger
A Wolf embracing the day
Christian Forge had traveled from loves embrace to breaths of dry desolation, desert sands to mushroom strewn forests in bloom, from cinder block abodes to straw and stick foundations. He had loved, laughed and sang praises to heaven as well as cursing the demons that lay just beyond the twilight horizon.
Christian disturbed the ease of calm harbors and gentle asylum, preferring the danger in adventure and exploration. The shack was buried by the palm fronds and briar scrub surrounding it. He had managed the tangle of weeds
And the soft squish of swampy morass for the undressed wont of expectation, a secret will, a mistress in fanged trust, overwhelming, never sated with the human condition.
He had entered the tumble with a cautious desire. The herbs and juju the swamp witch had arranged on the patch of dry dirt floor had enticed his passions. He had touched the wolf-like figurine and flinched, a sharp edge tore his fingertip and the soil drank in his blood, hungry, sanguine and in need, in magic allure. Homeward bound, he thought as he devoured the sacred meal of herbs and wolf-thyme. Just a touch of crimson, coppery, salty and sleek as the tear drizzled into the mystic brew. He made a face at the taste, bitter in test, the blood a flavored liquor, a foothold on what was human.
Soon after, he collapsed and dreamed of wild freedoms and carnal delights. The sleep of wolfs and babes. Near evening-tide he awoke to the rhythm of his breath, his even forceful exhalations in wolf bred, magnified sense. His paws flexed and he growled, the evidence of his rebuke lay in tattered
Torn clothing and vesture. He was refined in the enveloping allure of wolf suspiration and he wanted, in tense posture. He wanted the hunt; a whip-o-will sounded and the keenness of his soul elevated him to heights of unbridled desire. From human to wolf, from the certain sustenance of civil
Union to primal forests and the grace of wily need. Christian would know the will of wolves because he was on the heal of evolution, The balance between man and wolf.
Ron Koppelberger
Tripe
The mountain of steaming tripe lay in slatherings of mustard and barbecue sauce. He gobbled like a grazing hog and belched like a grumbling lion. The tripe was a saucer of adventure. Steaming, salted and in acquiescent nuances of savor the tripe offered its taste. Crazy-quilt images of rainbow sunshine leapt and fluttered through the mosaic of stained glass onto the course wood and lattice walls. A picture of cows grazing through fields of wheat hung at an angle on the slated wall.
“MMMMMMM…..MMMMMMMM!” he sputtered in full quivers of tripe and sauce. A bit of tripe fell to the plate and he scooped it up groaning , “Yummy, Yummy!” it disappeared in a greasy gulp of belching hunger, he was famished, starved, tripe, tripe, tripe…………a contest of ripe warrant and famished consent. When he finished the tripe he ate the plate in saw slivered madness, then the spoon and with wild glee the heavy oak table, splinters of wood fell to the carpeted floor as he belched and grinned a bloody toothed gasp of desire, desire in hunger, the wont for sustenance and savor.
* The edge of the world anchored the girth of the man and the earth prayed on the mind of sorceries as resolute as tripe and in need of blessings concluded by the satisfaction of expectation.
Ron Koppelberger
Crusade
The spirits of careful animate revolution beguiled the courage of gateway distress and a powerful benediction. A blood value in pledges of novice approval, laudable by the blazon flags of rainstorm mothers and venerated spider weave, souls of sunshine spirit and chambers of shuddering custody.
A thunder of possessed blessing and the crusade of what need and desire give to the love of holy seals and soldiers in quest. The distance between bare compulsion and measurable realms of contemplation in the instant of crusade, the breath of a determined passion. The enduring gain of steep hollows and overtures of fateful vision, the guest in fields of rolling saffron array, in genuflection, a crusade in silent ferment and dandelion wine. The shroud of will in the time of velvet petals and bloody thorns, gone unto the illusory dream of tomorrow and beasts given the rule of restless abandon, a crusade in sated narration for the wont of a purpose and the whisper of a woman in love.
Ron Koppelberger
Roughhouse
The punishment for practicing rebel materialism was a squeeze in the roughhouse summons, the call to claim, the wont of a dire advance. The weak bawl of lockup orders was what Olympia Hillock contemplated in opiate exclamations. “Unholy smoke, I ain’t in the midnight crew, bless this mess and forgo the screw.” she said in defiance to the nighttime wash, the cold crew, the crazy bastards had ciphered the bosses safe. Diamonds, cash and flourishes of gold,……..inmate No. 287465241, Olympia H. The shelter of her ignorance was little consolation as she had been named the understudy and her innocence in the charade was in question.
Rich (Iguana) Garner had given her a diamond bracelet from the bosses safe. Rich was on the midnight crew, the shadowy shape of a penitentiary class, janitors and thieves. Olympia listened through the heavy oak doors as Asmodeous P. Utmost roughhoused Rich, his punishment for the safecracking. His screams were a poignant instruction in testimony to Asmodeouses anger. The secretary in the outer office glanced at Olympia her coffee jumping in a splash as something slammed against the office door, a moaning breach of sound filtered in through the oaken door as a bolero of roughhouse dread filled the room in dark waves of fear and tempered forbidding. Rich staggered back through the office door. The secretary pointed to Olympia and in harpy disregard she said “Go on in sweetie!”
Olympia stood in forlorn repose as she paused for a moment, then she ventured into Asmodeouses office. In fields of gold she thought forcefully, fields of saffron and wheat she pleaded. Her prayers were silent in contrast to the billowing demon, “ Wild witch, GET IN HERE!” she cringed and expanded her consciousness in savory amber waves of light. Saffron safety, saffron security, she thought. Moments later as Amadeus raised his fist she found herself in a vast oasis of wheat, fields of gold scented with sunshine fragrance. In august heat and comforting harmony she touched a wheat stalk and sighed with reverent awe.
Ron Koppelberger
Roughhouse
The punishment for practicing rebel materialism was a squeeze in the roughhouse summons, the call to claim, the wont of a dire advance. The weak bawl of lockup orders was what Olympia Hillock contemplated in opiate exclamations. “Unholy smoke, I ain’t in the midnight crew, bless this mess and forgo the screw.” she said in defiance to the nighttime wash, the cold crew, the crazy bastards had ciphered the bosses safe. Diamonds, cash and flourishes of gold,……..inmate No. 287465241, Olympia H. The shelter of her ignorance was little consolation as she had been named the understudy and her innocence in the charade was in question.
Rich (Iguana) Garner had given her a diamond bracelet from the bosses safe. Rich was on the midnight crew, the shadowy shape of a penitentiary class, janitors and thieves. Olympia listened through the heavy oak doors as Asmodeous P. Utmost roughhoused Rich, his punishment for the safecracking. His screams were a poignant instruction in testimony to Asmodeouses anger. The secretary in the outer office glanced at Olympia her coffee jumping in a splash as something slammed against the office door, a moaning breach of sound filtered in through the oaken door as a bolero of roughhouse dread filled the room in dark waves of fear and tempered forbidding. Rich staggered back through the office door. The secretary pointed to Olympia and in harpy disregard she said “Go on in sweetie!”
Olympia stood in forlorn repose as she paused for a moment, then she ventured into Asmodeouses office. In fields of gold she thought forcefully, fields of saffron and wheat she pleaded. Her prayers were silent in contrast to the billowing demon, “ Wild witch, GET IN HERE!” she cringed and expanded her consciousness in savory amber waves of light. Saffron safety, saffron security, she thought. Moments later as Amadeus raised his fist she found herself in a vast oasis of wheat, fields of gold scented with sunshine fragrance. In august heat and comforting harmony she touched a wheat stalk and sighed with reverent awe.
