~ rock stars on the other side of the wall ~ guitarists & singers ~ wild-eyed drummers ~ I crank up my industrial fan ~ a Black & Decker special ~ chop the music up into digestible pieces ~ closing my eyes ~ I remember the wild days ~
“Break it down!” he insists, “Break it on down!” his young heart learning the deeper yearning, the need to bleed and howl. He is disturbed by the roar of the crowd, the fight of the century, pounding fists, eventual blessed event of falling. He’s watching his friends watch television sports and he just doesn’t get it. He would rather eat chicken. That’s my Z, my son, and his life friends. I call ‘em the wild boyz.
Four of the wild boyz are cooking steak tonight, cutting up in the kitchen, talking to a girl on the phone. I see myself in their antics, their young blood and the moon waxing full three days from now. They are black and white and brown, the same. Hawaiian, Cherokee, Black, Asian, Caucasian, in their twenties and I am in the august of my life I suppose, an American man. Midnight’s gone, my son, and so are they.
Last night was the stallion dream, self-image superimposed, standing down, making way for new life warriors, daughters and sons and their daughters and sons, aware of the youth rhythm blood coursing through their veins and offering support while infinitely aware that at some point I am simply in the way. Old horses become shadows of themselves. Life’s losses pale in the realization that survival demands the best of us. All that is not falls away.
~Tom (WordWulf) Sterner~
~Makin’ Music in the House O’ Blood~
~The Boy and the Wulf~