Inner Piece by Tom (WordWulf) SternerHowe

Inner Piece

This work is dedicated to Jesus Christ, Elvis Presley, Jim Morrison, Abraham Lincoln, Friedrich Nietzsche, all those hopeless creative addicts of life.

Introduction By Decree

Motoring Colorado Ninety-three
Rocky bad ass Mountains to the west of me
a fist full of pink bellied dawn

I got no excuses
surrounded by the See
drowning in a mess of pastel hues
scared to death and fluffy as hell

Sometimes it’s hard to breathe
a surrounding warp tide
No one trims these grass
bet your damned sweet ass

A coyote pulling on a carcass
He’s too skinny to eat in the daytime
flinches at passing cars
Snarls and nowhere to hide
I was mean like that when I was young
still am on a good day

Some times I threaten to pull over
go sit my ass on a rock and pretend
I am free of the cares of this world

Mister Mountain calls my name
whose snowfields hold my death
some thing to look forward to
I feel them tugging at my skin
I ain’t dead yet damn it

There’s a trail of blood
where something heavy was dragged
It’s me I bite down on my black steel gun
I like to kill things
after they have torn and beat me
and left me for dead

Prelude

It began in the middle of me
I started over learned to be free
erased nurturing holding hands
that I might fall begin to stand
Those close to the pot fingers in
stepped away from my fresh sin
Children of my blood I took
opened up and had a look
I set myself afire away
from the middling heat of the new day
Circled ‘round began to danse
that I might just take a chance
We giggled boys and girls we did
those Children mine and their father kid
Together we just might make it

I Deca

One:                    

Her mouth is open ‘O’
as the choir church doors swing wide
A bird speaks from the fourth chair
what stentorian voice
Frail limbs supporting roles of oration
bind them mouth to beak and more
codependent infirmities
whose might relies note of song
displays a hidden rite of Earth
mystery borne breath of her laugh
Bond of light morning bird cry
where is wed feather hair
arms and wings embracing there

Two:          

A Sun mounts expectant rise
The boy lifts from his bed of night
May find peace defying dawn
father’s hand his head upon
Tied to the firmament of life
invested and divested
of father’s dream may pass for truth
A son’s reward shallow next
he may seek and find for himself
teach father a path to relent
For a tired Sun needs to lay down
become the one lit other’s Moon
where fire burns the one too soon

Three:          

She makes a barefoot pilgrimage
weather or not an ice on her toes
the mark Winter Spring delight
Caution rides a feathering wind
Storm dancers pay homage there
is no cold dress for a warm heart
An adult Children always
born solemn and glad become
Spring a sidestep skip away
She makes a giggle in church
slams her father’s midnight door
Cold toes peeking light beneath
Winter blanket Spring bequeath

Four:          

Automobile watching mirror
loved ones journey left behind
Window glass front future loom
tapestry woven fragile threads
what make life binding web
a thousands of lifting and falling down
first step hold me and last step done
Only one eye makes the glass
sees before not after twice
some thing missed when looking back
and flying through the crossroads
Hands waving still goodbye
broken glass and the weepers sigh

Five:          

Red dot pencil life of shame
two score years and count them nine
People are afraid to die in there
are no caged animals content
Seeking corners to hide round rooms
gross display of privacy lost
Her eyes are behind him
They strangle the life from his son
dares to touch him in his box
wakes the beast to fornicate
breed like tiny monsters
They love like starving priests
whom may give the very least

Six:          
          
He seize her as a tiny bird
wet hair and body smooth water
plays her as a minuet
quarter time forward slow
She spreads her wings before him
that he might use her fly away
join lightning Summer mountain
Refuses to leave her live alone
Chooses to die together
and never live apart
ecstasy these lover’s art
A sweet duet their pulses sing
She holds him and their hearts take wing

Seven:          

Some times he reminds himself
of those he tends to loathe
Of them he is then one
believes he deserves the best
receives instead the worst of the lot
wields an instrument of voice
opiate sword and thrust aside
his fellowmen a wounded cause
tossed down the lion’s throat
Gladiator gobbling the Moon
and promising as paladin
Courage a gauntlet wandering boot
a loss of causes rendered moot

Eight:          

As in casual religiosity
rabid rabbinical need
fed ort ritual slaughter
and the fervor of innocents
Fasting on the killing ground
a smudge of sin marks the sky
soon owns that broad expanse of skin
under whose citizens tweak
ride snow mountains on thin slats of board
give themselves over to vanity
and the greed of Nation
Hands washed skin tight plastic drape
nip and tuck blessed Earth to rape

Nine:          

The day we might feel a thing
slips by swift leather thong
binds us eternal and quicker still
We mete ourselves out younger
Some are meant to be found
It is a pure damned wonder
Where feet touch a ground wire meet
mud slick toes wiggle they might
make commerce of red faces
and touching after dark
We killed bugs in a bottle
The hungry boy he used to be
ate them he won’t look at me

Ten:          
          
It is impossible to live with dignity
Body functions desire deny us
We are offered up simple
rutting lumps of flesh packs of lies
lost seeking a death of sleep
dominion over Earth
Trapped in the screaming universe of self
there is no peace in flesh
Slaves are we to nagging voice
feed me please me make me whole
There is still time to make the Gods laugh
They made us small we grew taller
Stood up made ourselves smaller

(continued)

© 2005 Tom (WordWulf) SternerHowe
Madman Chronicles: The Warrior now available at:
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Posted: February 17, 2005