Noir Inclination 9-20-2017
Haiku: Ten Thousand Whispers
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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
Oblique Companion (4-25-2017)
Apolitical (4-17-2017)
Whittling (4-2-2017)
Be Yourself (4-1-2017)
Snatch (3-29-2017)
Consumption (3-28-2017)
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)
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from Blade 1: Showdown (3-14-2017)
from Winter Song: Introduction to Black Star: Contrition
Black Star
Momma, Momma, make a place for me. I’m tired of fighting and I, I’m not ready, ready to sing my winter song. It’s been too damned long, long enough for me to see. Momma, Momma, I see everything. There’s a big black star in the center of the oceans, deepest dark and gravity, where the last whale will go to die. Momma, Momma, there’s a grown man cryin’. Say a prayer if you come to see vacant eyed prisoners, the gallery of lost hope, spirits afire. Pray for me, Momma, I’m a mouth in the choir. There’s a big black hole in the middle of the earth, deepest dark and gravity, where the last wolf will go to die. Momma, Momma, it’s a zoo inside. Look into the eyes of the great black ape. Its tears are real, the way it feels, its naked soul, pit of shame, guiltless pawn to the zoo game. http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2017 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2017 © from Reptiles and Dust: Blabber (3-12-2017)
Axiom (3-11-2017)
KEO - Legend of New Horse (3-9-2017)
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)
~Meditation One: ~Night~ (1/28/2017)
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 © 
~Whither I go: ~Wednesday on the Rise ~ (11/27/2016)
Whither I go
when nights are long drifting into you visiting empty spaces hungering, des'prate to find that essential piece of myself where last you touched where last I felt you deep inside me On the limpid edge of time & distance drifting into you wondering where you are and what we were going to do http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2016 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2016 © 
Sometimes we take our yesterdays for granted, the good deeds of everyday people accepted & expected as a status quo minimizing the importance of the friendly phone call, the warm hug received at ‘just the right moment, just when it is needed it most.’
When I’m feeling down, your face appears, unbidden, in the theater of my mind. Just the thought of you makes me feel better, more significant. A smile visits my lips. I realize how precious friendship is, the value of the emotional hug I have just received, the need fulfilled, to know I am appreciated by a fellow human being. Our friendship defies definition, what mere words might convey. It is no coincidence. It defines us, has taken on a life of its own from behind the crumbling curtains of my daily existence. It peeked out & suggested I tell you, thank you for the phone calls, the emails, the hugs, your spontaneous guest appearances on the stage of my emotions. Message from/to a Friend was published by Black Widow’s Web of Poetry 2002 http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2016 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2016 © ~Vapidity~ (November 11, 2016)
~Echoes~ (Meditation Sixteen - November 10, 2016)
~Reality Bytes: ~What We Are~ (10/30/2016)
~Myopic~ (10/25/2016)
~Truth~ (10/21/2016)
Crossroads: from Reptiles & Dust by WordWulf (10/19/2016)
~Pungency~ (9/29/2016)
~Fits & Stutters~ (9/13/2016)
~Value & Respect~ (9/11/2016)
~Unfit for Surrender~
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And the Stone Man Said (3-1-2017 )
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 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 fresh blood. Following empty, you are what lies next, stone heart, eye of moon. Fingernail traces, eyelashes, weeping, a lone figure, intolerant shadow. Mayhap she’s wicked, lips apart magic. Her tongue of flame divides passion. Old soldiers and new lovers, pretending peace, a fortune of flesh. 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. Yes, it is father, whose breast is without us, whose heart is within us, whose belt is upon us. Mother stirs the soup. Chicken noodle it is. No chicken, no noodle, soup nonetheless. A caravan gathers round an open-mouthed child. She points to their camels, strange alien hump. These hours of madness come to possess, vision, of angels, hearts of beasts 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. Hear those brave raw voices, islands of silence where cave people dwell, residue of shame. I want a new blanket to cover my face, to shield me from the conquered. 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. There are graves in the city where geese go to graze, a feast of bones and hollow moments. Pigeon shit in the sand, mortar of giants, brave deeds spoken, crumbling walls. Visions of paper, pitiful wisdom, a shaman in flames who laughs the fool. Bruised sky of my face, bittersweet 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 © 2017 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2017 © After Blessing (2-27-2017)
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)
As children, the poor walk closer to the ground
They fancy nickels & pennies, dimes & quarters even intimate fortunes they have found & spent for counter candy licorice & 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 & prison cells Eyes to the ground, they learn to avoid the law the boss on the threshing floor Life grinds them down & lower than their eyes a hunger begins, proceeds to roar An old man, stooped & 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 & closer to the ground he is punished & rewarded, purged of his crimes http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2016 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2016 © 
~Stone Circle~ (12-26-2016)
~Apodictic~ (12/23/2016)
~Paramnesia~ (12/18/2016)
~Crustacean Logic~ (12/12/2016)
~Fondly~ (12/5/2016)
~Masks Aside~ (1000 Days-806) - 11/14/2016
Voices of children, laughter in an empty room, mind chasing echoes, running from the sleep thing, that near ghost of madness. Dollar bills, pennies in a tin cup, tips from strangers, long looks in their eyes on the wagging end of a slow train click-clacking, midnight wandering past. Wake me up if we get there.
http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2016 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2016 © 
Only by plumbing the utter depths of our spirits, a process requisite of unmitigated emptiness, may we make possible the seek and attainment of the feral state natural to wild creatures. They fly on winds with no name,
establish territories, blind faith/hardwired with exquisite vision, random imprints scattered by ancestors with no sense of what is left behind, no nonsense square-cubed time, a spirit-set accessible only to creatures who do not question. http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2016 artwork, music & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2016 © ~Quodlibet: ~Introduction to: Underneath the Change~ LXXIX
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