Dearest Juanita

Dearest Juanita,

My memories are starting to fade, but your voice still calls out to me. Remember the scarf you gave me?  For years I had it locked away in the back of my closet, with the hope of preserving its scent. When I got lonely or missed you terribly, I'd remove it and wrap its thin frayed wool around my neck.  

It's been nearly fifty years since we last spoke, but I wanted you to know.

You'll always have my heart. 

I miss you more each day.

Vern

 

Will Power

She was on her normal route home, but it was dark, none-the-less.

She could do this drive in her sleep, and probably would have, if it weren't for that insistent buzzing coming from her phone, tucked tightly in the front pocket of her skinny jeans.

Whatever was happening was beginning to heat up her leg.

She knew better than to text and drive, but a feeling of dread washed over her, as if she was only one not in on a very funny joke.

It took her years to build her credentials and she would be damned to see it all washed away on a embarrassing tweet.

Or was it a text? Maybe it was Billy finally coming to his senses.

Could Amber be snap chatting another of her exclusive member only invites?

Did Beyonce rock the earths core with an unfiltered Instagram post?

She had another twenty minutes until she reached her destination, but her thoughts were killing her.

Surely, she could take a peek at her phone.  Just in case it was important.

Maybe Mom or Dad were texting. It was late and they were probably waiting up for her. 

Besides, the road was empty anyway. One glimpse wouldn't hurt.

She leaned back in her seat, and pushed the phone outline through the stretchy fabric of her skin tight pants, snaking it out of her front pocket.

Success!

The phone illuminated in the dark, but demanded a pass code.

She tried to open it with the touch of her finger, but the ID button wasn't working.

Annoyed, she began typing the code in, but mistyped the sequence.

Frustrated she threw it on the seat next to her.

The radio was playing a song, that she hadn't paid much attention to, until now.

It sounded familiar.

Was it Coldplay?

The singer had to be someone she knew.

The voices sounded so familiar, yet the song was a total mystery.

She pushed the info button on her radio to display the title.

Gold In Them Hills - Ron Sexsmith (Feat. Chris Martin.)

 The glow of her phone on the seat next to her caught her attention.

As she reached for it, she felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle down her spine.

She shivered as she began to type her code.

As it unlocked, a loud BANG interrupted her. The phone was thrown through the windshield and she was tousled from side to side.

Her last memory was the picture of her family dog, displayed on the wallpaper of her home screen, before her life was cut short.

Suspended upside down in a ditch, her body lied within a wreckage of smoke, glass, blood and oil.

Within a few feet, lied her phone.

It's glass face was shattered but their was still life in the old girl yet, as it powered itself to sleep.

Hush

The snow is blinding,
as I stomp through this god damn,
no good,
blinding blizzard.

The frost tickles the tip of my nose,
as I signal for help from those that pass by. 

When did snow start falling in the summer?

All the liquid in my gut is starting to harden,
as I feel the remnants of my soul freeze over.

God? If you exist, send a heat wave.

Have mercy on this unforsaken heart.

You of all people should know my hardships.

In fact, you might be the son of a bitch responsible for half of them.

The cold has invaded my veins.

It shouldn't be long now...

Rest Now

Prickly,
pestilence,
perpetuates
the poor,
while fat cat,
zodiacs,
dine in lore.

Rest now,
you retired,
weathered soul.

The fight is not yours,
it's for the youth.

You've done your due diligence.

Legends Of The Hidden Temple

Your body is a temple,
watch as they lie down before you.

You were intricately constructed,
vehemently revered.

They will stand at a distance
worshiping your beauty,
respecting the architecture.

It's only a matter of time before they try and enter.

By force or by invitation,
you will endure the hardships of the elements.

Bigger beauty will rise,
causing your structure to crack and whither.

Dirt and dust will coat you,
as vines bubble up through the cracks of the foundation.

Soon you'll be an ancient artifact.

Forgotten,
alone,
and driven mad by your own vanity.

Hungry Eyes

Deviation,
from segregation,
the white serpent,
rattles towards its captive audience.

Red eyes of the beast,
flicker and sweat,
as it tightens round its followers.

This feast is only delectable
when its prety is toyed with and tortured.

Ground Control

Every seven and a half years Saturn returns,
and the unpenetrable shield I've spent years protecting myself with, crumbles.

I'm vulnerable to dark outside forces,
and unable to emotionally detach from the violent and hideous deformities that creep into the heart.

I listen to those voices shouting,
you're not good enough,
kill yourself,
it's all your fault.

I fear when dawn is dead
and I drown in the black lake,
you'll watch from a place of light
and see that I can't be saved.

A family curse,
to be both good and evil.

Pure intent, love, and light,
jerked away and raped by unholy evil.

Surfin' USA

"Dive!" she shouts, knowing full well that I'll take the brunt of the pain.

Like lightning, it hits, shooting up my elbow and down my spine.Strangers hands, grope and squeeze every inch of my backside, causing my anxiety to rise, but I stay afloat above the sea of neo-punk monsters.

She falls hard, on top of me and rolls to her back.  Festering punk-heads move from my body to hers, as I start to sink into the crowd. She extends her ring pop hand, so we don't separate, but I feel the crowd flock to her.

Touching,
feeling,
molesting,
violating her.

I try to sit up, but my weight causes me to sink more.

I feel the crowd below me get restless.  One leg drops to the floor like the Titanic.

"Diz!" she screams, as she's carried off, my amazon princess offered up to the gods.

A second wind ignites the room and I'm thrust back into the air.

I fly for a split second, before crashing head first into a pile of Mohawks.  Angrily, they roll me toward the front of the crowd, spitting in my face and dowsing me in warm beer.

My journey's ended, as two mack truck security guards grab me by the neck and pull me down from the crowd.

I'm escorted back to the masses where Shandi waits.  She lip locks me, numbing any soreness I might have had.

"Go again?" she balks.

"Hell yeah." 

Quiver and Quake

There are nightmares in the stars.

It feasts on souls of the youth,
hiding in plain sight.

Faster than a love spit cigarette,
beauty is undermined,
while joy crushed smiles,
ooze and pulsate from their flesh wounds.

All quiver and quake,
as beasts cocoon the last known civilation,
known for its chaotic,
irrational,
erratic,
non-denominational,
savagery.

There is hope in the stars. 

Only the gods and monsters can tame us now. 

So Over You

I'm sorry my love.

I know not what I do.

The words of last nights quarrel,
only worsen a fools errand.

We live,
we learn,
we fight,
we die,
we cry,
we try,
only to learn,
I'll never get over you.

Bone Dry

Panic,
feeds the,
hunger,
lessens the,
pain.


The vein under my eyelid pops and throbs,
but there's nothing I can do.

I live so heavy hearted
with the aspirations of greatness,
but the fear and disappointment swallow me whole.

My greatest self worth,
lives in a former life.

What did I do to deserve this in-effective continuity running through my bones?

Words For Birds

Impressions can sting harder than assumptions.


Smoke might fill your eyes,
liquid poisoning the lungs,
while cancer eats your bones.

Lasting actions will release the grit on your soul.

Don't stray from the unusual.

Strange is what fuels the unique. 

Don't Break It

To beat the streets,
pandering to complexity,
move with a stillness to the heart.

Goodnight Sweetheart

Lights out,
to all the lost lovers.

My pain is with you,
and yours in me.

In time,
authenticity dissolves,
and empathy is learned.

In time,
beauty blooms,
and is just as quickly poisoned.

Left with nothing but our own thoughts,
and a hard drive of memories,
will our successors come to fear life in real time?

Rose Golden Toast

The art of beauty,
beyond loves gaze,
blooms inside a rose colored spittoon.

Not to be confused with lust,
this hornets nest hides secret stashes of honey,
as the bee's work themselves to death.

Try all you might,
but desire won't repel the unwanted charms,
of the creamy peanut butter scraped across burnt toast. 

Beyond the Valley of the Stars

As I lie on the rooftop of my detached garage,
I stare softly at the stars and shapes in the sky.

I wonder, what's beyond the moon.

That, which hasn't been explored, defined, or theorized.

Bewildered,
brash,
beauty,
in all its might.

Good Evening Miss Monroe

She's throwing daggers in my general direction, so I cough up the rest of my dignity, and call it a night.

The air is heavy and dry, begging for a good rain.

I can't seem to walk quite right.

A grown up Weeble, hoping for a midnight mugging.


A dirty vomit soaked hand reaches out from the dark alley, pleading for a puff of the cigarette I just lit.

I stop for a second and ask him "why?"

He seems taken aback and starts to stammer.

I take a long drag, blow the smoke in his face and stomp it out in front of him.

He spits in my direction, but I manage to side step it.

A group of millennial's scowl at my behavior and curse me as they pass, but I can't get myself to give a fuck.

I'd be more compassionate if that lifeless bag of shit was selling greasy hamburgers in that alley. Hell, I'd even take a rat burger, if he was pushing them, just to occupy the time during this walk of no shame.

A tall, wispy, butter face, attempts to cross the street up ahead while texting.

I close my eyes and pray for a police chase to round the corner, but no such luck.

She makes it, without even a honk from oncoming traffic.

Privileged fuck. 

I hear the train below as hot garbage is blown through the grates.

I take pleasure in the thought of some poor white trash visiting the city, with the hope to relive that classic scene from The Seven Year Itch. 

Betty beer can, dolled up, and taking position on the vents, only to be blasted by piss and shit.

The music at Johnnie's is ad nauseam.

Even the bum three blocks away can probably hear it.

The patio is filled with scene-sters, nursing their hand rolled cigarettes and vape pens. There's a tinge of skunk weed in the air, as a couple laughs hysterically and attempt to sign along to Blondie's One Way Or Another.

A group of fags profile me, as I pass jukebox hell.

At least one of them wants to fuck me.

Blondie finishes and Journey provides the exit music.

The entire bar howls "just a small town girl!" just in time for me to step into oncoming traffic.

I try my best to block it out, but sure enough, three blocks away, I can still hear the screaming.

"Don't stop! Be-liev-in'! Hold on to that feel-eh-ye-yah-an."

Home.

I collapse onto the front steps of my overpriced brown stone and light another cigarette.

Three puffs in, I hear a tap at the window from the super. She points to the cigarette and shakes her finger. 

I singe the end with my fingers and slide it into my shirt pocket.

I politely flip her off.

She mouths "asshole" and pulls her curtains shut.

A block away I hear a group of party pigs approaching. They hoot and holler, while carrying on raspy conversation at full volume.

It's not long until I see their plastic tiara's, and booze soaked sashes, that I realize I've entered the ninth circle of hell.

Their toilet papered leader walks barefoot and sips neon green poison from a brandy glass. She flaunts her glass to the demon pack who praises her for stealing it from the bar.

Bride of Frankenstein decides to do her best Girls Gone Wild and streaks across the street, drink in hand.

Just when I've given up hope, she face plants in the street and the glass shatters.

I stand in shock as the sisterhood rushes to her aid.

They look to me for help, but all I can do is rise and start a slow clap.

"What the fuck!"

"You fucking prick!"

Just some of the insults hurdled my way.

As they peel their bloody bride off the street, I manage to regurgitate the only thought in my head.

"Don't Stop Believin" I tell them and retire for the night.
     

The Stoop

Sweat, beads, as the ruby red of your push pop makes it mark.

It's hot.

The kinds that seeps into every cranny and every nook.

A droplet rolls from my neck to the small of my back.

You swing those braids as you cuss with your girls.

I'm smoking with my boy CJ on the stoop.

The juices from last nights garbage stench the streets, but you don't pay no mind.

You just scream at those little girls flipping their jump rope, and push them off the block.

I can tell the heats getting to you too, but can't keep my eyes off those white cut offs you're pushing.

A clap of thunder instantly clears the streets, but I stay still, almost frozen, until you see me.

You give me the finger and rush inside with your girls, stealing one last look.

A smile.

Damn.

I'll take it.

 

Rib Cutting

Last night I found a pamphlet for my loved one's funeral service.I stared at it for quite a long time trying to understand the hard cutting feeling between my ribs.

It's been nearly six years, but the picture on the front, the one of her in good health, cut like a knife. Her careless smile and absurdness as she posed with a gourmet lobster. The one we dreamt of having when we were two starving kids, living in the slums outside New York proper. Before kids, and the bitter cold of those northern lake winds.

Water downed Gin martini's in paper cups and passionate fights with one another because we truly loved each other. We were in our prime, yet all we did was worry about the future. Wasted youth.

I thought time helped heal my broken heart, yet here I am again. A useless rag, damp with salt water and fear.

Love come away with me. I'm so very tired and feel my soul weakening each day. I'm done making memories. It's time to retire.

Anxiety Bites

The drip drop fault,
of a sun burned egg roll,
weaseling its dark heart into precious innocence.

Stop trying to pull the building down on everyone.

You are your own worse enemy.

These anxious times are getting old.

Girl, you'll be a woman soon.

Don't stoop to a millennial level. 

Now is our time to take back the night.

Spiritual Sophie's Choice

Where do these words come from, so effortlessly?

Since birth I've felt like a slave to others lives.

I fear that when I close my eyes at night, the spirits of those that have passed, enter my body. Their lives absorb into my subconscious and that's where the inspiration comes from.

A spirits Sophie's Choice; wander the earth, alone and depressed from death, or decide to inspire and live-on inside another.

What will happen to the souls that have attached themselves to me when I go? Some call me a fearful psychotic.

I refuse to hide behind closed doors and admit my innocence. No woman, nor man, is free from past transgressions.

Are you there God, it's me Sophie?

War on Words

While the sun sets red,
the wine is bled,
fresh from the wounds of traveling soldiers.

Happenstance,
circumstance,
an instance,
of distance,
and resistance.

All I Do Is Feel The Pain

"Turn your anger and frustration into art"

If I did, I'd have an award winning gallery of pain.

Burn Baby Burn

It's all smiles and laughs, until someone is murdered. Crushed beneath my sticky fingers, all for the glory of God.

My insides are hemorrhaging with stress, fear, and anger, but the buck doesn't stop there though. All of these feelings are being crushed with the crippling weight of anxiety.

It pins down a slice of depression that's constantly suppressing and scaring away any sense of creativity.

While it feels good to let these emotions out, I fear the tumor inside my stomach is growing. Even at this very second, I feel it writhing around in my belly like an unwelcome organism. It's telling me to feed.

I've only ever fallen once.

It was sometime long ago.

I was lost and afraid, stumbling through a park during bewitching hours.  I feared the sun would never come up, and my unwelcome friend would burst out of my chest finish me off, so I gave into the darkness and depravity.

I blacked out and awoke to a wounded animal.  My hands were covered in blood and some had smeared across my face. I can still taste the salty bitterness on my lips.

It was the single most embarassing and terrifying moment of my life.

The demon was appeased, but is starting to collect its strength and summon me to satisfy its blood lust.

Lord help me appease this beast. 

Thinking

I only wish I could write,
as in depth and personable,
as the great authors and poets before my time.

Soliloquy's with heart ache,
served with a side of sass.

A typist of the gods.

An anarchist wordsmith.

Melancholy

The melancholy sights.

An old woman is standing in the middle of the park, watching the squirrels play, while her docile German Shepard sits quietly beside her. 

Neither make a sound. 

Both are taking in the sights and sounds of a surprisingly warm windy day. 

Ordinarily riddled with snow and ice, the park is lush with dull green grass and soft mud.

I wonder, as I watch from my second story window, whether the old woman is sad.

Maybe it’s content that’s washed over them both, or perhaps she knows something I don’t. 

Whatever it is, I envy her. 

Very rarely do I stop and appreciate life moving around me.

These melancholy moments.