~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~
http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com
& wordwulf@wordwulf.com
©graphic artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
~the epic~
~reptiles & dust~
~with a narcissistic bent~
~if I don’t love me~
~who will~
~ponders the would-be philosopher~
~& there ya have it~
~these are a rage~
~& a sonnet~
~# nine~~alfalfa dreams~
~in some pastures alfalfa~
~sweet scent of first love~
~& the death of reason~
~weight of passion flower scent~
~rolling in the haymow~
~old men on car trips~
~roll down the window & dream~http://wordwulf.com WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com
& wordwulf@wordwulf.com
©artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
~the epic~
~reptiles & dust~
~when he was a boy~
~daddy bought him heelies~
~so he could smooth glide~
~through the last few years of his life~
~before he was a number~
~on the wrong list~
~before he was a soldier~
~gone before he was~
~these are a rage~
~# nineteen~
~one nation stands~
~trouble with politicians~
~when their women demand new shoes~
~they are apt to ask what color~
~choose a nation~
~a people~
~name them enemy~
~steal their skin~
~walk first on~
~then in them~
~to hell with penny loafers~
http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com
& wordwulf@wordwulf.com
©artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner©
~Reptiles & Dust~
~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~
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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~
~IV~
~ain’t nothin’ new about the concept~
~weapons of mass destruction~
~century after century~
~priests & missionaries have been sent~
~months in advance of invading armies~
~bible in one hand~
~whip in the other~
~to enlighten, threaten & subvert~
~savages & barbarians~
~love ‘em to death~
~love ‘em to death~
~teach them fear & the art of~
~worship worship worship~
~& when the warship arrives~
~the devil brother butcher~
~will eradicate those left standing~
~tut-tut~
~holy man to warrior~
~keep the mission in mind~
~land is worth little without slave labor~
~converts to bury corpses~
~gods & war~
~freedom to enslave~
~what is civil about civilization~
~speaking of prepossession~
~predilection & antipathy~
~ancient professions~
~IV. the working Girl~
~this woman seize portrait~
~a grain a cross the beach sand of life~
~legs apart, she sweeps them up~
~no single click-flash-click~
~what amounts to portfolio~
~years spent & minutes passed~
~nice work; what do you do for money?~
~are we any less prostitute ~
~prices fixed & wares displayed~
~selling whistles & paper airplanes~
~mortgaged asses in a sling~
~they are pimped to mediocrity~
~those whom judge the working girl~
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
~I’m real~
~I’m human~
~but I’m not an ordinary man~
~no no no~
~Jim Morrison~
~does the hellbound howl at you?~
~Nietzsche~
~you haven't got long~
~before you are all going to kill yourselves~
~Charles Manson~
~thus I pacified Psyche & kissed her~
~Poe~
~Jesus is the bomb~
~do you see him~
~WordWulf~
~Situated Western/Saving Grace~
Western didn’t wake up this morning. We stayed up drinking last night, him and me. I’ve begun to wonder if the Saturday morning head is worth the Friday night slaking of a thirst stacked up, day to day, during the week. Maybe I’m getting old. Maybe I’ve had enough.
Western was funny last night though. He had me laughing my ass off one minute and crying the next. He tells the funniest damned stories then starts talking about his wife and kids. No matter what he’s thinking or doing, his family is always a background conversation running through his mind. At least that’s how he explained it to me.
Man was I pissed when they told me I was going to be stuck on this outpost with that crazy old man. He’s forty-two for Christ’s sake! I didn’t sign up in this man’s army to babysit some guy with two of his fingers missing and a head full of rain.
Now I know better. I’m just a dumb-assed kid. The old man covered my ass, even saved it a couple of times the past month or so here in no man’s land. Last night, after we finished off the booze, Western hugged me, told me I was his saving grace, that hanging out with me was like spending time with one of his own sons. He made me promise that, if anything happened to him over here, I’d go to his family and tell them everything was okay with him. His boys are around my age and he’s glad they’re not here. I don’t know what makes him think I could explain any of this shit to them, crazy old man.
That’s a hug I’ll never forget. Western knew things and didn’t mind sharing once he tested your mettle and found you worthy of his teaching. I guess that was his gift. Knowing I don’t know enough just might see me through this thing. I’m just a dumb-assed kid.
Some desert dog, shootin’ his ass off son-of-a-bitch, got a lucky round off last night. He’ll never know he put a hole in a man better than himself, better than any of us, a hole just big enough for that man’s life to leak away into the filthy sand of this bunker while I was sleeping off the whiskey night. I’m gonna make it. I can do this. I’ll hug his sons and weep with them. I need to do that. I hate this war that taught me how to love a man I didn’t even like then took him away from me.
Guess I’m just a dumb-assed kid. Western didn’t wake up this morning.
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WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com & wordwulf@wordwulf.com
© artwork & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
~Rebecca’s Garden~
My Dear Rebecca,
Whenever I write your name, your beautiful face comes to mind. How I love to plant kisses there. Poets write about smiling eyes but yours are the only ones I have seen that really do and for me to boot. Did the cosmos come up this spring? I smile as I remember your little-girl excitement when you placed the tiny seeds, one by one, in the front yard flower bed.
It is my pleasure to imagine seasons spent with you, to have actual memories. They are a future promise a lot of the guys here don’t have. This awful place offers its season of war and nothing else. We, as you know, can’t speak of where we are... as if we knew. I have so much more than others here, just to imagine you in that yellow summer dress will get me through a day. The doctor is here so I must leave off for now. I’ll be right back.
Hey Becca,
I’m back but it didn’t go so well. I forgot to mention yesterday that I’m in a field hospital, finally a few miles off the front line. I don’t want you to worry about me. I’ll be okay. They can’t do much for my wound here but are arranging for a bird (helicopter) to come get me and a couple other guys.
While I wait I’m just gonna write to you for awhile. I’m gonna close my eyes and, once your face is clear to me, I’ll have myself a nap. The worst shock in this hospital is upon waking. You are so vivid in my dreams. I feel like I have been kidnapped and dragged into some terrible nightmare place when I wake up.
I don’t think I could bear these long nights and dreary days if I didn’t have you at home waiting for me. The enemy crawls up on us at night. A buddy and I were talking about that awhile back. He thought it would make a lot more sense to fight on home ground. Remember those football games when we were kids. No one could catch me with Becca in the stands cheering me on. But this is no game here Darlin’. I hope our battles are never fought at home.
Home is where you and the cosmos are. I can see you planting the tulip bulbs, a sprinkle of cosmos seeds here and there. Maybe you can send me a picture, not that you didn’t describe it well enough. Did I tell you I love you before I left? I’m sure I must have but can’t remember and that just about drives me crazy. I love you, Rebecca. There, that helps a little.
I gotta go for now, Sweetheart. We’re on lights out tonight. A recon showed signs of a possible offensive.
Hi Becca,
I can’t believe I went to sleep so fast last night. They have me on morphine every three hours. An hour or so after the shot I get kinda dreamy. I’ll have to ask the doc if maybe they put something in my drip bag to help me sleep. Last night I dreamt about our dreams, mine and yours. You know, the one where we’re both writers, me in my cave and you out there with your flowers.
Remember when I said we were too young, hadn’t lived enough to be real writers? Well, I have now. I could write about what I’ve learned in this war for the rest of my life and still not have it told. Never mind the cave idea though. I swear, I’ll sit by your side in the wonderful sunshine and write until my fingers are sore. So you buy another lawn chair and I’ll bring the iced tea. Oops! Gotta go, Honey. Got a little infection here and they’re gonna run me through a battery of tests.
Sweet Becca,
I overheard the medic who treated me on the field talking to my doctor. I have to say too that you were right about feeling what is said, it being something entirely different than the words. I won’t be coming home. My life has become that ‘whisper and a prayer’ thing. I do love you so and want you to know you’re the last and only thing on my mind. You are my courage.
When they send that person to the house to tell you about me, you’re gonna hear what a brave soldier I was, the courage I showed in hand-to-hand combat. Funny thing is, it’s almost the truth, like all the other almosts that go with war. When they snuck up on us that morning, I actually put a bullet into another human being. I swear Rebecca, time froze for a moment. Both our weapons jammed after I shot him.
He came screaming toward me. I stood up to meet his charge, scared half out of my wits. No doubt though, I could overcome a wounded man in hand-to-hand combat. A hummingbird, Becca... I swear I never saw anything like that in my life. It hung between us in the air, sweet on the blade of my bayonet. Bored out of my brain earlier in the day, I made a wreath of wildflowers and laced them together there.
Forgive me, my sweet, sweet, girl. Each flower bore your name. Our eyes met on the fast fluttering wings of that tiny bird. The man would have stopped if he could have. Neither of us would have chosen to fight and die in Rebecca’s garden but it is done. His bayonet ran me through and he was already dead.
We never know how much our letters will be censored. I have tried to follow the rules here. These are my last wishes. Rebecca, you spread my ashes amongst the cosmos. You have to be strong. Get that second chair and find yourself a good young man to sit there with you. Bury my wings in Rebecca’s Garden.
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WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com & wordwulf@wordwulf.com
© artwork & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
Rebecca’s Garden was published by Brown County Writers Group (Uplifting Romance)
~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~
~The Butterfly Poet~
~it finally arrived~
~that day words wouldn’t come~
~the empty feeling refused to go~
~she tore her hand~
~from the glove of her mind~
~watched her imagination~
~those minute remnants left~
~dribble onto her notebook~
~a blot pattern blood ink~
~she wrote an ode to the butterfly:~
~whose wings of earth~
~& feet of sky~
~an invitation to glory~
~the likes of which I~
~see sun through each~
~a fluttering~
~land~
~beautiful~
~mute~
~you are so much &~
~expect so little~
~you are at peace while I~
~envy you heaven~
~that fair bit of sky~
http://wordwulf.comWordWulf
~Esplanade~~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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