7-19-2018
What We Are (7-17-2018)
Once in a Blue Moon (7-16-2018)
Wordsmith (7-11-2018)
Get-up Gone (7-9-2018)
Disencumbered (7-8-2018)
Monkish, he is a monkey starving
in the limbs of a barren tree watching the ape community thrive on lush jungle flora unwilling, unable to join them surviving by consuming vermin crawling through the skin of his brain There’s a tin man howling whose body is a whistle stop where blackbirds rest and cackle dance across his stiff arms make sport of his scarecrow appearance He scatters seeds on the ground to get them off him A continuum of negativity has swallowed his universe beginning with naked parents and the poor rags of their death His lady’s kisses have been taken carried away in strongboxes offered free to strangers Struggling to find peace running bare-skinned through snowfields his spirit howls out to the gods seeking confirmation of destiny its voice singing a litany handed down from the cradleboard in chains, the slave camp of his being If not for the glad-song of his children he might swallow the carpet nails of life sing a rasping, gushing blood-song allow himself the strength and release of weakness In their innocence, they sustain him demand with the purity of their love that he stand, diminished, care for them as much as he is able She met him in a lightning storm captured, ran away with his heart Years grind our dearest dreams to dust clouds that confuse and confound us A poor lover, he struggles desperately to recapture what were, perhaps, only thoughts of a blind man who believed for a moment he could see http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2018 artwork, music and words conceived by and property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 © 
Stoic (7-2-2018)
Axiom (6-29-2018)
Qua IV: Decadence Buys (5-16-2018)
Qua IV: Decadence Buys
its weight-worth penny performance guarantees death, a combination condemnation as proof of guilt and be damned it is true when one looks like one did it fate cries the jury preponderance of evidence a standing shadow free falling gavel executioner’s pound of stone equal to a condemned prisoner’s weight http://WORDWULF.com/PHILOSOPHY http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2018 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 © 
Qua III: Wiggle Your Ears (5-6-2018)
Qua III: Wiggle Your Ears
where east meets west south and north abide penniless, the girl pirouettes fantastic silhouette she is ready willing to earn her uptown shoes lying on her back new to the game time will teach her more than players ever knew in the city isle bound by water truth and lies light the night http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2018 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 © 
Qua II: Brought to You by (5-4-2018)
Qua II: Brought to You by
Standards of commercial art consumer rape Downtown diddler my, how you fly in the sultan’s soup Dark knight dreams oozing, wearing slaves’ swarthy, sweating skin tusk die, mastodon a delicate step zigzag maniac dowser pointing that boogie stick a giggle of doom http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2018 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 © 
Qua I: Declaration of {5-2-2018}
Qua I: Declaration of
brain wedgie don’t pull my covers hedge your bets hawg the pillow sleepy down girl dream of collections suckle supple nipple faith matters of selection divide the genius pulverize wounds named children go where they will some few survive the meal http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2018 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 ©  6-23-2018
As children, the poor walk closer to the ground
They fancy nickels and pennies, dimes and quarters even intimate fortunes they have found and spent for counter candy licorice and a mouthful of gum If asked where it came from, they gobble it down stammer, learn to talk dumb When these urchins mature into adulthood this learned posturing serves them well in the performance of menial jobs survival in tarpaper shacks, jailhouses and prison cells Eyes to the ground, they learn to avoid the law the boss on the threshing floor Life grinds them down and lower than their eyes a hunger begins, proceeds to roar An old man, stooped and broken, hobbles on his wand 'ring way Children mock him, his stilted gait, his eyes, mouth muttering What did he say? He drops a nickel on the sidewalk, a handful of dimes cackles as they scramble for them Guilty of being poor and closer to the ground he is punished and rewarded, purged of his crimes http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2018 artwork, music and words conceived by and property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 © 
Tense (6-21-2018)
Notwithstanding 6-20-2018
Diaphanous 6-18-2018
Boundary - 6-13-2018
Vapidity 6-8-2018
 Averages (6-3-2018)
6-1-2018
Points of Reference 5-30-2018
Points of Reference
scents nursing homes abortion clinics life just before death sounds sick folks groaning babies crying old folks laughing baby belly giggles life before soon after kisses on the face in the casket in the cradle in the in the in between touch an open wound a sore back baby’s foot momma’s hands suffering deep felt shallow for others self eyes to see close and dream generations passage rebirth notions of difference indifference confusion on the ground while flying too near the moon greetings salutations hello goodbye spoken intuited each an invitation a blank space for the other to fill tasting momma’s fear daddy’s rage hunger an appetite for garbage so gifted so given so what to do next and why a wandering cloud counterpoint dewdrop pendulum strangers in passing strangers in fact spit in the hand chopping wood embracing violent interludes blood on the carpet in the hair everywhere you look, she’s satisfied surefooted determined lost a country a woman loose reference shoe strings tripping easy LSD falling hard LSD baby in the room disturbing if wailing calming if cooing changing papa’s diaper sad and misbegotten pinpricks aloe vera she bet a nickel on sunrise he raised her a dime so they did it twice despairing at parades birthing rooms scared shitless of clown faces fear of the toilet teetering on the edge relieved to leave the least part of yourself behind the young man and his guitar alone in the wee hours he realizes he can play himself to sleep epiphany to be his father a dear friend said hinge philosophy dead presidents live chickens guess who’s coming and to dinner the highway between wars strewn with bodies and lies a man in a robe blesses them picks their pockets shudders at the ooze gathers their spirits into a censer incites a zephyr to carry their last kisses to the world away from the cloud in ignorance, he stands with those of his ilk thieves whom weep http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2018 artwork, music and words conceived by and property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 © 
5-27-2018
5-24-2018
5-22-2018
Who are We
My brother has become a shadow I am unfamiliar with. I don’t know him now and neither does he. ~WordWulf~ 
People Person (5-21-2018
5-20-2018
Study Them (5-19-2018)
Think Twice (5-18-2018)
Myopic (4-30-2018)
Unequivocally (4-25-2018)
 Agony (4-23-2018)
Monition (4-17-2018)
 4-16-2018
I can’t hear the night with the lights on
They blind my ears, destroy my focus A tiger of fear stalks their shadows creeping up to capture my spirit and terrify the little boy me I can’t see her face in the music where I go to hide away from her Songs I used to sing to her image are my new door to freedom in their legion of sadness I can’t find my ass in the dark with both hands, invisible arms a tactile prisoner of light whose eyes demand proof and purchase the illusive wall of life Wednesday took the lies of summer wrote them on a book of leaves divided amongst the winds scattered to hither and yon tablets in stacks and stones beyond http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2018 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 © A Sense of Sixth was published by Skyline Literary Review in 2006 
4-11-2018
4-5-2018
4-2-2018
Fired from father’s gun
his monomaniacal carnal objective to empty his weapon he quiver-jerks and groans We are bullets gag-vomit whistled magma, upstream geyser eruptions Discharged into a frenzied, sodden macrocosm we begin our frantic journey mad to unite that we may survive to die a lewd compromise, forest dark alabaster cracks in tree walls mother-womb, hatchery http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2018 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 
Letters from the Monastery: XVI
Art of Denuding self He awakens from a night of no sleep whose black chromium edge has ripped the top off his mind She sits in the laps of bible men accepts the attentions of gentlemen who do it to her but never say it The chisel of love has whittled him down He stares at the skeletal remains of his once fulfilled self in his minds-eye mirror laughs uproariously at the remnants flushes them down the toilet The sword has two edges anger and shame Prostrated, he takes it into his mouth thrusts it deep and twists In a purging gush of blood he initiates an expiation a release from guilt and pain In a garden dark the howling man rages his flesh pricked, punctured by thorns sublime, his retribution far past the death dares of youth He claws at roots and earth shares them with his blood Dawn has no equal in his tortured black-hole eyes He crawls away to hide Lesser than carrion, he gags on the fetid stench his ravaged corpse of night leaves it to the worms The only path through grief and the road to wisdom is to learn to become a withered and empty husk He is blown through himself slack-jawed and empty a scarecrow on a stick http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2018 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 © 
Declination (3-14-2018)
Desecration (3-13-2018)
Meet me with your bodies for crosses,
goodness overlapped by sin, jewels of your imperfections worn as bracelets ‘round your thighs. He steps into his shovel. Stones sing; steel voices ring. Yes, the morning dew clings to the flesh and his face. His face weeps sweat at three by six and two yards deep. A blackbird whispers: Alms for the Digger Will we finally remember to be satisfied of moment, realize there is no surprise in time spent seeking back. Mysterious connection, we of human invention tend to view ourselves as extensions of god beasts, anal retention. Shadows in the cave lake, wicked teeth and no eyes. Glide smooth, serpent fish. Celebrate darkness of vision, an ancient realm, copper seam. So pure, we existed before heathen events of mutation. One last curtain call; an old blues man adjusts hiss steel teeth. He takes the bit into his mouth and rides ‘er one more time, each unspecified event of madness. (howling harmonica) (this part sung) I don’t care when the night-wind blows. She gon’ say me a prayer. She gone, she gone, she gone. Tell ya ‘bout woman, author of madness, priestess, witness. Carry me to the killing ground. Lay me on a field of fire. My flesh won’t burn. My flesh will not burn. A mist of ghosts rise, divided by distance and slaughtered anew. They are blue and gray in the dawn, boys wearing masks of men, thin whiskered and hollow of cheek. She gon’ pray us a prayer, mark the end of our war, mark the end of our war. (harmonica moan) A fisher of pearls probing your wound of flesh, discovers a cache of fish eggs, roe. The fisherman fertilizes them, carries them away in a canning jar, calls them sea monkeys. He ends up joining a circus where his life becomes an adventure, a chance to be all he can be, no idle passing of time. Then there’s the plan to feed the homeless in China, inspired by the bleached bones of home, walked over and tossed aside. Few see beyond the tinted glass, pleased to be on their way to aid the less fortunate. Who’s gonna shovel the elephant shit? To youth I say, rejoice in a ravenous feast of years, your blood lust to have it all. Hump your way toward oblivion. Suck energy from the day. Spit it into the faces from whence you came; defecate on the courthouse steps. Wiggle your ass silly and walk away. Breathe deep your smoking revenge. Soon enough you will bury those who made you and, when you went too far, dug deep to arrange your bail. A reoccurrence of dawn is no swift illusion or less real, the morrow. Too young for wisdom, old enough to know better, climb onto your soapbox. Wear them proud, your half-assed clothes. Ah hell, nobody gonna pay the digger. http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2018 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 ©  Manumission (3-4-2018)
 Genius, the result of interaction with an entity or thought process of which one was previously unaware.
​Beware pretending, mirror dancing, mimicry. Scratch an itch that doesn’t exist until you do.
Origin (1-29-2018)​
Sensitive (1-21-2018)
Schism (1-20-2018)
Posit (1-15-2018)
Poised (12-31-2017)
Meditation 98: Abeyance (12-27-2017)
Masks Aside (1000 Days-806) - 12/15/2017
Honor (12-2-2017)
From suicide to dinner
a creature’s lusts and appetites are blood/vein connected to its actions and deeds The human beast is likely to seek groups attribute and blame its behavior on peer pressure decisions by committee coven, church, gang, career outlaws and CEO’s heroes and miscreants pod peas alike self-serving public opinion a moronic collective philosophy of fools http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2017 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2017 © 
Interposition (10-6-2017)
Meditation Four: Walking Bridge - 10-2-2017
Attrition (9-28-2017)
Ambiguities (9-26-2017)
Incomprehensible (9-7-2017)
Enmity (8-17-2017)
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Fade 7-1-2018
6-27-2018
Meditation 1: Night (12-29-2017)
Fugue (11-21-2017
Enough (11-13-2017) Enough Fearful of death determined to live forever impossibly worried blind by half we scurry through the scattered alleys of life In our time of youth not enough time rarely enough money hardly enough love grasping at ends scarcely ever enough Adulthood finds us pursuing religion politics and careers running downhill, fornicating procreating, recreating scorched in a pyre of ignorance tangle-fires of youth We struggle to earn enough be enough realize we haven’t learned enough paid enough attention before thought we knew it all frustrated that our children know too much about the wrong things refuse to listen to what we have learned Nearer to and acutely aware of death fearful there is not time enough to protect and teach them to survive we worry the empty rooms of elders passed Graying and balding regretting, forgetting slowing, going down sentimentally elemental we are overcome by chance thought that what has been may be enough Our spirits prepare us to journey leave our feet behind on the worried path we have trod We begin to remember cocoon water births with new eyes caress what is left our lovely children and life mates that we may tell them in our going the joy of knowing they are the all and ever more than enough http://wordwulf.com/philosophy Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2017 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2017 © 
Hell You Say (11-7-2017)
Gleaning (10-24-2017)
from Quodlibet: Introduction to: III Bone-deep/Alone 10-17-2017
Pondering creativity, music, unsure whether it was the crowning glory of my youth or the toilet that swallowed it. There are warts on their skin now, dragon nail breath, those fresh songs, a lifetime 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 and careers. My sons make their own music Stone damn markers in our lives, deaths of parents, assassinated politicians, elections and hurricanes, life experiences that bind us to a sense of purpose and expectations of ourselves and others. Canned laughter from the tv room makes about as much sense. Other than duplicity, there is no actuality. Audiences expect to hear and see, experience a secondhand reality, what they are programmed to be comfortable with, hot and ready to do that thing everybody’s talkin’ about, whatever the hell it is. The room was empty when the pretenders left, possibly more desolate than before they arrived. Beggars are the only liars that earn their keep. http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2017 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2017 © 
Mirage (11-28-2017)
Mirage
principled father mother of purity absence of vanity sincerity of purpose all things humane freedom at any cost safety in numbers glory in defeat atonement of sin pity as pacifier normal assemblage benevolence of royalty holiness of priests the erect politician moral policeman singular motive best intentions chaste kisses government promise lap of luxury sincere beggar sex for sex sake love for sex sake heaven sake reconciled victim rehabilitated rapist whenever 'I'm sorry' love other than self existence of oases a dignified death sincere amnesty this bears repetition this bears repetition this bears repetition art for art's sake man in gods' image woman as reward honorific recognition original sin any reference to aeon distance as love bait I won't hurt you my dog doesn't bite obvious intentions light of day light of night wise men animals as speaking idiots other than human shared prosperity faith in dervish sanity of justice welfare Cadillac clean water drug counselor psychological awareness social security hope for the poor foundation of family driving on the telephone green peace war on drugs capital expenditures common sense lifetime warranty satisfaction guaranteed customer service free rent damage deposit Christian forgiveness the open sea dumb animals good guys and bad guys them and us clean living winners and losers a free ride one square inch unpolluted relief valve escape key any true witness other than chaos normal behavior square corners outer limits inner peace immaculate conception protective custody a round tuit acceptable losses the flying man death of gods age of reason missionary largesse preventative medicine innocent until free will human connection mated for life dominion funereal disguise bread winners non combative personality organized religion a striving toward normalcy process of elimination running stool amicable reconciliation affordable housing good drivers critical mass high priest drug lord dutiful wife eclectic taste the third breast idle conversation state of unrest state of Colorado state of being merciful heaven absolution of sin war and peace battle mockup unadulterated flesh season of plenty life on far planets this one in particular backup system angels and hat men ladies of the night accidental collusion intentional chaos will to power wont to shame acronymic truth prison politic unequivocal device prayer endings amen random violence any number of senses innocence lost a shovel full of Eden plastered in Paris father as bitch same gender parents man as god holy remembrance holy cow mythical union forward thinkers successful committee I didn't mean to a bad seed the good son overkill homing pigeons Christ on a toothpick sincere prostitute honest john solemn oath They sat in a circle, the two of them. Theirs was a shared awareness of nothing. Infinite possibilities, a vision of Lords danced between them, will of Creator, wisp of essence. Incapable of boredom, with some sense of humor, a combined energy, was given birth the moment. Having no sense of entitlement, not only did they not name the child Time, it was loosed, allowed a will of its own. These of the circle yawned as their child adopted a spiracle tone, wrapped itself in universe, mad inventions of its own. The result, what it created, made a terrible howling and the parents, annoyed by the child's noisome toys, allowed the two-sided circle to close. Thus were erected the heir apparent and errant parent. The spoiled child, angry and alone, playing in the blood of its mud, began to manufacture discontent and a creature whose image mirrored what it imagined it might be, given mortality and physical form. These chose to idolize themselves and porcelain gods in their image. The child, Time, swore a fury of vengeance upon the beings it had made, that they would wither away, face always a declining and decrepit flesh, hunger ever more for youth as Time itself devoured all before and about them. Finally, each moment was named for this merciless master. The hollow spheres of its kingdom were erected temples owned in the name given the master and that name was GOD. fidelity of flesh unintentional idol death after life Mirage won the Marija Cerjak Society Award for Avant-garde/Experimental Writing 2002 http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2017 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2017 © 
Porcelain Angels - Letters from the Monastery XXIXor just another lost angel
city of night Jim Morrison thus they experience miracles and rebirths and hear the voices of angels Nietzsche I was playing with some hell’s angels that you don’t know nothing about Charles Manson a love that was so strong even the angels were jealous Poe What you might be if you try WordWulf Porcelain Angels Translucent agony changelings’ dance of fire mad creatures left in stead whom see through and are unable to stab and probe its angles Diffuse, refracted light quick-fire paper wings ignite edges twinkle gone The madman seeks truth in renegade eyes from stabbing nib lips taunting voices of ravens window gate portals elastic time wedges Mind fingers grip his orphan desire seeking patronage, protection whose eyes only see angels when they are bleeding The door shuts there is darkness in the hall Others open, it is said Is hell the space and time between the utter howl of that darkness subtle substance nocturnal hunting eyes of preyers owl countenance Genuflecting man arms upraised, vulnerable grateful victim, prey at last http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2017 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2017 © 
Rage
pray excuse my edge dismiss me out of hand angry man on a barstool on a toilet opening a hymnal singing his praises false security protection of religion of dependence of sanctions in a cage in a urinal in a pocket rage spends itself is the currency of monsters spittle puke is blood dripping from the ceiling did someone die in here blood splatter and perfume red blots on the page bookmark wait you missed the part his appearance front stage center dark horse back no he crossed the room spilled his guts fell over the porch rail drowned on his blood gorge on the sidewalk federal boulevard in front of the bar in public on the wrong side of night well he fucked up the bathroom who’s gonna clean up this mess cops don’t care they are tin men in the city citizen protectors in a protracted environment paid guests at the door at the table at the gimmee more blood feast I wanna know if he finished the book before he mauled the princess robbed the beggar refused to acknowledge and show respect for the band that piece of meat on the sidewalk it belongs there it exemplifies it horrifies glorifies the city fathers I wanna go home take the Cherokee princess with me make her safe return her to the sultanate of the people mister detective politician I am unable to learn your lies much less believe them the good man the angry man tucked his long knife into the cigarette machine I put the princess on a bus destination the raped and looted spiritual ground of our fathers nails rusting in the bodies of our friends the trees where our ancestors’ children were crucified skinned alive skins worth more to Europeans than the hides of brother buffalo angry man in a room on a chair beneath the glaring false light staring into the eyes of his inquisitors moved past hate moved beyond sorrow underwater drifting floating between life and un-death hanging on very little left right horse white angry man on the barstool in a cage on a toilet rage http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2017 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2017 © Sparkle, Sparkle, Little Twink (8-8-2017)
We know so little and that is ripped from us, devoured, inhaled in great gulping gasps of living. We only have what we have of moment and a good part of that is illusion, not apt to survive any transition to reality. Grab fistfuls while you may, earth and wheel, bread and wine. Never you mind the rubber burn blood.
Three tons of sunshine, ours to devour and still we are afraid of the dark, dependent upon tiny light, artificial, sun sensitive, designed to hide its dim watt head until the red light or its reflection, the moon, disappears behind a cloud or spins away to visit those on the other side of our world. God damn, I need a hand, some way out of this frightening room. Monsters were under the bed when I was a child so I went there, under the bed alone. Years later I chased them through alleys and whiskey bars, made music with them until boogy-assed misty dawn. Twinkle, twinkle, little star, I forgot how to sing. Sparkle, sparkle, little twink, where the hell you are I think. http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2017 artwork, music and words conceived by and property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2017 © Subjective 9-23-2017
Haiku: Ten Thousand Whispers
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