Veracity 9-21-2018
Veracity
Truth is not won, it is earned, takes time, cannot be bought and paid for. It is not where you find it but when you find it, truth, what you do with it. Uncomfortable, not easy to look in the face at times, be careful how you handle truth. Contrary to the well-worn adage, truth will not set you free. It will most likely bind you to it, open your eyes to the comfort, safety of lies.
http://wordwulf.com
Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com
© 2018 artwork, music and words
conceived by and property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 ©
Truth is not won, it is earned, takes time, cannot be bought and paid for. It is not where you find it but when you find it, truth, what you do with it. Uncomfortable, not easy to look in the face at times, be careful how you handle truth. Contrary to the well-worn adage, truth will not set you free. It will most likely bind you to it, open your eyes to the comfort, safety of lies.
http://wordwulf.com
Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com
© 2018 artwork, music and words
conceived by and property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 ©
9-16-2018
9-11-2018
Jacked
A guy came into the bar one night, attempted to levitate me. I snagged his martini glass and ate it. He laughed at the blood dripping from my lip. We smoked tar opium after the gig, played poker all night in the harems of our dreams. Very high, I was not levitated. Chords Drawn I found myself singing, a praying mantis listening. Made me feel thankful that gods (if there are gods) have a sense of humor, and insects no predisposition to what is cool. There is death in the music of the fool. I drank deep of it in the whiskey rooms of my youth, hung hopes from it, didn’t wear hopelessness well. An idiot dreamer, midnight schemer, I howled myself hoarse singing Satisfaction, Wild Thing, Oh Suzy-Q, a bunch of other business I made up all by myself. Life is a lullaby, a blending of voices and spirits. Ghost-beings come visit a man. Fools, in particular, listen to what they have to say. http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2018 artwork, music and words conceived by and property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 © 
9-7-2018
Ample Validation 8-29-2018
Actions Speak 8-24-2018
Actions Speak
Suicide is a dream all beings keep The weak name it nightmare The strong ones Who are they whose name is a whisper a Jane/John Doe promise an acclimation Investigators decide whom peek under the pall voyeurs and fools Which is which http://wordwulf.com Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2018 artwork, music and words conceived by and property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 © 
8-19-2018
Retrospective 8-17-2018
Beware (8-2-2018)
Only Fly (7-30-2018)
7-29-2018
7-29-2018
Letters from the Monastery:
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Shotgun 9-8-2018
 8-29-2018
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 Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com © 2018 artwork, music and words conceived by and property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 © 
What We Are (7-27-2018)
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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