~drifting down that rat hole~
~he don’t want to go there alone~
~so he invents superman~
~trades women sex for drugs~
~gets the boys that way too~
~the world is his his stage is his world~
~everybody wants to see it~
~make him run~
~run away~
~die rockstar die~
~angels run away~
Is it only our lives slipping away or some inconceivable broken covenant made with gods come to punish us for lies told. We struggle with our dragons, harm those nearest our hearts and homes. Is any future worth the destruction of moment, a process whereby seeking we throw it away.
Last night he slept with her, his woman, experienced a connection of spaces, armor set aside, bartered for skin on skin, become one complete, whole again. As he drove away, his mind retreated to a forest, to a canyon, where he heard her voice first and stared into the reflection of lightning in her eyes.
Reality is his gallows of hope, a death sentence to all inhabitants of dreams. He said life was supposed to be fun, the puppet-master, thief of souls whose strings labeled, “dainty delights” were tripwires opening drop-doors to the dungeons of fun seekers’ hearts.
When he discovered she no longer cared, he offered himself to stand instead of the murderer, stood resolute before the firing squad, life, metal on metal, click, ready, aim. He smiled beneath the blindfold. Bullets cannot break a broken heart. God damn all governors and their pardons.
No prayers aloud in this room, always, forever, the whispered lies born desperate, denied asylum. He left his child’s eyes underneath the bed baptized in splashes of mother’s blood. Each night alone is a fresh haunting, a crippled man in a crooked room.
The boy is afraid of chickens and spiders in the outhouse hole. Voices laughing into his blind eye face became the home of the impossible dream where the woman would come to hold him tight against her breast, keep him safe from himself.
Angels run away, angels run away.
~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
The sun was dark like a good blend, Southern Comfort, leeching energy from the day. Grayson sat watching the robin’s egg blue paint flake from the cupboard. Her panties hung draped over the toaster where they had landed when tossed soon after she arrived. A single drop of sweat rolled down the front of her neck, collected in a tiny pool in the hollow of her throat. Her fingers, long red nails posed and arched, reached over to release a fleck of paint from its moorings. Movement from the top of the cupboard caught her eye; she was enthralled to see a giant Mississippi cockroach staring down at her. “Ya all are brave t’ be out in the heat o’ the day,” she mused, her voice a syrupy thing, deep and throaty. Jimmy took advantage of her upraised face, vulnerable throat, and licked the sweat from its resting place. “Don’t, Jimmy,” she murmured lazily. Jimmy, young, beautiful, and shirtless (fresh in his rejection) lay down on his stomach on the yellow waxed, once white, one-piece linoleum floor. He rolled over on his back, every move calculated to display his ropy muscular youth. His dark eyes squinted into the sun through the window behind the woman, waves of heat between them. That dark space between her peach cream thighs beckoned to him. Her fleck of paint embedded itself between the top of his jeans and the crack of his ass.
Grayson was fascinated, rapt in her scrutiny of the roach. Jimmy had bought one of those tonal devices to rid his buffet/kitchenette of household pests. Grayson smiled as she remembered the name of it, Vermin-Be-Gone. The roach’s antennae swiveled a bit. Grayson giggled; maybe it was dancing, doing the Vermin-Be-Gone-boogy. The cool breeze of John Coltraine’s alto sax wafted through the thick cloying heat of the kitchenette. While she was busy cockroaching, Jimmy had gotten up and dialed in one of his beloved jazz albums. My Favorite Things was one of Grayson’s favorite things. Jimmy knew that; his passion for jazz had kept her enthralled for some time. Now she wondered if there was anything else between her and the dark white boy. There was, of course, his incredible cock, which he presented to her now, up front and in her face. She looked pointblank into its hungry little mouth, gave it a dutiful peck on its shiny silken head. “C’mon, Grays,” Jimmy moaned petulantly, “Ya know what ‘e wants.” Jimmy’s trite reference to his member, an offering, an invitation, put Grayson off. She took it quite the opposite in fact, a tacit maneuver without preamble inciting her to fight off, with an effort, the compelling urge to just push him away.
His third person reference to his penis had charmed her at first, a ploy used successfully by Jimmy to get her into his bed the night they met, something she usually didn’t do. Or was it the Southern Comfort, the quaint little jazz joint, this unexpected Mainard G. Krebbs beatnik style white boy, hungry beyond his black-framed rectangular glasses. Ah hell, Grayson sighed to herself; it was all o’ that; she knew it and some wicked stew of things she didn’t. Now she was tired of hearing what ‘e wants, as if it had nothing to do with Jimmy and his selfish greedy little lusts. The worst of timing; Grayson raised her face to see if the roach was watching them just as Jimmy made his opening thrust and poked her in the chin. Jimmy, in a fluid calculated twist of violence, turned and smashed the roach with a single whack of his flyswatter. “There, now maybe you’ll pay some attention t’ me ‘n… c’mon, Grays, say ‘is name.”
How she abhorred that flyswatter, another thing she had adored about Jimmy at first, those fresh spankings and the waffle-mark reminders they left on her flesh. She couldn’t hear Coltraine anymore. Beads of flesh tickled her forehead, threatened to roll down her face in single rivulets. She toyed with the idea of denying Jimmy his request, his insatiable lust and desire to always be in control, the epicenter of her emotions. She enjoyed a good earthquake but was perfectly capable of achieving them without Jimmy or anyone else for that matter. Jimmy insisted that he be her only only. How dare he deny her that innocent cockroach’s life? Whack! The remains of the roach stuck to Grayson’s face. She was shocked and annoyed, instantly angry and afraid. Spankings were one thing; being smacked in the face quite another. “Say ‘is name, darlin’,” Jimmy crooned. He dragged the flyswatter through the air between them. “There’s plenty more where that came from an’ I know you like it.”
Now the beads of sweat came running, down Grayson’s forehead and into her eyes. They burned but she refused herself the luxury of rubbing them, a sobering reminder of the rising heat in the room. There was a bit of clear liquid in the mouth of Jimmy’s throbbing penis. Grayson flicked her tongue out and swallowed it away. “Damn you, girl!” Jimmy’s hands came down smack on the crown of her head, held it in a firm vise-like grip. Now he was hurting her; it had never been like this between them. The pressure increased as he spit into her face, “E wants t’ hear ‘is name!”
“Ex,” Grayson intoned in a husky pained whisper of breath. She ran a long fingernail down the back of Jimmy’s scrotum. He shuddered. “Excalibur,” she hissed. Jimmy’s hands fell from her head, groped her breasts through the thin fabric of her clinging summer dress. True to its title, Excalibur thrust itself into the target heart of her mouth. In no mood for games, Grayson went in for the kill. She held the base of Jimmy’s shaft in one hand, gripped his scrotum tightly with the other, damned herself because at some level she was enjoying the hell out of this rough sex.
“Nua… nua.. nua,” Jimmy flopped around like a beached carp. Scrotum blood dripped from her fingertips and Grayson finished him off in a flurry of squeeze-suck-gulps. Jimmy fell back and she followed him all the way to the floor. His eyes were closed and his mouth said, “Nua… nua.. nua.” Grayson picked the cockroach carcass from her face, pressed it into the moist folds of her vagina. She slithered up Jimmy’s prone body, buried his nua… nua.. mouth with what he had christened her Honey Pot and rode his face to ecstasy. When she returned from that place, Jimmy had gone to sleep. No more nua… nuas; the flyswatter lay limp on the floor next to him.
Grayson dismounted and sat for a moment, held Jimmy in the most pensive of stares. She rose from the floor, went to the cupboard where she scratched away bits of its robin’s egg blue coat. Standing over Jimmy, she ground it and scrotum blood into the palm of one hand, then sprinkled it over his sated face, the last little bit saved for the tiny slack gaping mouth of Excalibur. She took her panties from the toaster, made a masque of them on Jimmy’s sleeping face, blue speckled eyes peeping out through the leg holes. She took a small digital camera from her bag and snapped a couple of pictures. She preferred to remember her men in this way but only in the act of leaving. Legs apart, she stood victorious over the carnevale face she had created. Sun shot through the room in lower waves, dust motes dancing out and in, riding the heat and coating the surface of every and any thing. There was a thin dark line on Jimmy’s lower lip. “Dear Jimmy,” Grayson whispered, “You didn’t swallow one of Mister Roach’s legs.” She glanced at the cupboard where a new cockroach stood sentinel over the kitchenette. “They can’t defeat us,” Grayson said as she bent over to pick up the flyswatter.
She sauntered to the door, practicing the languid swish-sway of her gender, inbred generations of allusion and allure. Hand on the knob, she turned around for one last look. “I like it,” she said, “Life is art… now who said that?”
Later in the day, the breathtaking dusk of a Biloxi sunset; Grayson strolled barefoot and peacefully alone on the white-sand beach that owned Biloxi and all else in its environ, delighting in the startling death-hues resplendent in the sky, surely available to her touch and that of none other. She wriggled her toes in the near silt of Mississippi Sound, her private blues and determination to pursue them. She dropped Jimmy’s flyswatter unceremoniously into a Keep Mississippi Beautiful metal trash receptacle. Coltraine had returned, ever-present in the cries of the gulls, deep dark water, the ready pulse and gulp of its wandering weigh. “My favorite things,” Grayson mused aloud. She turned her back on its primordial flow, walked mud-toes slowly toward the first twinkling lights of the city and into its night. “I’m sexy,” she sang over and over, a mantra, in her low, whiskey room, contralto voice.
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©graphic artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
~Mississippi Blues was published by Phaedra Magazine~
~there’s an angry carpenter building~
~a table without any legs~
~a mother teaching her children~
~to fetch, sit up & beg~
~the dogs of night make a prayer~
~for the lady without any hands~
~as she applauds the one-legged preacher~
~who left his parts in old Viet Nam~
~the little drug angel darlings~
~stare into the guns of the raid~
~& the children under the table~
~bless their hearts... Esplanade~
~you will never know where I’m going~
~until your feet taste paths I have been~
~a tear & a cup overflowing~
~sins of the lost captain’s men~
~I wonder if I might find purchase~
~a brick or a ring in the wall~
~a coffin to hang on forever~
~to hear the great sparrow’s call~
~there’s a chorus of blind singing patriots~
~flying a song without wings~
~they may lose their direction~
~they will never forget how to sing~
~she is an opening flower~
~a path for the living parade~
~lay down in her soft bed of roses~
~to bleed... ah sweet Esplanade~
~may be the gods do not see them~
~may be the gods’ eyes are blind~
~there is no end to their praying~
~for surely the gods must be kind~
~& they hide away from the madman~
~who tells them they are betrayed~
~he waits for the full moon to take him~
~then he howls, howls... Esplanade~
~dead poets speak through their silence~
~they whisper “return nevermore”~
~a child looks in the mirror~
~wonders, ‘why the hell was I born~~some one has slain all its warriors~
~tortured the king of its soul~
~mother and father are preying~
~in the bar room for pots of its gold~
~life is the constant reminder~
~death, the warrior who waits~
~fate owns the face in the mirror~
~the key to the lock on its gate~
~so have you noticed her freedom~
~the laughter behind all her lies~
~where chaos & order go dancing~
~& only chaos survives~
~I walked the shores of her oceans~
~soft & cold & afraid~
~followed the paths of her creatures~
~cross her vast expanse... Esplanade~
~I have tasted the breath of her seasons~
~her bitter root & sweet wine~
~& though I know she is wounded~
~I seek her like something divine~
~as I approach her wound I am kissing~
~the blood drops her suffering made~
~my feet caressing her footsteps~
~my lips whisper... “Sweet Esplanade”~
~she lays her pain out before me~
~the soft ragged edge of her truth~
~I lick the scent of her fire~
~with the misguided tongue of my youth~
~the scars are written upon me~
~from sleeping too close to the wound~
~skin so easily broken~
~on this eggshell side of the moon~
~& the tides are breaking forever~
~on a sweet violin never played~
~where only warriors are dancers~
~on the last grass... Esplanade~
~I’m breaking bread with the serpent~
~making love with the mice~
~there’s a game I play with the devil~
~betting against loaded dice~
~& I die at the end of my prayer~
~my face breaks the earth unafraid~
~your heavy stones on my body~
~I whisper... “Sweet Esplanade”~
~I have drunk myself into stupid~
~sung her praises through my whiskey breath~
~for the tender peace of her body~
~the long-suffering pain of her death~
~I keep a piece of her soul in my pocket~
~& I sleep with her every night~
~I hear the wind through the willows~
~& kiss her lips when we fight~
~but a beggar has set her on fire~
~for a ransom that will not be paid~
~a thief has stolen her jewels~
~she suffers it well... Esplanade~
~there is a ghost haunting my castle~
~she cries, I think I know why~
~her heart is ten thousand times broken~
~she tries, they won’t let her die~
~so she crawls in my bed of an evening~
~struggles to keep me awake~
~I find myself reaching for her~
~hungry for the love we could make~
~courage lies under the blanket~
~the windows are dirty inside~
~you cannot see through a mirror~
~just going along for the ride~
~she is all, she is all that exists~
~make myself naked & wade~
~follow her down ‘til eternity passes~
~she is all, she is all... Esplanade~
~all tangled up in my covers~
~afraid of the dark & the day~
~I wait ‘til she comes to hold me~
~& chase my darkness away~
~then I lay at her breast like an infant~
~suckled & cozily warm~
~she covers my seed with the earth of her body~
~to shelter me from the storm~
~I drink her milk & I bite her~
~feeding upon her the same~
~I call her triangular mother~
~& know her by no other name~
~with her blood & milk on my muzzle~
~I cry in the mess I have made~
~she wraps me in flowers & powders my ass~~she is all, she is all... Esplanade~
~I live in a box in the attic~
~measure my space two by two~
~drag myself out for holiday weekends~
~& photograph pictures with you~
~maybe I’ll take you there with me~
~touch with my hands in the dark~
~which one is which~
~I get so damned confused~
~like a child playing with cards~
~the best of the times I am rolling~
~in fields of flowers & shade~
~watching the children as they start their journey~
~into her heart... Esplanade~
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©graphic artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
~soon after the turn of the century~
~Quodlibet won the Marija Cerjak award~
~for avant-garde/experimental writing~
~Quodlibet~
~The Hundred Bites~
~XII~
~given instinct & impulse~
~there is no need for prayer~
~in the wasteland~
~in the wilderness~
~condemned & godless~
~stark naked mind-scape~
~no face fits loneliness~
~so the masque is drawn~
~to paint its wearer~
~filter behavior~
~for those whose ego~
~demands they join the herd~
~the masque ain’t no~
~same thing different~
~XII. Prisoner of Id~
~your skin fits you loose~
~like it is new~
~like it is made for someone else~
~have you lived there very long~
~is it possible you have dreamed~
~are your fingers~
~is your face~
~a very temple indeed~
~do you worship there~
~have you been a recent prisoner~
~in a house of love~
~the hunger of lost angels~
~lingers in the scars of your chains~
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WordWulf
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©artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
Quodlibet was published by Howling Dog Press
~Quodlibet~
~The Hundred Bites~
~XI~
~a man should stand up~
~& piss outside~
~whenever possible~
~enjoy private moments~
~away from societal restraints~
~claim what is his naturally~
~a root rite of birth~
~do it by himself~
~out of sight of others~
~or in the company of brothers~
~whom share his stand~
~ladies talking in the kitchen~
~steam rising in the cold outside~
~XI. flesh & blood~
~how this man rapes me~
~she breathes~
~not against my will & yet so~
~he knows what I feel~
~which binds me of need~
~what frail stick am I~
~tied to the earth & rapt of feather~
~wings against his tongue to fly~
~eyes closed in a purple longing~
~that he might bruise my skin somehow~
~whip this flesh as spirit done~
~these blood~
~these lips offering at once~
~& denying commitment~
~spirit blessed & flesh be damned~
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WordWulf
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& wordwulf@wordwulf.com
©artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©Quodlibet was published by Howling Dog Press
~my sons’ guitars~
~play through me in waves~
~they are my life quest~
~our music~
~making more of me than I am~
~feels pretty damned good~
~just for a minute~
~seems like everything is okay~
~then I come back to earth~
~take a quick look around~
~ah hell it ain’t~
~Haunting Me~
~thinkin’ ‘bout endings
~about going away
~unanswered questions
~they are promises broken
~they are lies left unspoken
~they are haunting me
~down in the city
~‘round a fire left burning
~flames of society
~maybe hands in a prayer
~maybe blood of the slayer
~maybe haunting me~
~round in the chamber~
~a far random target~
~bullets come tumbling~
~surely messengers running~
~surely vengeance forthcoming~~surely haunting me~
~death on a thimble~
~we been taking it easy~
~any way we can get it~
~on a fast road to nowhere~
~on a death horse we go there~
~on a haunting me~
~lady~
~you are~
~a vision of Sunday~
~a river of falling~
~a chant in the evening~
~a dry well of wanting~
~the church of my haunting~
~church of my haunting~
~church of my haunting me~
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©artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
~My Heaven }Etude)~
~my heaven is escape me~
~my heaven is escape me~
~my heaven is escape me, brother~
~my heaven is a woman~
~my heaven is a suckling child~~another man’s shame~
~another man’s glory~
~ye-ah~
~my heaven ‘e been gone for a while~
{go out laughing}
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© artwork & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
~Questioning Horsery~ (Introduction to Grayson)
There were six million, three hundred fifty-two thousand, five hundred and eighty-three wavelets on her face this morning. She refused to be a victim of dawn tides, exalted in the event she was able to do so. Lying on the beach, body of sand, spirit air, mind spent and set aside, she fell into the waking side of a dream.
Three directions surrounding, vertical columns, fortresses of stone, up and through a lavender/pink firmament she stared. Eyes wide open, other than a hint of a smile wearing her lips, one might imagine her quite dead. Water tickling, gooseflesh wearing, the three-walled prison of her existence suited her fine. “How did I end up here?” The question threatened but she pushed it away. Stone mansion, earthen room, ocean door; she needed them all and nothing more.
Startled by thunder, the incredible percussion of earth quaking, she closed her eyes. Not long though, this respite; she opened them just a bit, peered down across her body supine. Two rosebud nipples erect, extant reminders of her humanness, her flesh, met her gaze and pleased her. “I am woman.” She pushed the thought away.
They came to visit then, magnificent and marauding, a stallion and three mares, manes and tails flying, rays of eos filtering, slices of dawn-light instantaneous, erected, broken, furious, wide-eyed and alive. Her arms, goddess tentacles, feathers lifting, rose from her sides to receive them. Mud silt exploded from their hooves, dappled her white-flesh, excited to ecstasy her nether regions, filled her with white-heat fantastic, orgasmic.
Body arched, wings supporting, she welcomed the tide, water caressing, purging her pinto/appaloosa and leaving her ivory/white. The stallion’s voice roared as he mounted the precipice, the armor of his limbs taut, aquiver, a single gasping breath, and Grayson let it all go. She watched the mares disappear into the clouds behind him and entertained the thought, considered her options, that she might just follow. But no, she smiled and pushed it all away.
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