Unequivocally (4-25-2018)
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 
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)
“WordWulf, your work reminds me of shards,
those things you find in the kiln, beautiful fragments when the whole thing has blown.” And the Stone Man Said Serve me up dirty filthy and ill-used I am the cartoon at the end of dawn A mother’s prayer quick lips of sorrow kissed echo of the new night God help us we are slain by moments of anger it hurts finally hurts no more Echoes of woe cry the new city built upon pastures flowers of doom Don’t cry me down ye awful lament scarlet promises sea of new blood Following empty you are what lies next stone heart eye of moon Fingernail traces eyelashes weeping a lone figure intolerant shadow Maybe she’s wicked lips apart magick Her tongue of flame passion divides Old soldiers and new lovers pretendering peace a fortune of skin We are the pale standing outside you a misting of star-shine penumbra undone Don’t you dare wake me with mute invitation Where dragons have flown my heart is gone Our cloak becomes a withering wall Beneath the veil a hermit resides She is cooking fish to feed her man slave a bit of wine to hurry him down He places an ear on the pit of her navel A child passes through the face of a dime It ain’t Hitler It’s Ike Hurry on singers watchers impatient They only came to hear the end of your song and so it is father whose breast is without us whose heart is within us whose belt is upon us and mother stirs the soup chicken noodle it is no chicken no noodle soup nonetheless A caravan gathers round an open-mouthed child He points to their camels strange alien hump An hour of madness must I possess a vision of angels heart of the beast Last night I saw you bare assed naked Bombs made your cities and titties dissolve Who were you then with your crack in the sky Who are you now laying spread before me There are brave new voices islands of silence where cave people dwell residue of shame I want a new blanket to cover my faces to shield me from the I want the wind in my home Old man bite your tongue Your gun lies dead in your hand Cover yourself You are disgusting to the new children A grave in the city where geese go to graze a feast of bones and hollow moments Pigeon shit in the sand the mortar of giants brave deeds spoken crumbling walls Visions of paper pitiful wisdom the shaman in flames who laughs the fool Bruised sky of my face bitter sweet of mine heart Divide the peace of me make arrows and napalm And the Stone Man Said was published in the anthology Storm Cycle by Kind of a Hurricane Press in 2015 http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2018 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 © 
Toss Penitence Once (2-19-2018
Ken (1-31-2018)
Origin (1-29-2018)
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. One (1-25-2018)
The prisoner knuckled his eyes until stars blanketed his cage.
Blind to his keepers, the stars there to stay. Sensitive (1-21-2018)
Schism (1-20-2018)
Sans Ambit (1-19-2018)
Privation (1-17-2018)
Presuppositions (1-16-2018)
Posit (1-15-2018)
Consumption (1-13-2018)
Abandoned (1-5-2018)
Poised (12-31-2017)
Lowerly (12-28-2017
Meditation 98: Abeyance (12-27-2017)
Apodictic (12/16/2017)
Masks Aside (1000 Days-806) - 12/15/2017
Authority (12-12-2017)
Pariah (12-9-2017)
Our garbage is treasured and delicious to children of poverty. Unexpected and unknown, it tastes better than government commodities and/or nothing at all. Have you watched hunger’s children in their rush to eat and gobble it down when mother notices worms crawling the food, that they might consume it before she takes it away? Damn me damn,
wish I didn’t understand. Pariah On a cold steep night, Harley rumbling ‘tween my knees, I watch the beggar man dig, his gleeful dance at morsels found, a gobbling pirouette. Eyes closed tight, a beast warren of hunger prowling bones of the poor. Momma got no fat kids. Proud and fearful, she prays. She works at the club restaurant bar, a ten-penny waitress, pinch and tip, empties plates into her hideout bag, treasures she smuggles home to her litter. Ah, Mister Beggar Man, we are brothers of the blood. Underneath coffee grounds, slick ash cigarette, lies the prize precious ort. We are proud in our poverty, angry in our shame, wrong side of never and lost, found wanting. I kiss the wind between us, ride fast into the night. http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2017 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2017 © Letters from the Monastery: Confirmation of Darkness (12-8-2017)
Loosening his mind nuts
Nietzsche Raven speaking the dark night Poe Helter skelter Manson The music’s over here Morrison Goodnight my lady, this WordWulf Confirmation of Darkness Monkish, he is a monkey starving in the limbs of a barren tree watching the ape community thrive on the lush jungle life 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 to 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 © 2017 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 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)
Noir Inclination 9-20-2017
Incomprehensible (9-7-2017)
Wilder (8-25-2017)
Enmity (8-17-2017)
What Wisdom (8-13-2017)
Onliest (7-3-2017
from Blade 1: Showdown (3-14-2017)
from Reptiles and Dust: Blabber (3-12-2017)
Axiom (3-11-2017)
KEO - Legend of New Horse (3-9-2017)
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Meditation 1: Night (12-29-2017)
Be Creative (4-11-2017)
Stars (4-5-2017)
Music of My People (4-5-2017)
Sagacious (4-3-2017)
Withdrawal (4-3-2017)
Mantle (from Pedimental Bent) 5-16-2017
Our agreements bits of thread symbolic binding garment trust What legacy patriot hysterical crossed over taking and standing sides phat in the castle lean on the wall artists’ cruel rendition tears of ice noon on the moon prayers and a mud river slide http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2017 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2017 © 
Oblique Companion (4-25-2017)
Apolitical (4-17-2017)
Whittling (4-2-2017)
Be Yourself (4-1-2017)
Snatch (3-29-2017)
Blessings of Phaedra (3-15-2017)
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 less than we.” The earth is my camp breath, its worms and the heat of my bowels. Night sweat means nothing to those who do not sleep. It is a reminding stench, a pitiful outside offering. Take me down to the circus to 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, swallows the whole of me. She promised to keep a frail lantern alight in the window, naming and claiming its message of Phaedra, 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 instrument, dies on the music of the wind. “Meet me in your dreams,” she cries “next best thing to being there.” Shadow shapes whisper my name. I am blind in the periphery. In every dream, I die. A wounded animal, I smell the rot of my flesh, damn the maggots for eating parts of me left better to putrefy for a friendly chinook to scatter across the end land. Sleep is the kingdom of the healthy, where the strong go to rest and the weak to escape. There are madnesses between sleep where we pariahs, alleys roam. In a pasture of lowing, moon-swept, pastoral and fine, we are the hunter’s lust to slay with fang and claw, all that lives then starve on a body of prey. The pretty boys were singing downtown, making heat for long-legged girls, flinging epithets at old-man 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 a ringworm, makes you itch, digs down underneath flesh, to feast on bone marrow. C’mon, take me out walkin’ until my feet are underwater, eyes 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, breaks for a commercial about shaking babies. 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 Jimi. He got hot pissed when they took away one of his m’s, set fire to his instrument, 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 then I killed and ate the damned thing. 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 in favor of 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, the revenge of sons. http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2017 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2017 © Blessings of Phaedra was published 2008 in The Hudson View and nominated for The Pushcart Prize 
~Combustion~ (3-8-2017)
Identity Bullshit (3-6-2017)
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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We aren’t much more than weathered tomes to your eyes. I’ve come to seek that which more than magic reveals, language, the texture of my skin, cloth spread across bony my spar, a cobweb sail blown by the winds of time. The time and life I have lived must occur a thousand times more, sets of fifty years of existence. I see the hand of my grandson on the hand of my son. Over a hundred and fifty generations this eternal stack of hands will represent, a fine promise and some proof of aeon.
This message is a thin whisper to the younger, word secrets whispered into your ear. We aren't doing so well in this world of bombs and bullets we have made, our epithets of peace or else, the mad science of overkill. I hope exist in spite of us, have learned something because of us and are, better still, yet one of us. I am a man who dreams. It has even been suggested that I dream in color. I do so hope you have color and a host of dreams upon waking. To this end, I have penned a song whose tune my son has taught he guitar has sing. I have chosen to include the lyrics that its music might find your lips. I sure, if you descended from me, you will find a way to sing. Legend of new horse Momma told her first son, “Come sit down by my side. When everything is said & done, all you can do is try. Remember when you wonder which way and what to do, sometimes only hunger will see a spirit through.” And we're standing in a crosswind, bad moon bound to carry a legend on the rise. When you follow your heart, face the risk of breaking down, set yourself a part awareness of the sound, the arch of earth and sky, peace, angelic fall. Momma said, "Son we can only fly when we're not above it all." And we’re standing in a crosswind, bad moon bound to carry a legend on the rise. Where winter makes its mark, what decades find, lay claim, a howling voice the dark and New Horse is its name. A pounding heart of rage, tempered passion, will, when it's time to turn the page, a destiny fulfill. And we're standing in a crosswind, bad moon bound to carry a legend on the rise. Breathless fall from the womb, a four-point landing to, maybe shake the mother spoon, find a path that's true. We are only what we are, a kick in fortune's ass. Honey, we may hold the stars, kiss the nights we pass. And we’re standing in a crosswind, bad moon bound to carry a legend on the rise. So, there you have it. I keep a tenuous grip at best, so at odds am I with the ways and time. I live near the mountains and share the wonder of them with my children, your next of next of kin. Be generous and good to one another. Look forward and not back. Most of what you may learn from us is how not to be. In history's stead, keep a good heart. Care about your young and old. Those in between will thrive in a circle of wellness. I like to think of myself as your father for it is what I have come best to be, one who cares for children, sings when he gets the chance and appreciates blessings of love when they occur. Remember, if you will, that your spirit resides within yourself. You are a living pagoda. No one can show you the way, yet you may close your eyes and wander unclothed in a snowfield to be kissed by gods. Be humble and proud, simply courageous. I promised myself I wouldn't preach when I penned this piece, yet it sounded just then as if I were. Listen, if you know me when this is found, come get me straight away. We will make a circle and pound our bare feet into the dust of our Spiritual Ground, howl the legend to the heavens, press our faces into the flesh of New Horse and run the hell away. http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2017 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2017 © 
~from: ~Absence of Light: ~Fade~
~Slumming~ (2/23/2017)
~Scrapper~ (2/15/2017)
~Evolving~ (2/11/2017)
~Wordsmith~ (1/30/2017)
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We eulogize through a selective and most times unintentional process we refer to as memory. Wrongs are not righted. They are rather come undone, probably not so much as a rite of forgiveness, rather a spirit relaxing from what can no longer do harm, that it may, in fact, cause damage to itself in a senseless act of fear and regret for what has passed. The dead are thus excused from the table of life.
After Blessing was published in Intrigue Magazine 2004 http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2017 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2017 © ~Stoic~ (2/21/2017)
~Killpenny~
Humans tend to be ruled by the crowd one at a time Committing suicide in public topless dancers music video Time steps away from us I feel like I stink (sing this verse) I don’t care if the cold wind blows I’m gonna make me a prayer pray me a prayer say me a prayer mark the end o’ my war While bending over she discovered a separate perspective Morning dogs railing at their yip-yap existence winter at the gate ice whiskers There’s a snowflake in my coffee cup http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2017 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2017 © 
~Terminus~ (2/2/2017)
Children are whimsical masters
We may relearn from them allow our spirits to guide us by simply (though it is not simple at first) letting go as in following a kitten chasing a butterfly strolling leisurely through a lightning storm acting on a whim an impulse releasing fear and restraint as if they don’t exist and suddenly they do not http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2017 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of tom (WordWulf) sterner 2017 © 
~Beyond Myth~ (1/16/2017)
~Elder Perspective~ Adage – 1-15-2017
~from ~Voodoo: ~Tear~ (1/9/2017)
~Avowal~ (1/6/2017)
there’s a white woman in the room
shampoo you can’t judge speed from a distance come on down there is no ending but I do appreciate your rejection beauty abounds on the face of youth freefall tiger loose in the woods midnight fisherwoman lines on water waterline she hid her spirit sun-streaks on the garden submission will of masters a tongue in the cave tasteless commentary witness wisdoms damned to be thirsty fellow witnesses all hail bride of Satan to wings aspire shallow aurora shadow of Eos no time like now something fishy swim I don’t understand you thank-you your applause might unearth me respite of tyrants from mouths of babes epithet lullaby a mother to strangers orphans of choice voice of descent six cubed down decision to wear my motor a free & separate passion dizzying rain dithery doo unclear as stark light a bug on the windscreen this dream sequence leggy bits of goo the cueing of partners frazzling thread bits bananas on a plate speaking of winter four times a dollar quarters of century ill spent years praying for mother who will hold us up robbers upon closing death is a whip nine bells down prisoners of light moth conspiracy war men fan the flames sense of dignity left & right crosses requirements of requiem asleep in the choir voice deeper than stone let us taste his beans the door of opportunity three winds in a vacuum outside waiting four more we were passed by Dilbert a tin-can tuna melt tryin’ to live in the hills a writer of camp songs she has fish eyes ducks swimming ‘cross the sky each drawer wears a masque alone in the room life is a crossties step footstep on the moon sadder than spilt water funnel of mercy she listens to voices owls sleep in the afternoon for a slice of white bread dreams of the kill intent of counterpoint duelists in the dawn portrait silhouette the baby is crying a city on the move weeping of mountains witless romantic the emperor sighs legends of god-speak thin binding flesh momma’s smoking a cigarette laughter from the whiskey bar we slept in a roadhouse the moon is at seven with some consideration a sharing of wounds raccoons crossing the yard the wife & I drank tea her personal favorite what children don’t know the clamor of legion awaiting window wooden never bored phat pulpit dancers he was eight parts wisdom the rest must come before a howling of madmen presumptuous creed there are more white cars China is down under kangaroos are not whiskey men philosophers the angel risks imagination shoestring around her throat progression of aims don’t hold me up sharpen your whistle lay down your weapons anticipate this the little man is unbelted we got laws to prove you three times protector bullet in the brain ain’t no wax dummy there are porcelain lips who sings the heart song we are too sick to beg she would rather walk paddle canoe oar else come fathom the morrow we is in too deep time out for prayers they’re digging trenches television snowstorm resolute madness an eye on the storm shuffling gait twisted scenario truth teasing the pickpocket no crowd control so help us god money fresh folding when praying is preying man beneath the robe don’t climb into the box willing prisoner we police ourselves 1-800-to snitch you ain’t no bargain basement small wonder price we pay nestled on a hill hugged in a closet children are glad houses ante up everyone wins traffic is a phat truck a snail crawls our brain either no leftovers or that’s all there is a treatise on selling out snowmen in the dark stick figures & angels homesick at home a juried selection prisoners executed at dawn the art of living & of living art an eager applicant bottom line aficionados three monkeys for lunch acute indigestion mother spoon nipple simple garden rape pure of poison deadliest sin don’t make those faces injurious by design listen to the song of your loins a children’s choir a lavender sunrise midnight promises house of whispers where lovers reside nothing is perfect errant drift of cloud life change is on the wind a likening to sorrow something’s eating his brain doubt & melancholy no not what might have been what must have been yes http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2017 artwork music & words conceived by & property of tom (WordWulf) sterner 2017 © |
