Quodlibet: Introduction to: III: Bone-deep/Alone

10-17-2017 - bone deep-alone - III - quodlibet X -

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 ©

via ~philosophy~

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Sometimes I Feel

3-31-2017 - Sometimes I Feel X

I‘ve been a player and singer in rock bands for three decades. I wrote songs for bands before I did any other kind of writing. My son learned to play guitar about the same time he learned to walk. I don’t do bars anymore and I wonder what keeps me singin’ until something happens like the other night. My son, Tommy, a young man with two sons of his own, has a studio in his house and I went over to lay down some tracks on a CD he’s helping me with.

Matt, a guitar man with whom I played in bands for twenty-five years, came over to trade some riffs with Tommy. There was obvious conflict between them and I, very much out of character, stood back and watched. I wondered how it would work out, the gray beard and the young lion armed with axes and bracing the wall. Matt was half stewed when he showed up and continued to chug beer after beer. He toodled around with some old guitar band music, throwing howling laments across the room. Tommy stayed in the groove of what he describes as his own cutting-edge original sound and hurled his fair share back. Troy, my son-in-law and drummer, would just about get a beat picked out on his traditional/electric drum kit then those guitar men would switch tracks and carry that music train away.

I got tired and began to pack my PA system and harmonicas away. I know all about guitar players and the misty shades of dawn. Matt was ‘sitting on a stool’, pretty much all the way drunk now. He was finger pickin’, doodling around on his Les Paul. He began to pick a rhythm, almost country and, to my surprise, Tommy joined in on the bass guitar. Troy began the process of uniting the guitars through the awesome mystery (to me anyway) of percussion. I watched them for fifteen minutes as the power of the piece grew. Tears came to my eyes and goose flesh claimed the surface of my skin. The three of them had given themselves over to ‘the danse’. I backed into a far corner, lest I interrupt with a shout of silence.

I waited fifteen more minutes to see if Matt would give voice to the music. I had heard somewhere that he had started singing and didn’t want to step on his toes. He gave me that ol’ six-pack smile of his and shrugged his shoulders. Hands shaking, I took pen and paper from my war bag. I powered up the PA, clicked my cordless mic on, and stepped into the danse. I scribbled down the first few lines I could pick from the air then allowed my voice to bleed into the haunting spaces between the instruments. “I been up that road (I stopped, felt it my bones, that it was time to wait), “And I been down so very damned long” (pause again); “I been almost right” (oh yes, the longer pause); “And I been, I been so wrong.”

Matt gave me that look I have seen in the forever of my music. The switch-up was coming, they were heading for the bridge. I turned around and faced the wall. What do I do? I don’t know what to put in here, the chorus, what? Panic, they’re rolling, these musicians of beat, chord, and note. I am the word man. I’m supposed to know what’s next. Then I did what I have done thousands of times over the years. I closed my eyes and crawled out of my brain. The energy of the moment was mine. All I had to do was reach up into that space just beyond my fingers and pull it down to me. A tear created its own path down my cheek as I fell to one knee. The chorus, crushed forever inside me, burst forth and passion issued from my lips: “Sometimes I feel… I feel like cryin’. Sometimes I feel… I feel like singin’.”

The instruments overrode me and, in their insistency, I understood, the next few moments were theirs and theirs alone in this danse, this making of love, to the moment, the air. She owned us, this mistress and her urgent flow of energy, surging and swirling between and around us. And they came down. Yes, like warring angels, they sped to a cushion of peace. What now, Mister Word Man, what now? My other knee found the floor and I surrendered my all to a breathless pause. “Like I can’t stand” (wait… wait..). The musical spiders are weaving their magick silken chord voices… “I’m a man.” And so it went… a new musical child was born.

My bar room days are over. I miss those old players and riders. I might never see my buddy Travelin’ Matt again but we wrote some kick ass songs, me ‘n him, and sometimes I feel. For that night and maybe one or two to come, I am determined to write and sing for the rest of my unnatural life. Here’s the rest of the song.

~Sometimes I Feel~
(a song)

I’ve been here before
and I’ve been in other places
I just got started
then I lost too many faces
Sometimes I feel
I feel like cryin’
Sometimes I feel
I feel like singin’
like I can’t stand
I’m a man

There’s a ride I missed
a few I shouldn’t have taken
Yeah, my heart has sung
It’s been on the wrong side of breakin’
Sometimes I feel
I feel like singin’
like I can’t stand
I’m a man

 

I’ve been fallin’ down
I’ve picked myself up again
The best part of me
ain’t no third party sin
Sometimes I feel
I feel like singin’
like I can’t stand
I’m a man

 

I look in your eyes
I am lost to all the rest
There’s a fire there
You’re the worst; you are the best
Sometimes I feel
I feel like singin’
like I can’t stand
I’m a man

http://wordwulf.com/songs
Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com
© 2017 artwork, music & words
conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2017 ©

via ~songs~

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Interposition

10-6-2017 - Interposition Xvia ~philosophy~

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War of the Dandelions

10-5-2017 - War of the Dandelions

She wakes in the middle of the night, wonders where she is, wonders who she is. Five-years-old, she knows she has to get away into the night like her daddy when he was a little boy, before prison, Harley Davidsons, and guns.

War of the Dandelions

He knows in his heart he is wrong. With a sense of overwhelming defeat, he crawls on tender-pins of guilt to lay at her feet. She kicks at his head in a feeble attempt to drive him away. He licks his wounds, a purging lament. She picks up the phone, calls the night police.

She knows in her heart she is wrong. She dials his number a hundred more times, then remembers she threw his phone away. Relatives bail him out of jail. Friends pick him up, take him to their homes. Obsessed, he rushes back to her arms. She makes mad impossible love to him. He says, “Like that, I’m your man”

Their children question, insecure, no backbone home, compromised, pushed and pulled between, threatened themselves and used to threaten. Tender-grass, they starve at once and are smothered by the wet moss of emotional chaos.

Names, names he makes. Her, by god, parents be damned. He’ll show them what a father is, a husband too. It’s about time she made a choice between the man who loves her and the parents who don’t.

Names, names she makes. His family can kiss her ass. She’s never done anything to them. She’ll stay away from hers if he’ll stay away from his. They huddle together, naughty children, mad at the world.

Their own children are isolated, remote, desperate with an inner resolve to protect and insulate themselves, skin too deep, Mommy/Daddy kiss, the tug o’ war, their parents’ love, teaching these young hearts to accept the unacceptable, to be the unspeakable, a too taut {two taught} elastic reality.

“It’s better my way,” he preaches. “I’ll teach you how to live. We’ll be parents to these children. I’ll get a job, you wait ‘n see. Meanwhile, behave yourself. Tonight we’ll get a sitter, go to the bar and have a couple drinks, eat out, make love ‘til dawn.

“It’s better my way,” she preaches. “I have a job, you don’t. The kids are mine, no matter what. I know what my rights are. You haven’t been able to keep a job. Look at all the trouble you’ve got yourself into. I like the idea of the sitter, a couple o’ drinks and a joint. We deserve some time to ourselves.

The baby has a nervous tic. She refuses to look anyone in the eye. The boys are failing in school, living on and off with relatives, extras in a family environment, loved but an encumbrance, apart, peculiar to others, contaminated, tender-roots laid out in the sun to die, eyes peeking from masks of sadness created and abandoned on the killing ground love.

“I can’t believe she did this to me.” He stands behind bars in a cage. “Come on, brother, bail me out. I know, I know, we’ve been through this before, court dates, restraining orders, city, county, and state jurisdictions, domestic violence, spousal abuse, fines and classes, classes and fines, child abuse; child abuse; child abuse; child abuse.”

“I can’t believe he did this to me.” She hands the baby to her mother. “I sure appreciate you being here for me. Listen, I gotta get to work. I know, I know, we’ve been through this before, court dates, restraining orders, city, county, and state jurisdictions, domestic violence, spousal abuse, fines and classes, classes and fines, child abuse; child abuse; child abuse; child abuse.”

“Where are the boys?”

“I don’t know.”

“I can find mine; where’s yours?”

“Mine refuses to live with us.”

“So does mine.

What the hell’s wrong with those kids?”

“Where’s the baby?”

“Oh shit! She’s taken off her clothes and wandered out the door again.”

“Damn it! I told you to watch her! It’s four o’ clock in the morning.”

“Gimme the flashlight! I’ll look out in the yard. You check the street.”

The yard was a peaceful place. Its citizens, the Grass Children, each separate blade, existed harmoniously side by swaying side. Even times of half-life, smothered under a blanket of winter snow, found them snuggled cozily together, expectant of spring. With the arrival of that beauteous season came a new citizen to the yard. It required some space to live, so the Grass Children gave sway so that it would have a chance to thrive.

And thrive it did, soon joined by its mate. These two grew to wondrous heights, so tall and majestic the Grass Children could not see their faces. Still their yellow collars were wonderful to look upon from away down below. The Grass Children sighed to be joined by such beauty in the yard.

The bright yellow flower beings became angry and began fighting. They ranted at one another above the swaying blades and created poison in the air with their hate. The Grass Children were embarrassed for them and  bowed down their heads. Then the yellow faces of the creatures transformed into ghastly puffballs of white. Their anger was such that, when the lovely spring breeze came, it blew their puffy heads into the yard piece by puffy piece.

The Grass Children were terrified. They didn’t understand anger or the color and heat of envy and jealousy. Soon enough they forgot in their sway by sway reality of everyday. Spring, the promised gift, rocked them into summer. Fall brought an awesome gift of its own, a warm blanket of friendly Leaf Children.

“Beware the tall yellow ones,” the Leaf Children warned. “They are warlike creatures. We have watched them while playing in our Mother Tree. They will steal your energy if you get close to them. You will perish that they may thrive. Before long you will cease to exist at all. Then, even then, they will continue until their anger eats them alive.

The Grass Children laughed. “They were only two and now they are gone. Yours was a scary story, Brother and Sister Leaves. Now it is our turn to tell and yours to listen.”

The Leaf Children fluttered about a bit as they are known to do. They are a respectful and well-behaved lot once they are settled comfortably into an autumn blanket of cover. “Between us,” the Grass Children began, “We have witnessed the seasons. You have spoken in waves to us and we to you. You and some chosen of us will return to Mother Earth and be reborn in a rite of spring. Such is our good news, love and life never-ending.”

The Leaf Children clamored and the Grass Children swayed. They tickled and giggled at one another. The breeze joined in their joyous song, moments of symphonic perfection. Being playful and innocent, these Children of Earth forgot all about the yellow ones. The next year they were fewer and the yellow ones more. Father Sky pampered them as always. He walked through a handful of seasons, then wept with Mother Tree and her Leaf Children, a softhearted mist of rain, because the Grass Children were no more.

http://wordwulf.com 

Inquiries: wordwulf@gmail.com

©2017  artwork, music and words

conceived by and property of

Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2017©

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Walking Bridge

10-2-2017 - Walking Bridge - Xvia ~philosophy~

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Distance

~Distance~ X - 10-1-2017via Poetry

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Attrition

~attrition~ Xvia ~philosophy~

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