~come flyin’ around the corner~
~ridin’ your bad-ass machine~
~there’s a government plan~
~an eighteen wheeler u-turning~
~you twist your head~
~to tell your Harley baby goodbye~
~white line~
~white linin’~
~hundred dollar bill~
~never know what happened next~
~naked babies~
~{third eye red}~
~monkey night~
~burrow dreams~
~some smooth-voiced sonofabitch~
~elephant shit on his feet~
~tryin’ to john kennedy my ass~
~ears flappin’~
~fingers tappin’~
~lips smackin’~
~do not forsake them~
~your dead & wounded~
~compatriot heroes~
~fellow citizen heroines~
~welcome to the reacharound~
~amerikan politik~
~I’ll see your three heroes & raise ya a junkie~
~devil vaginas~
~horned toads~
~penis demon semen~
~fuck you & the war you rode in on~
~those children you name soldiers~
~subjugated to your causes~ ~freedom~
~patriotism~
~country & nation~
~are deep sick on the poison of your lies~
~before you dispatch them to kill other people~
~& die so far away from home~
~while you sick bastard reptilian guard~
~spout speeches~
~drape yourselves in flags~
~cover ‘em up~
~cover ‘em up~
~your god damned stinking lies~
~republicans~
~democrats~
~independents~
~what the fuck would they know about independence~
~your gaggle-goose gang of citizens~
~wake up you stooopid fucks~
~that mouth crying for the blood of your children~
~donkey dick~
~elephant shit~
~backdoor sonofabitch~
~phase II~
~monkey guts~
~the jungle dream~
~napalm gangsters~
~a rebellion of sluts~
~pay a fee to drop your nickel dick load~
~in the twat slot~
~double nut dime to shoot her in the mouth~
~that gorilla shit is bound to get you~
~I gotta get outa this~
~frame of reference away from~
~its shackle-shame manacled~
~leg humping sycophants~
~phase III~
~the REM’s~
~chains clanging~
~against lead poison uprights~
~a prison~
~a playground~
~a flagpole~
~school yard yes~
~let it be~
~those children before~
~laughing~
~waiting their turn~
~& the cannon-ball daddy~
~never disappoints~
~he pulls ‘em back~
~runs ‘em under~
~flings ‘em~
~swings ‘em~
~high into the air~
~higher daddy higher~
~that last time the under daddy~
~never knows until it’s a memory~
~like he pushed ‘em too hard~
~too high~
~too high~
~& they never came down~
http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com & wordwulf@wordwulf.com
© artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
~two of my younger brothers paroled from prison to a drug rehabilitation facility~PEER ONE~
~me & the boys packed up our gear & went to play for the inmates~
~this is a song we wrote specifically for that gig~
~Curse of Days~
(live cut)
~life don’t teach, amount to much~
~children, it’s a slice of bread~
~it don’t hurt when the fist comes down~
~drop you to your knees, your head~
~something breaking deep inside~
~children, take your breath away~
~fear is borne, ain’t no good to cry~
~born into a curse of days~
~growing up, a battleground~
~children, it’s a slice of hell~
~detention, take your punishment~
~no one gets inside your shell~
~walls grow thick & deep & wide~
~children, hide your love away~
~bite the sky, any helping hand~~go messin’ with your curse of days~
~tattooed tear, a pound of flesh~
~children, it’s a man, a cage~
~ain’t nothin’ like that closin’ door~
~make temper, set the lines of rage~
~angel call it, a whistle down~
~children, he got dues to pay~
~sun don’t shine on the prison man~
~living out his curse of days~
~line moves slow, a lady cries~
~children, it’s a loaded gun~
~she can’t stop~
~yeah, she kiss his face~
~the dead eyes of her fallen son~
~ya move along~
~we plant ‘em deep~
~children, we got hands of clay~
~beginning & the in between~
~the end, we got our curse of days~
~life don’t teach, amount to much~
~children, it’s a slice of bread~
~it don’t hurt when the fist comes down~
~drop you to your knees, your head~
~some thing breaking deep inside~
~children, take your breath away~
~fear is borne, ain’t no good to cry~
~born into a curse of days~
http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com
& wordwulf@wordwulf.com
©graphic artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
~it very nearly breaks my heart~
~every time my brother goes to prison~
~the first time was the worst~
~he had a wife & baby son on the outside~
~we were young & I wondered~
~how he would survive that place~
~face the days alone in that crowded cage~
~all our lives I failed to protect my little brother~
~I wrote songs about how he must feel~
~sent him a couple bucks when I could~
~for zoom-zooms & wham-whams in the joint~
~sang my heart out in the band~
~the songs started out like this~
~A Vanishing Face~
~if truth were a sparrow & I learned to fly~
~I would never again walk to catch a lie~
~if moments were forever & days could be years~
~love was a rainbow & happiness fear~
~I would drown in a moment of fear every day~
~color my love with your smile & say~
~I love you today & yesterday too~
~only tomorrow will know what to do~
~I’ll hate you never, love’s kindling feeds the flame~
~I’ll always hear whispers of your sweet name~
~my clothes may be ragged, these shoes may be worn~
~my shirt may need washed, these underwear torn~
~only the sparrow knows of the seed~
~dropped down from heaven, our love to feed~
~clothes do not matter, the heart tells the tale~
~success is not beautiful to those who fail~
~my love & your love, two hearts as one~
~summertime breezes, summertime sun~
~remembering touching, the softness was real~
~no words to express how it made me feel~ ~blue eyes turned hazy, a vanishing face~
~I reach out in vain to be back in that place~
~I don t really blame you, these bars I can’t climb~
~& I’ll never forget the last time~
~no, I’ll never forget the last time~
http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com
& wordwulf@wordwulf.com
©artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
A Vanishing Face was published by
Flesh from Ashes
~soon after the turn of the century~
~Quodlibet won the Marija Cerjak award~
~for avant-garde/experimental writing~
~Quodlibet~
~The Hundred Bites~
~XIV~
~I got to bathe first because I was oldest~
~my brother bathed last~
~because he was second of eight~
~& loved the least~
~that old galvanized tub of water was cold~
~& dirty damned bad~
~by the time he was plunked in~
~he was never as clean as the rest of us~
~ah hell nobody knew why~
~lazy lyin’ good-for-nothin’ cuss~
~he was always punished first though~
~learned to take it standing up~
~leather whip belt on his bare bony ass~
~when he went to prison
~his training paid off~
~he knew how to survive & grow~
~in a house of hate~
~now he’s a damned good monster~
~experiential~
~XIV. Community of the Damned~
~draw us a bath of muddy water~
~muted earth tones~
~name it life~
~stir in children’s laughter bubbles~
~a lifetime warrantee guaranteed~
~chromed steel handcuff~
~turn up the heat~
~amnesty for dead soldiers~
~a fistful of medals for families~
~who don’t give a damn anymore~
~left crying the nights~
~suffer us less~
~this cauldron steep~
~that we might achieve horizontal ascent~
~final resting place~
~become divided amongst a community of worms~
~with a sigh of relief~
~to belong at last~
http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com
& wordwulf@wordwulf.com
©artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©Quodlibet was published by Howling Dog Press
~Quodlibet~
~The Hundred Bites~
~VII~
~in heaven~
~all the interesting people are missing~
~Nietzsche~
~the most important kind of freedom~
~is to be what you really are~
~James Douglas Morrison~
~here I am an old man~
~sitting in this cell~
~that's the damndest thing I ever seen~
~you know~
~Charles Manson~
~who cares how time advances?~
~I am drinking ale today~
~Poe~
~VII. Dignity/Currency of Beggars~
~there is no noble death~
~living so singularly significant~
~where dignity may only be found~
~in proper acts on walking faces~
~days tied on strings end to end~
~our lives a dangle of fishes~
~never meant to fly underwater~
~it just ain’t christian to lie~
~we all try to go outstanding~
~twist & present ourselves~
~as some convoluted truth~
~opine dignity is the currency of beggars~
~laugh about honor amongst thieves~
~dead folks don’t want to be alone~
http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com
& wordwulf@wordwulf.com
©artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©Quodlibet was published by Howling Dog Press
~Jack {real time}~
God willing & all things equal, an adage that has very little to do with people like my brother & me. I started to tell our story in my novel, Momma’s Rain. Jack wouldn’t read it. It hurt too much. He continued to live hard & mean. I intend to finish the series, American Camp: Frail Monsters/Wounded Souls, the chronicle of a family, my brother and me in particular.
He has been in SICU at Denver Health since November 1st. I have been told he has a crushed ribcage and pelvis, arms and legs broken, a perforated colon, punctured lung, pneumonia, and staff infection, etc. He has received a tracheotomy and is on and off the ventilator. Agitated and angry, heavily medicated and sedated, communication has been difficult at best. I’m not sure he remembers the end-over-end automobile crash that landed him in the hospital. He may not understand where he is. He has been through a number of surgeries to date and has years of convalescence to look forward to.
Friday, November 18, I went to visit him. The lights were off in his cubicle. His body was bouncing up and down, legs kicking wildly. An angry nurse informed me I was not allowed in the room to visit him. Our conversation and details of the incident are explained in the following letter which I have sent to administrators, directors, and board members of the hospital.
Jack’s hair is important to him. More than important, it is as religion, a principle he has fought and suffered to keep throughout his life. Beaten by parents, jail keepers, and guards all his life, it is a statement of what he is about, what the battle for life means to him. Sometime within a couple of days after the 18th someone at Denver Health took that from him. I want to know who, why, and when. When he asks, when he is able to ask, I want to be able to explain these things to him. I cannot give him back what those in authority take away. Guess I’m selfish in this case. I want to know why. I want to know who. I want to know when.
23 November 2011
To whom it may concern,
My name is Tom Sterner. I am elder brother to John Sterner who is currently in your SICU #216. John (we call him Jack) was in a horrific end-over-end car crash Nov. 2nd in Commerce City. He was taken to Denver Health and has been in the care of the hospital since the accident. Our family has been unable to effectively communicate with him because he is heavily sedated, in shock, pelvis encased in a cage, tracheotomy, ventilator, etc.
Visiting him over the past three weeks I have noticed a decided difference between the day and night staff in the SICU. Day persons are generally friendly and helpful. The night crew, to put it mildly, have an attitude. Friday night (11/18) I went to visit at approximately 9:30pm. His door was closed and lights off. His bed was bouncing violently. I proceeded to open the door but was cautioned by a blonde nurse behind the counter across from the room not to do so.
“He is alone in there,” I said to her, “terrified and out of his mind. I’m his brother. Let me touch his face, maybe finally understand what he is so desperate to tell me.”
“Oh, he’s talking all right,” the nurse replied indignantly. “It’s very clear to me what he said before he was medicated just now.”
“Yes!,” I exclaimed, “What did he say?”
“Hmph!” hands on hips, anger evident in her every action. “Fuck you!” she said.
“That’s wonderful,” I replied, “He’s fighting for his life, angry and aware. That’s great news!”
She sneered at me. “We don’t have to take that kind of abuse. He also kicks at us. He needs to learn that’s not acceptable.”
“My point of view is that he is waking into a horrible nightmare, unaware of his feet kicking and, yes, cursing his torturers. Please allow me to console my brother.”
“Go ahead, do whatever you want!” she said offhandedly.
My daughter, Christy, and I went into the room and did what we could to calm him down. His arms are restrained to the side rails of the bed. We have been told that he is bolted to the bed as the cage must be rigid to support his pelvis while it is mending. He was extremely agitated. It was clear he wanted us to release the restraints, heartbreaking to realize we were unable to do so because he is in that crazy place and would probably further injure himself. A few minutes later my brother’s son, Jack, went to see his dad. A male nurse and brunette female were standing over the patient, scolding him, “We don’t kick the bed and nurses in Denver Health SICU!”
We are of Cherokee descent. Our hair is a sacred component of our spirituality, what folks think of as religion. A number of times my daughters asked to wash their uncle’s hair so they could comb it and put it into a braid. The nurses’ answer was always no because he is too agitated, can’t sit up right now, etc. Monday morning (11/21) my youngest daughter asked for a cool cloth to wipe the sweat from Jack’s face when he was brought back to his room and could she please brush and braid his hair.
“That was all taken care of last night,” a nurse (Nicole) said tersely.
They took my brother’s hair. They scold him as if he were an impudent child. They act as if he walked in, healthy and hale, strong of voice, flinging epithets into their faces and threatening them physically.
Reading your Patient Rights statement, specifically: B. Receive care and treatment that is respectful, recognizes your dignity, cultural and personal values and religious beliefs, provides for your personal privacy to the extent possible during the course of treatment, and promotes a positive self-image.
And Q: Receive care that is free from neglect, exploitation, verbal, mental, or physical abuse, or conditions that are not safe.
My brother is fighting for his life, being tormented and punished because of his lack of decorum in SICU. It is amazing he is alive, a testament that the doctors attending him know their business and that he is engaged in the battle. Please address the drama and abuse in SICU. His body is torn, dignity has been ripped from his head. I want his hair. We are not trash.
I fear for my brother’s life and have called your Patients Advocate phone number this morning. I listened to a recording, made its only numerical choice other than 911. I left my contact number with the robot and wonder if and when I will hear from someone representing Denver Health, maybe a whisper that my brother’s life is worth saving.
Officer Chris Dickey (#2905 303-289-3755) from Commerce City has also been to visit Jack several times. He is in charge of the investigation of the crash. I realize these “professionals” have a job to do but shouldn’t saving Jack’s life be the number one priority?
My brother’s son, Jack Sterner, is the first contact as far as making decisions regarding his father. His phone number is 720-364-3171.
I am second contact 530-605-1225 (cell phone 720-270-1602).
Neither of us were consulted in the matter of taking, of stealing, my brother’s hair.That, of course, is a matter of record.
Concerned and waiting your reply,
Tom Sterner
http://wordwulf.com
~1000 Days~
~that’s what my brother named years spent in prison~
~I’ve been tossed in jail a few times in my life~
~no down time like him~
~twenty-eight years~
~God damn~
~Day 998~
~Down Time~
~a person learns it is wise~
~to take life in small steps~
~my family has stood witness~
~to instances of stumbling~
~running downhill on my part~
~embarrassed perhaps~
~they love me still~
~and I~
~for my part~
~each & every one of them~
~it is as if failure confirms us~
~defines the difference~
~as we look into their eyes~
~friends & family~
~whose spirit eyes reach~
~& those that look away~
http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com & wordwulf@wordwulf.com
© artwork & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
~Come Weigh the Night~
~poor folks aspire to the common~
~just out of reach~
~hunger & failure wear them down~
~they snarl at their children~
~quit bitching~
~you’re alive~
~aren’t you~
~the answer to that question~
~yes~
~the one deeper sadness~
~ready to go~
~never begun~ ~Come~
~we were born gathering stones~
~piling them into burlap bags~
~hefting the bags onto our backs~
~toiling up steep inclines~
~past lilacs & hummingbirds~
~to the tops of modern day pyramids~
~where masons wait impatiently~
~to place stones in the wall~
~down we go through the streambed~
~dammed up & damned down~
~stone whistle~
~holding our water~
~Weigh~
~our fathers before us knew~
~the empirical weight of masters~
~hollow rewards & always~
~the whip & the threat of the whip~
~biting into flesh~
~mind & spirit~
~now the masters’ masters’ children~
~are the new royalty~
~their hands soft & born to wield the whip~
~we are dispatched to slay~
~whomever they say~
~& be slain ourselves past fields~
~of butterflies and katydids~
~The Night~
~a man feels it happening~
~something snaps inside~
~that feeling~
~“I can’t lift that bag o’ rocks no more”~
~the sly ones carry half-bags~
~fooling themselves, “The bosses won’t notice”~
~the not-so-sly fall down~
~literally break under the load~
~everybody knows what happens~
~to the sly and the not-so-sly~
~you dig that damned hole~
~take a rock out of the bag~
~use a two-fisted grip~
~smash it into your face~
~past the ant-lions and head-lice~
~you fall yourself down~
~your brothers carry you~
~sons cover you up~
~sisters & daughters~
~come weigh the night~
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WordWulf
~good tidings, Momma~
Today, while cleaning the garage, a strange and interesting event occurred. A dust devil, mini tornado, danced up the driveway and across the cement floor. It wandered a bit in its to and fro sway, then dashed forward where it spent itself on the phat black and chrome body of my ol’ Hawg.
Being a man of voice whose mouth has learned to close, the better to listen to nuances of phantom messages, I settled myself in the dust of my new Friend. I contemplated kicking the ol’ Hawg to life, which deed was done before I knew it. Another specific and one-time event as she woke purring on the first stroke. Entranced, I backed ‘er out of the garage, pointed ‘er toward the street and let ‘er have ‘er head.
Rolling West, down Baseline Road, memory took a swipe at me. It dragged me back to the eighties, that same street and new boots, bearded brothers before me and roaring up from behind, the guitar man, Matthew, life-Friend at my side. Up the mountain we rode, to the wedding of Phil Howell to his beautiful Asian, silken-haired lady and their wind faces under the pines. The preacher looked smart in his dark clothes, his words of troth accompanied by the music of creaking leather, the cooling metal of iron horses and darting birds, curious in their singsong quick-eyed way.
Past Table Mesa Boulevard, traffic and Boulder lights fading behind, the road smooths out, single lane, an easy climb through the foothills. For the seasoned Colorado rider, a certain preparedness takes place. Hairpin curves, jackknives await, cool, tree-shadowed paths and startling, sun-splashed views. Motor and cam, heartbeat and blood, fuse in a shift, down shift, tap the brake and throttle forward fluid movement. Sunrise Amphitheater lies just ahead, around this blind curve or that, red stones surrounded by and punctuated by sturdy pine and scrabble bush. I leave my war-worn Hawg, my dragon, on ‘er stand and follow the steep path down.
Memory quick-trips me backward to the seventies and my brothers, before the prison in Canon City stole their hearts. We hauled our band gear up that ol’ mountain, carried amplifiers, guitars, drums, and generators down into the Sun Circle where we established ourselves on that side-o’-the-mountain open stage. I drank Seagram’s Seven, howled my lyrics and played my harmonica into the mountain air and white cloud sky. Boulder lay behind me, a sheer backdrop to a young man on the edge of time and certainly unaware of the audacity of his behavior. No permits, no appointments, just music and the poor-boy Sterner brothers, doin’ that thing they used to do. A group of Jewish People appeared later. Permit in hand, they advised us they had reserved this wondrous place for a very special wedding observance. We played a couple of our songs for ‘em while they performed a precise and circular tribal dance. They applauded our efforts and fed us, sent us back smiling to our West Denver homes.
A smile comes to me slowly, like Harry Chapin said, “It was a sad smile, just the same”. I light my second cigar of the day, feet planted on each side o’ the ol’ dragon, arms resting on her handlebar wings. A sparrow lands on my mirror, gives me a wink and flits away. I wonder its lineage, generations of mountain life past. Did its forbearers hear the poor boys’ noise, witness a certain binding of troth. I swear her stones are the same, each pine needle and chittering chipmunk. Sons born since have carried my music into a new age. It is theirs now and far different somehow. I remain unchanged like the face of Flagstaff. She knows what I might only guess. Time is on her side.
Cigar butt clenched tightly ‘tween my teeth, I give the ol’ War Horse a couple o’ kicks. She coughs and sputters to life. I tickle her throttle, glory in her growl and roar. A dust devil dervish giggles from the path, rises and kisses me on the cheek; how, the mountain, she speaks.
http://wordwulf.comWordWulf
~two of my younger brothers paroled from prison to a drug rehabilitation facility~ ~PEER 1~me & the boys packed up our gear & went to play for the inmates~
~this is a song we wrote specifically for that gig~
life don’t teach, amount to much
children, it’s a slice of bread
it don’t hurt when the fist comes down
drop you to your knees, your head
some thing breaking deep inside
children, take your breath away
fear is borne, ain’t no good to cry
born into a curse of days
growing up, a battleground
children, it’s a slice of hell
detention, take your punishment
no one gets inside your shell
walls grow thick, deep, and wide
children, hide your love away
bite the sky, any helping hand
go messin’ with your curse of days
tattooed tear, a pound of flesh
children, it’s a man, a cage
ain’t nothin’ like that closin’ door
make temper, set the lines of rage
angel call it, a whistle down
children, he got dues to pay
sun don’t shine on the prison man
living out his curse of days
line moves slow, a lady cries
children, it’s a loaded gun
she can’t stop,
yeah, she kiss his face
the dead eyes of her fallen son
ya move along,
we plant ‘em deep
children, we got hands of clay
beginning and the in between
the end, we got our curse of days
life don’t teach, amount to much
children, it’s a slice of bread
It don’t hurt when the fist comes down
drop you to your knees, your head
some thing breaking deep inside
children, take your breath away
fear is borne, ain’t no good to cry
born into a curse of days
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