He'll admit it; he’s a werewolf. There's no need for torches, silver bullets or fantastic engines to ensnare the bones and drag them through the mud. He’s a werewolf, to be sure, but not the good kind, just a regular guy who happens to belong in extremis. Not the kind you see in movies who can control their splendid transformations and turn into giant dogs lugaru style, or the mad half-men at the beck and call of the
old moon, hopeless to resist some a priori rage against humanity and who awaken damp and bemused
by their clothes tattered in that way familiar to all changelings. Not that kind—sadly—although it seems
to be worse during the thunder moon. On those nights it’s all he can do to stop himself from peeing on every tree and rubbing his sides against rough bark—the rougher the better. The leaves do seem to smell stronger and cool and the insects’ raucous is deafening and almost painful. Thankfully, the nights pass quickly on all fours—a deep burn in the shoulders—seeking a bone-cold pond to snuffle in and scratch his nails sharp against rock and naked dirt.
Carlo Matos has published four books. His poems, stories and essays have appeared in many online and print journals like Menacing Hedge, Cleaver Magazine, Atticus Review, DIAGRAM and Arsenic Lobster. Reviews of his books can be found at Boston Review, Iowa Review, Portuguese-American Journal, and e Conium Review. He earned a Ph.D in English literature from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and teaches writing at the City Colleges of Chicago. A former cage fighter, Carlo now trains fighters when he’s not entertaining clients at the Chicago Poetry Bordello. For more about his work, please visit carlomatos.blogspot.com