~a cool breeze drifted through the thick sway of grass~
~up the down hill we had so recently climbed~
~my friend & me~
~old dogs talkin’ about new tricks~
~we could just write ourselves inside out~
~damned straight I was excited~
~doors~
~wire hinges~
~fire in the night hole~
~I haven’t slept since that day~
~a year ago~
~could be two~
~grave epitaph~
~hinge theory as I under/misunderstand it~
~bugs the hell outa me~
~when applied to creativity~
~the foursquare side of me~
~cringes~
~in its shadow~
~its very existence threatened~
~by the certainty~
~of changelings~
~shape shifters~
~it is terrifying~
~& exciting to edit~
~written pieces & graphics~
~in light of the moment~
~to realize the absurdity~
~of considering them finished~
~unsettling when I review them~
~in their tens of tens of thousands~
~new work piling up in steno pads~
~& bulky graphic files~
~songs whittle deeply~
~at the stick of me~
~decades of writing & performing~
~guitarists & percussionists~
~singers & keyboardists~
~whose energy & input~
~is difficult if not impossible to assess~
~hell some of them have died~
~right in front of me~
~come to think of it~
~excuse me~
~I must compose my epitaph~
~its worth hopefully~
~equal to my last breath~
~its final edit~
~its last line~
~a sweet flower & carcass~
~to attract honeybee poets~
~& burial buzzard madmen~
~to continue as I have~
~in the digging of my grave~
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I wrote Mother in May 2004 and sent it to Momma for Mother’s Day, what turned out to be the last Mother’s Day of our life. A couple of months later she was gone. Momma’s Hands was written then. I miss her and wish her spirit well. Mine will spend the remainder of its life here on earth healing in the light of my children’s love.
Speaking of healing and adding joy, Happy Mother’s Day! to Tammy, Christy, Tommy, Harley Blue, Zedidiah, Danni Jo, and Michelle and Heather! Wish I was there to collect some hugs and eat cake with you all today. I love each of you in myriad ways and the beautiful little People in our Family.
~Mother~
On those days when life is just too damned heavy to carry, I set it down and think about her.
She is young in my thoughts, so full of hope she just might burst. That round hard belly, the load she must carry, is part of her. It defies understanding. She must not and does not set it down. Even when it journeys from womb to breast, a cradle her arms make. When it learns to walk her hands take and it walks away but never leaves her. She must not and does not set it down.
On those days when life is just too damned heavy to carry, I set it down and think about her.
My load is diminished in the shadow of her courage. I am enlightened to know she is there. Yes, she is
just there. She must not and does not set me down.
~Momma’s Hands~
Momma’s hands held mine, patty-cake, tickling my piggies, baby powder soft. “I was raised by sisters in a Catholic orphanage,” she told me. My tiny fists around her fingers, I learned to walk in Momma’s hands. Momma’s hands offered love and solace, fingers pushing Vicks into my nose, rubbing it into my chest, pinning towels tight around a cold that never had a chance, caressed my face, trembled, that I might be tended by, the awesome healing power of Momma’s hands.
Momma’s hands knew every part of me, my young and broken heart. A cradle they would make that I would be safe and secure beneath their wings, a tender-keep they were. Brothers and sisters, each and all, gathered within the circle of Momma’s hands.
Momma’s hands birthing and growing, teaching and knowing when to let go, when to shelter and pull away, the wounds of her life made small by the desire to tend to helpless things, danger held at bay and more ‘neath Momma’s hands.
Something fell Momma down. We gathered in ones and twos in the hospital ICU, doctors and nurses understanding, shaking their heads. “I’m so tired,” she said. They lay limp at her side and I cried at the sight of Momma’s hands.
“Where’s the priest?” “Are those the sisters?” she asked my sister. “Are they coming to tell me what they used to tell me... Wake up, little girl, don’t you cry?” Her voice was thin, “I’m not gonna die.” A tear slid down her face, “I’m going home.”
Later, after she has rested, she is much weaker, once proud lips full, no, clouded eyes, the merciful opiate haze of morphine. Oh, you candle spirit, what are we without you? What is life without her?
Time stops. My lips, one last kiss, those hands, whose job is done are finally at rest. I lift them up, one by one. I kiss them goodbye, Momma’s hands.
In loving memory of my Mother, Carroll Belle Hart (Stene/Sterner)
7 September, 1931 – 11 July, 2004
~A Tear for the Choir~
Poor; she taught us to be proud
Proud; she taught us to be humble
her example of integrity and individuality
true and pure beyond question or explanation
She asked more of herself
and expected it from others
yet never refused to lend a hand
to lost, world-weary, and hungry souls
be they human or beast
One doesn’t say goodbye to her
She created a space in those she loved
to make them stronger
We are come to say hello to those spaces
to sing their praises
to the extraordinary lady
who never knew how to let us down
but gave of herself and just enough
to make us strong
all who carry her song in our hearts
that we might go on without her
In loving memory of my Mother
Carroll Belle Hart (Stene/Sterner)
7 September, 1931 – 11 July, 2004
I’d like to thank my wife’s mother who I never met in this life for teaching her daughter the appropriate action to take when dealing with nuisances, remedies and recipes for destroying destroyers, as in sprinkling salt on meandering hordes of slugs leech-ass clinging to the cat food dish.
And my own mother, in fact; while ranching with her in Wyoming she taught me many things, not the least of which was taking action against flocks of summer moths. She poured water into a small saucepan, mixed in dishwashing soap, tossed a dish towel over her shoulder, and advised me to watch closely. She stood on a kitchen chair, held soapy water under the ceiling light, swooped at the moths with her dish towel. They fell down, drowned in layers.
I went over one morning to have coffee with Momma and my stepdad. She was sitting at the table weeping. He was out riding fence. Momma lifted my four-year-old son into her lap, held him near to her breast, when he asked her where Lady and Snoopy were. They were pets brought from the city when my stepdad purchased the ranch.
Snoopy was a loveable Siberian Husky with a hair lip, one blue eye and one brown. Lady was a red Alaskan Malamute. Snoopy followed her everywhere. She was a year older and half again his size. Lady took care of my boy. Many a time I was busy with chores, turned around to say something to that little guy and he wasn’t there. He did that things kids do, disappeared into thin air.
There were wells and holes and rattlesnakes, a thirty foot high slab pile full of black widow spiders outside a dilapidated sawmill/barn. I went near crazy looking for that boy at times. Out there in the endless fields one day, hay and alfalfa, lavender yellow, I followed those curled Husky’s tails meandering through the rows. I found Lady herding my boy back to the house, keeping him safe, bringing him home, Snoopy close on her heels.
There was a lot for a father to worry about on that red dirt, dry-assed Wyoming ranch, cows out, broken fences, sixteen hour work days seven days a week, the never-ending demands of the hard-boss, my stepfather. Lady gave me peace and assurance that whatever hole I fell into my boy was safe with her.
Momma was weeping. “Give me a minute,” she sobbed. Momma wasn’t a crier. I watched her closely, Momma’s hand on that coffee cup, as I poured myself a cup and took a seat at the table, her arms around my boy. She took a sip, set her cup down slow and easy. “Remember when the dogs were chasing the cows?” She looked across the table at me, her eyes chocolate brown, deep and moist, bottomless.
“A couple of weeks ago,” I replied, “What?”
“Do you remember what he said?”
“He said they can’t do that. It distresses the cows. They’re ready to calve.”
She nodded sadly. “Yes, and the lead poisoning.”
I ran my fingers through my beard. “Hell Momma, he says some weird-assed shit. That lead poisoning dogs and cows business didn’t make a connection with me but I didn’t want to hear any more about it so what the hell…”
“That porcupine the dogs kept chasing,” she mused, “It died of lead poisoning.”
I nodded my head. “That was something. Never occurred to me a creature could get so many quills in its face. They whimpered and cried like little babies while I sat on ‘em and he pulled ‘em out with pliers. Seven days in a row, they’d go find that damned thing and go after it again..”
“He shot that porcupine dead,” Momma said.
“Hell of a shot,” I agreed. “A hundred yards away, that porcupine dropped dead off that telephone pole before we heard the report of the rifle. Can’t say I felt sorry for it, all the work it put us through.”
Momma hugged my boy tight, buried her face in his hair.
“The dogs chased his calves last night,” she whispered, “lead poisoning.”
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~fugue~
~thinking about my music~
~unsure whether it was the~
~crowning glory of my youth~
~or the toilet it was swallowed by~
~there are warts on their skin now~
~dragon nail breath~
~those fresh songs far away~
~momma used to come dance to my voice~
~first she stopped dancing~
~then she ceased to live~
~or was it the other way around~
~those little girls~
~my daughters~
~who used to sing all my songs~
~have children of their own~
~husbands & careers~
~my boyz make their own music~
~stoned damned markers in our lives~
~deaths of parents~
~assassinated politicians~
~elections & hurricanes~
~life experiences that bind us~
~a sense of purpose & expectations~
~of ourselves & others~
~canned laughter from the tv room~
~makes about as much sense~
~other than duplicity~
~there is no actuality~
~audiences expect to hear & see~
~experience a secondhand reality~
~what they are programmed to be~
~comfortable with~
~hot & ready to do that thing~
~everybody’s talkin’ about~
~whatever the hell it is~
~the room was empty~
~when the pretenders left~
~nearly as empty as before~
~beggars~
~are the only liars~
~who earn their keep~
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~this piece is written for & dedicated to my Mother~ ~Carroll Hart~
~7 September 1931~11 July 2004~
~I violin~ ~if the wood be my face~
~I would howl~
~I would~
~hasten myself toward glory~
~the grain of my skin~
~would tell where I’d been~
~the sweat & the tears of my story~
~tie your metal strings~
~turn them tight into wings~
~cross your bow~
~give me lavender voice~
~as each note sings my bones~
~a god come to own~
~me you play me~
~a song of your choice~
~as I die as~
~I violin~
~the last violin~ ~they said the night was behind us~
~whose tears had only begun~
~did you see the one they held pris’ner~
~did you hear the songs left unsung~
~& there just above morning~
~they danced decades gone by~
~lovers beyond this world of chance~
~caught in the winking moon’s eye~
~I hear the strains of the last violin~
~& the notes each chord while it plays~
~echoing through my mind ‘til it sings~
~the last violin of our days~
~sleep is the ghost we’ve been chasing~
~wearing faces left over again~
~strangers in masks of our choosing~
~haunting places we’ve never been~
~& time the present reminder~
~of pasts even yet to be shared~
~quicker than they are occurring~
~wonder were we really there~
~I hear the strains of the last violin~
~& the notes each chord while it plays~
~echoing through my mind ‘til it sings~~the last violin of our days~
~a symphony sings at your cradle~
~an Ozarks sweet serenade~
~rocking the night with his fiddle~
~the player whose aging chords fade~
~you’ve learned to dance on without him~
~an angel whose feet kiss the floor~
~& all the others stop dancing~
~the last violin plays no more~
~I hear the strains of the last violin~
~& the notes each chord while it plays~
~echoing through my mind ‘til it sings~~the last violin of our days~
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There are times I go down until I am surrounded by yellow music. There is nothing beneath me. My mother’s dead lips smile and say, “See, there is nothing lesser than we.” The earth is my camp breath, her worms and the heat of my bowels. Night sweat means nothing to those who do not sleep. It is a balm, an outside offering. Please take me to the circus, that I might witness the misery of other animals, the empirical majesty and absolute dominion of man, where only the elephant is sadder than me. Lost in a sea of green money and fingertip fishes seeking greedy, sucky, moments of avarice, she has eleven open mouths and swallows the whole of me. Did you see the frail lantern alight in the window and the name it was wearing. Yes, its message of Phaedra and calling itself home. Falling into a forest of a thousand guitars, whose root strings are tender, is the master of chord. He hangs himself from the nearest guitar, dies on the music of the wind. “Meet me in your dreams,” she cries, “the next best thing to being there.” Shadow shapes call out to my name. I am blind in the periphery and in all dreams I die. Like a wounded animal, I smell the rot of my flesh and damn the maggots for eating parts of me left better to putrefy and deliver me to the end land. Sleep is the kingdom of the healthy, where the strong go to rest and the weak to escape. There is a madness between sleep where pariahs such as I, alleys roam. In a pasture of lowing, moon-swept, pastoral and fine, I am the hunter’s lust to slay with fang and claw, all that lives, to starve on a body of prey. The pretty boys were singing downtown, making heat for long-legged girls, flinging epithets at the old men, beggars and high roller winos. Midnight don’t mean nothin’ to strangers. I got one foot in Jesus, the other in the ditch. Spirituality is like ringworm. It makes you itch, digs down deeper than your flesh. Why don’t you take me out walkin’ until my feet are under water and my eyes are full of sand. I’ll look down and wonder, all gritty, where the hell did they go? The man on the radio says ha-ha, talks to girls about their titties and why don’t they join a swinger’s club, do it in front of their old men. He breaks for a commercial about shaking babies to death. Life makes about as much sense as two nickels rubbed together, don’t make a dime. You put it all up front and, when it falls down, you walk away and wonder, was it something you said or maybe you didn’t. I knew a man named Jimmi. He got real pissed when they took away one of his m’s, set fire to his instrument and banged his head on the floor. Ah hell, it’s all in the letters. I loathe rooms with four walls, double doors and window mirrors. They see everything you do, look back, contemptuous, to remind you of everything you don’t. Yesterday there was something in my soup; I believe it loved me. The prayer I said over it was beautiful. You are woman; you are my hope, my dream and then I swallowed it whole. There may be enough pills in this bottle to still the phantoms behind my eyes, that I might cop a few hours of death, leave this drifting shadow place for the delight of ebon fantasies. Be kind to me, you damned night. Allow me acceptance, her invitation and, with the blessing of Phaedra whose death by her own hand is the sleep death, a revenge of sons. http://wordwulf.com WordWulf Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com & wordwulf@wordwulf.com © artwork & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner © Blessings of Phaedra was published 2008 in The Hudson View nominated for The Pushcart Prize that same year
excerpt from Madman Chronicles: The Warrior, chapter 64, The Trouble with Luis
The patron’s handsome Native American face was a study of agony, eyes slammed tightly shut, voices of the centuries howling through his mind. To have found his Yllai after all these decades in the hands of her raper was very nearly more than he could stand. A quick and painful act of vengeance was required. Wild in his fury, he sentenced the rapist to be dealt with by the capable and practiced hands of Luis Vasquez, a master with no equal in the art of torture.
the extent
of one’s evil
is but a water mark
the flood of anotherChapter Sixty-four
The Trouble with Luis
There’s blood in my head,’ he thought, ‘An’ it’s three feet thick. An’ blood in my hands... too.. too much blood. Upside..upside. Upside down. My arm, oh God, my arm. Gotta get outa here. The walls, they’re closin’ in. I’m too fuckin’ scared to scream. That bitch... that bitch is gonna pay. Oh yeah, she’s gonna pay big time. Don’t see how he could hurt me anymore. My arm’s broke an’ I’m tied down like Jesus. What’s he doin’ with that camera, some kinda fuckin’ movie? Oh God, I hurt. This spik bastard has to have a weakness. I’ll wait, jus’ wait... Oh shit! Oh fuck! Here he comes!’
Luis set the tripod and adjusted the focus on the video camera. These caverns with their ingenious hoists and pulleys were fine for the business of torture but they just weren’t designed for movie making. There were no movies, no electricity, none of that when all of this had been built. ‘It would have been a good time to be alive,’ thought Luis, ‘a time fit for a man like me. Ah well, I will learn the buttons and the switches, just like I have learned everything else in my life, by using them’. He could have had someone else run the movie machine but it was his experience that most men didn’t have the stomach to even watch what was about to take place in this hidden cavern in the vault. Or else they enjoyed it too much, took pleasure from it. Luis chose not to be around such men. There was a piece of work to do here and he would do it. It was as simple as that. This man had hurt the Patron. For that sin he would pay dearly. Making him pay was the job at hand and Luis was just the man for the job. Oh yes, he always preferred to work alone.
This was Luis’ first experience with film making. In the past, the Patron would come watch for a while if he decided to take a personal interest in the proceedings. He was not a cruel man and most times chose not to watch. He knew the value of punishment, that a man in his position must mete it out. Luis had never witnessed the Patron partaking of any personal joy or fulfillment when punishment was administered. With this man it was different. Yes, he would be the exception to the general rule. The Patron would be very busy tonight, he had told Luis. This was an event he preferred to be able to savor over and over and it had to be taken care of immediately. So... the camera and the tripod. ‘Ah well,’ Luis thought, ‘It will prolong the man’s agony. Each time I change positions I will have to readjust the camera. He will be forced to wait, left dangling in my web. He must be a very bad man, something to do with the new girl. Ah well, torture is a fine art and I am a Picasso. My knife is my brush.’
Lance was suspended in a trestle-work, a rack of sorts. Luis liked to think of it as his web. Lance’s body hung spread-eagle, upside down. His feet and hands were fixed by tethers to the four corners of the works. There were a series of gears and checks to adjust the tightness of each tether singularly and a master gear to adjust them all at once. Lance began to moan loudly, a pitiful whining sound, almost liquid, slobbering from his mouth. Luis reached out and tightened the master gear a single click. This brought a blood-curdling scream from Lance.
Luis shook his head sadly. This one would not last. There was no bottom to the man. The Patron would surely be cheated of the satisfaction of a full treatment. De’ Angelo, now there was a good one. Most men from the South, that Luis had seen, could endure pain and come up spitting. They had bottom. And maybe this Wulf they spoke of, he sounded like a good one, the one the Patron referred to as Brother. Then there was the large one, the dark man. Luis allowed himself the luxury of a small smile as he thought of the giant. One day the large one would cross the Patron. On that day he would be handed over to Luis’ device. He would be careful with that one, guard against him in every way. He was a very dangerous hombre. Luis was a patient man and all he had to do was wait.
Ah, but the work at hand. Luis had hoped to save the iron masque for the taking of the tongue but the weak one kept crying out and sobbing. The masque would contain and quiet him, of that Luis was sure. Luis understood the masque as well as a man could hope to understand any tool of his trade. He had personally experienced its application a full score of years before and he would never forget the experience. The upper part of the masque screwed to the top of the head like a crown, while a hinged apparatus fell down to engage the chin. When the head and face were fixed in the iron masque, a small tubular guillotine affair would be forced into the mouth. The tongue would have nowhere to go except into the jaws of the guillotine. Once the tube was fastened to the masque, a simple lever would set the guillotine in motion. It would grip the tongue, stretch it out slowly and painfully until the guillotine severed it at its base. This routine was accomplished with much choking and gagging, the breaking of teeth. Once the masque and guillotine were in place, the subject was unable to cry out without choking himself. This was a benefit Luis especially appreciated, since he abhorred loud noises of any kind. Torture, in Luis’ opinion, should be endured in silence.
Luis zoomed the camera focus in on Lance’s head, then moved away from the tripod. He approached the man from behind and passed his knife before his eyes. “No, no, no!” Lance screamed. “Don’ use my knife! It ain’, it ain’, oh God, don’ use my knife!” Luis cocked his head and looked into the eyes of the man. He stroked Lance’s long brown hair to calm him, then jerked his head back and scalped him in one deft movement. His eyes never left the eyes of the man, even when they rolled back in his head as he passed out.
Luis held the bleeding scalp up in full view of the camera lens before laying it on a side table. Luis had never met a man he couldn’t look in the eye. He had stared silently into the eyes of the men who had taken his tongue. Many years later he had stared into those same eyes as he took their lives. The eye of the camera though, it bothered him. It was as if it were sucking at his soul, stealing the dark secrets there and in some unfathomable way compromising his art.
He took the iron masque from the table and screwed the crown in place. The man didn’t move but Luis knew he was alive because small pools of blood formed as he tightened the screws into his skull. The face lock squeaked as he lifted it up and clamped it firmly to the man’s jaw. Luis went to the table and returned with a can of oil, which he used to lubricate the moving parts of the masque and guillotine. He tightened the screws into the man’s jaw and adjusted the framework to accept a face with a wide-open mouth. Luis set the oilcan back on the table. He gave a slight shrug for the benefit of the camera and returned to the man with the tiny guillotine in one hand, the knife in the other.
He tapped Lance’s nose with the guillotine a few times and got no response. He shrugged his shoulders again and buried the blade of the knife in the man’s hand. As the man screamed, Luis slammed the guillotine into his mouth. It was a good scream, perhaps the perfect scream. It positioned the tongue just so, right where it needed to be. Luis checked and tightened all the thumbscrews on the iron masque as the man trembled in horror. He pulled the knife from the flesh of the man’s hand and watched as he choked and gagged, his body writhing and jumping, pulling against the tethers, shaking the trestle works.
The man held his eyes tightly shut as Luis dangled the knife above his head, allowing the blood to drip off the blade and form twin pools in the hollows of the man’s eye sockets. He blinked the blood away and closed his eyes tightly again. ‘This will not do,’ Luis thought as he listened to the sounds of the man’s eyes clicking and choking. He took a folding chair and set it up beneath the man’s head. He sat down and clamped the head between his knees as he pulled the eyelids up by their lashes. The knife came to his hand and, with a few deft cuts, the lids no longer belonged to the face of the man. Luis held the two spidery looking pieces of flesh up before the eye of the camera. He stood up and pushed the chair back with his foot before setting the man’s eyelids on the table next to his scalp.
The weak ones gave Luis a pain in the ass. They wreaked whatever havoc they chose, then howled like jackals in the jaws of the wolf when the tables were turned. Luis checked off the list in his mind. The tongue must be taken while the man is alive, since the integrity of the skull and face must be preserved. The taking of the skin was the fine art. This was where Luis excelled. This one was a unique challenge, since the lines of the cuts would be dictated by the lines of the man’s tattoo work. The coils of the snakes began at the navel and the crack of the man’s ass. They flowed into flames which licked at the base of his chin and the mounts of his ears.
‘If he were only strong,’ Luis thought, ‘It would be so simple, scalp, take the skin, castrate and remove tongue. But this man, he is weak. He will not be around for the best of it. This one won’t last. .Nah...’ Luis casually flipped a lever on the masque and the man’s tongue was gripped and pulled taut. It hung dripping from the masque. There was a small tinging sound as the guillotine severed it and released it to drop on the floor. Luis picked it up and held it in front of the camera. He twisted the man’s head around to face the lens and dangled his bloody tongue before his tortured lidless eyes.
Luis carried the tongue to the nearby table and dropped it into a large jar of formaldehyde. It left a series of tiny blood trails as it sank to the bottom. He picked up the eyelids and dropped them in as well, wondering if they would float. They did, like palm fronds on the face of the ocean. Luis saw this as a good omen. He felt the man’s eyes watching him. Good. That was as it should be. Maybe the man was stronger than he thought. Luis hardly ever wished he could speak, words having brought him the humiliation of his life, the taking of his tongue. And, in Luis’ opinion, actions spoke much louder than words in most cases. But now, just now, he would like to tell the man, ‘The best is yet to come. You have not begun to suffer yet.’
There was a fair amount of bleeding from the hand and scalp but that should cease when the man was turned over. Luis turned a large hand crank and the trestle works wound slowly around until the man was upright. Luis never thought of his victims by name. In most cases he didn’t even know their names. They were inanimate things to him, a blank canvas for the working of his art. He took a bucket of soapy liquid from under the table, the same liquid, in fact, that Misty had used to clean Angelo’s wound. The irony was not lost on Luis as he dipped a paintbrush into the bucket and used it to bathe the edges of the tattoo where the cuts would be made. The Artist required a clean canvas. The water was cold and goose flesh covered the man’s skin. Luis stopped abruptly and dropped the paintbrush into the bucket. ‘The camera,’ he thought, ‘The bleeding camera.’ He closed his eyes for a moment to compose himself, then went to make the necessary adjustments.
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Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
~the sink drip drips~
~the clock tick tocks~
~sounds deeper than blood~
~engrained like the smell~
~of papa’s cigarettes & momma’s fear~
~he began regretting the future~
~quicker than forgetting the past~
~remembering fellow long riders &~
~comacho charley’s woman~
~loretta~
~sexy damn mean~
~all that needs be~
~this storm~
~this life~
~he thinks~
~he lies~
~reading tolstoy~
~jabbering jibberish~
~on his back~
~standing up~
~with buddy kat~
~I like this cat too much~
~he thinks~
~would have forgiven mother~
~her damned pets~
~if he’d known then~
~what he knows now~
~yes & his son~
~might have been nikolai~
~what a great sound~
~that name~
~no room for that~
~in the bottom of his youth~
~junior~
~he suffers embarrassment~
~disappointment & shame~
~at the vanity of his used to be~
~a terrible longing~
~deeper than eyeless fish~
~crystal ball blind~
~to have it all back~
~lose none of his knowing~
~as if he finally masters sleep~
~it will be good~
~& all there is~
~all that needs be~
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©graphic artwork & words conceived by & property ofTom (WordWulf) Sterner©
~Larimer Street in Denver~
~it’s the place to be for the in-crowd~
~sports junkies, girls on the make~
~the haves pushed the don’t haves out years ago~
~it used to be skid-row~
~I liked it better then~
~spilled some blood there~
~not all of it my own~~George’s Hands~ His knuckles were pushed back, forever swollen in his huge hands whose fists had made him king of the Larimer Street Bars. Quiet and soft-spoken, he took this sixteen-year-old kid under his wing. I worked the yard with him at a scaffolding company. It was my first job and he was my boss.
George took me to the bars some Friday nights after work. The Yellow Cab would pick us up and drop us off in skid row downtown. When we walked into the bars loud voices hushed in respect. Madmen and wild women parted and made way for me and my gentle giant friend.
George put my hand to a wrench, taught me to drive the Case forklift, though he never drove a car and I asked him why. He swore me to secrecy then showed me a document from his wallet that stated his driver’s license was revoked for the remainder of his life for driving getaway cars from bank robberies in the thirties and forties.
Within a year I was George’s boss. He pushed me ahead of himself, told me I would be a man of words, that he was a man of hands. A year later, when George was fifty-six years old, his cigarette smoking and bar room brawling days caught up with him in a rush. I’ll not forget his gasping breath, its halting whoosh as emphysema put him down.
I had helped George tag all his tools and wondered why he would paint them bright orange to separate them from the others in the shop. At seventeen-years-old, after my first pall bearing, George’s wife asked me to gather them up and bring them to her. When I brought them to her house she informed me he meant for me to keep them, every single one of them. They were many, amassed over twenty hardworking years. I loaded them back into my hotrod Mustang, shed a tumble of hard-bitten tears. I have been haunted and blessed the whole of my life by memories of George’s hands.
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©graphic artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
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