Saturday, December 24, 2011


One moment in time
I broke down in front of you
didn't mean to
for I like to hide

You're so sweet
trying to understand
the reasons you picked for me
couldn't have been
further from the truth

I laughed while I cried
wondering who
was really comforting who
I'm sorry I couldn't explain
but don't feel guilt
for it wasn't because of you

Sometimes I just feel overwhelmed
by the cumulative consequences
of my past actions
and normally I am alone
not having to worry about
the effects on others

Next time, I promise
I'll find a solitary place to
break down
But, thank you
for holding me
for trying
for being
so sweet!

Sunday, December 11, 2011

Old Man, One Moment

I was standing there with my girlfriend, Julie in the train terminal. I just had a healthy lunch and wasn't happy about it. Diets sucked. Not that I really needed to be, I just felt like I should be. Next to me was a delicious mouth-watering, FAST FOOD, junk heaven. There was two of everything a starving girl could wish for. They were neatly mirroring each other.  Unholy goodness of greasy, salty fries that would make one bloated for days afterwards.  Oh the giant, artery clogging cheeseburgers, with yellow gooeyness dripping down the bottom bun.  Not to mention the large chocolate milkshakes, the condensation starting to form on the sides. Julie follows my gaze and groans. She scolds me with how well I'm doing, don't blow it, imagine the extra five miles I’d have to run, etc. Grumpily, I move away from her.  I know she’s right but why does she have to kill my fantasy?  I pound my forehead against the wall to ceiling window and give a mock moan of longing.  I feel her turn with a snort of disgust. She goes to sit and to wait for our departure to wine country.

The sunlight is bright for this winter day.  The glass warms my face, momentarily distracting me from my cravings for taste-bud gratification. I could see Burgerland, where the temptation behind me was from, lurking. I wonder if they'd notice if I snaked a French fry. I laugh out loud!

I spin around at the light tap on my shoulder. A handsome old man exactly my height smiles into my eyes. He says, "Forgive me, but you look familiar."

 He pulls me past the table of sin and dances me past my weakness. He whispers, "You look almost like my wife. You laugh like her, too, with genuine amusement!"

 He gracefully twirls me around and I'm impressed that I can suddenly dance. I tell him, "You're a wonderful lead!" I also realize I recognize this man. He is the famous photographer, Gerald Trevino.

 He dips me and says, "Thank you, my lady of the black-haired witches."

 I giggle, "Lady? Witches?" He gallantly bows and walks alone to the table with all the food. I'm half tempted to sit down and help myself. He looks back and sees me contemplating bad manners.

 "Just waiting for my wife."

 I blush and quickly go the opposite direction to sit by Julie. "Psst, that's Gerald Trevino."

She gasps her appreciation and ogles while I watch him furtively from behind my magazine. It's been at least 10 minutes and no wife. Lowering the magazine, I sigh. I can't help it. He hasn't touched his food. Then a sad thought entered my head. I hate intuitive moments. He's daydreaming and lips are silently moving. Against my better judgment for not rocking the emotional boat, I get up and slide in across from him. I can feel Julie's puzzled stare. His big, sad, brown eyes come into focus and stare into my hazel ones. I wait, for if you wait long enough, the stories come out.

 His voice is low, tender and wistful. "50 years ago, my child. I met a raven-haired beauty with green eyes over there." He nods towards Burgerland. "I was instantly smitten. It wasn't long before I convinced her that she was equally smitten enough to marry me! 30 beautiful years, three children and a handful of grandchildren! They're all still so little." His voice chokes at the thought. “He roughly shakes it off, his gray hair barely moves.  “We were blessed with the ability to communicate, love freely, easy money and enjoyment of life." His eyes glint wicked. "Among other things that are important to a healthy one compares to Serena. I've managed to go on another 20 years. Channeling my love for her into my pictures, she’s in every one, if you know how to look.”

 My heart breaks.  I’m thirty and still waiting.  True love is such a rarity. I’m in the "maybe I’ll settle for Victor, the nerdy, goody-two shoes, co-worker; or honor my Catholic roots and join the nunnery" mode.  God wouldn’t let me down, will he?

 "You'll find it one day, lady-witch." He guesses my thoughts. My cheeks betray the truth.

 My stomach embarrassingly rumbles. We laugh together.  Mine’s weak with humiliation and his loud with amusement.  A brief breath in and he continues, "This was our first meal together. I've been coming here for 20 years on this day to remember. I swear I feel her here." I feel a chill, the hairs on my body are suddenly electrified and my skin tingles. So glad I didn’t steal a fry.  “Time exists in all forms, together. I feel us, in our youth.”

He touches my hand. "Lady-witch, thanks for the company. I must go. Please be glad to have met me, as I am of you."

I watch his long, lean body get up. He quickly walks out of the terminal. There’s a black photographer’s bag on the seat.  I jump up, "Mr. Trevino! You forgot your camera.”

Running out, I am in time to watch the exact instant as he deliberately steps off the platform and into the arms of the 100 miles an hour nonstop train. Screaming and sobbing, I collapse to the ground. Holding the camera, I’m rocking back and forth. Gentle breezes lift my hair, cooling my tears, against the far wall, illuminating the tunnels just enough, for one moment, I see they are together once more.

Thursday, December 8, 2011


"Please listen....please you're not understanding me...." her voice trails off into a hopeless silence. She'd been pleading for hours. Her throat hurt, in desperate need of water. Logic wasn't working today. The shrink's suggestion to use "I" statements was failing miserably. Everything was in "issues proliferation" mode. He was also in the mindset that there was no forgiving and no forgetting her latest thoughtlessness. She's completely to blame. Her head drops in shame and defeat.

Salsa music blasts on, her head jerks up in surprise. She hears the familiar rhythmical steps of him dancing alone. There are no lights on in the living room. There's no cajoling voice trying to coax her out to join him. There's nothing to do but wait. She dozes fitfully. His hostile presence wakes her. How long has he been there? Dread fills her being. His black eyes look crazed and unfocused.

"Please, it's all a misunderstanding," she starts again. "Put yourself in my shoes? Why can't you equate what you did to my situation?"

He doesn't seem to hear or see her. He's holding something protectively close to his body. He's concealing it just enough in his jacket for her to catch a glimpse of shiny metal. He pauses in the doorway, mumbling to himself.

A quiet sob escapes and she strains against the blue synthetic ropes that keep her tied against the iron wrought headboard. A gentle tug forward, it gives slightly, now leaning back. No! Too hard. It thumps against the wall. Frightened green eyes look into his instantly hyper-focused ones. His animalistic grin widens as he approaches the plastic covered bed. The jacket falls open a little more. She can see the curved handle. A fearful whimper slips out. His deep laugh revels in her terror. Frantically tugging harder, the ropes burning into her flesh, he feeds her nightmare with his slow, methodical advance. Her mind flees, giving into pure panic mode, yanking and jerking at her restraints. The paint rubs off; the drywall is exposed, flaking off in bigger and bigger chunks with her mindless bashing. The man-made fibers splintering her flesh.  Screaming accompanies the frenzied behavior. Blood seeps out, changing the rope's bright color, a disgusting purple.

He rushes over and restrains her. He attempts covering her mouth to quiet the shrieks. The weapon slips out from the coat, lands in-between her legs. He's instantly murmuring the usual sweet nothings, apologies for bringing all this on herself, kissing her face. "Mi amor, I'm so sorry. This is your fault. Oh mi reyna. You must be punished."

Her stillness does nothing to deter him. Abrupt calmness takes over, for a crimson hand has slipped free. The knife is there, pressed against his arousal. Swallowing the revulsion, she forces herself to kiss him back. Both his hands go into her hair, caressing and pulling. "If only you would obey me, these things would not have to happen. How many times must I continue to teach you?" Her neck arched back,  exposed, showing finger-shaped bruises. He tenderly traces each one. "Oh my stubborn one..."

Her hand works toward the weapon. With an Amazonian cry she jams it up. He shudders, falls forward. The entire dead weight of pure muscles crushes her. Her triumph watches him die, slowly bleeding out. The tormentor that will soon be no more...eventually.

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

False Memories

Up and down
trying to get over you
Wishing you'd kidnap me
and take me to that far away place
that you'd promised
many moons ago
But now, I know
how hollow were your words
and you're not the knight
I'm looking for
There are no more men anymore
But somehow
that doesn't keep my heart
from loving you
my body from missing
the things you'd do
My mind's memory goes
hazy at trying to
remember the reasons
why we shouldn't
be together
my soul doesn't forget and
pushes me to move forward
if only it could keep the
rest of me from looking back
at the brightness of good moments
and pretending that they
outshone the bad.
May the truth eventually
bring sanity to
all my
And break
my love for the
idea of you.

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

Both Broken

I broke your heart to heal mine
I needed to see
one last time
the effect I really had on you
Not bargaining for the effect
you could have on mine
and now
I pay the price for
playing with fire
I have been burned
beyond recognition
beyond the healers' skill
And I sink
into depths of darkness
that light
will not penetrate
My body functions day to day
an actress that deserves an Oscar
My soul, buried deep
under the shallow facade
of freedom
Smile now and forever
knowing that I have sinned
against all
and deserve to die
in limbo
Heart beating out of habit
wish it'd stop
a zombie has more hope
than I
for release
from this self-created prison
hoping to trap you to me
well done, you get the last laugh
as you toss the key
just out of reach
and finally prove
you never really
loved me

Thursday, December 1, 2011

Under the Cover of Time

Under the cover of time
I hide
pretending that no one can see me
aging, regretting, reliving
all the minutes that lead me here

Under the cover of time
I cry
about everything,
I realize
it is nothing
the past is changeless,
 no one invent the time machine

Under the cover of time
I laugh
as I begin to understand
that the future is
meaningless, unwritten
a waste of time
to worry about

Under the cover of time
I smash
the clock and watch
as its
parts shatter against
the wall
triumphant that
I'm now
wiser in this present
F--- the rest!


She stands in front of the solid, wooden door, hands frozen above the shiny, brass knob.  Too scared to grab it and turn.  What if it is locked?  The humilation would be too much to bear.  What if it is unlocked?  Does she have the guts to step inside and embrace the future?  Trust issues be damned! Perhaps she should knock and run?  Then she's never have to know the answer to the decision. She laughs at the thought.  It's icy outside and she's in her stilettos.  She can feel that she's turning blue, fingers and toes going numb.  Her long winter coat only covers her knees. An exhale gives body to her breathe, a hazy white, air-brushes the present and flashes her back to a fateful yesterday.

"Shelly, look over there!"  Mimi points a freshly manicured finger at two soldiers lounging against the bar.  They are obviously trolling, no doubt for for one-night stands. She knew they would ship out sooner then later, totally not worth the time!  Or the chance to be on antibiotics for two weeks.

Shelly rolls her eyes.  "Mimi, gross, I don't want a..."  Her voice trails off as the the taller infantryman puffs a ring of smoke towards her and insolently winks.  It couldn't be?  Could it?  Shoving her purse at Mimi, she leaves her startled friend at the table. 

"Hey, Shel!"  His voice in the same low timber that sent thrills down her spine years ago.  Still does. Damn it! The heat between her legs makes her mad as hell.  Her temper rises even higher watching his eyes knowingly roaming the swell of her cleavage and the length of her long legs, enhanced by her red heels.

"Brian," she coolly acknowledges.  Then she positions herself into a solid stance, cocks her fist back and punches him in the jaw.  His friend spits out his beer, guffawing so hard.  Brian ruefully rubs his face.  "Shel, you still have a mean hook."

Refusing to respond, she turns on point, walks back saucily swaying her hips.  Snapping at Mimi, "Stick your tongue back in before a fly lands, girl!"  Taking back her purse, acting like nothing happens, she finishes her Mai Tai in silence.  Then her funny bone kicks in and she busts out laughing.  Mimi giggles in relief.  Bad move!  Brian and his buddy saunter over.  Brian knows that it's always safe to approach Shelly once the laughter comes out.

Mimi flirts with older soldier, Colin.  Shel's blue eyes become glacier. But Brian's hazel eyes stare intently into hers.  His voice deceptively mild, "Shelly, you never showed up."

Her mouth falls open in shock.  "I did so, you f'in a-hole!"

"Girl, I waited at..."  He voices falters as he feels Mimi and Colin's interest focus on his conversation with Shelly.  "I waited for three hours for you with the minist..."

"Bullshit!" Shelly counters.  Her fists curling again.  Eyes glittering evil intentions.  The stool scooting back abruptly, told of her desire to do more physical violence. 

Brian grabs her and places her arms behind her, guides her out the door. He lets her go and she falls against him sobbing.  "Brian, I waited at the St. Helen's Church on Mary Street.  You never showed.  I waited until midnight, like a fool."

Horrified, he stutters, "I was at the St. Mary's on Helen Drive."  He pulls her in and kisses her passionatetly, murmuring how he still loves her and still wants to marry her.  No other girls can compare to her.

She listens hopeful, wanting to believe.

Tires crunching down the road bring her back to the present.  Yesterday's haze gone and yet, she still wants to believe.  She firmly grasps the handle, turns and steps across the threshold.  Yes, all will be right this time, on the inside.

Saturday, November 26, 2011

Leap of Faith

Stop teasing me and be real
Do you mean what you say?
I wonder if he knows the exact
effect his words have on me?
Does he calculate the variables?
My mind was made up and now...
what do I do?
Take a leap of faith?
Over a chasm so wide, so deep
that it's even darker than my
on the rare occasion
I manage to sleep
There's a bright light
winking promises at me
across the way
his voice
deep with seduction
"Don't worry about tomorrow
I got this babe!"
My heart wants to follow
this piped piper's tune
but my mind weeps with fear
My soul is quiet, watching,
I try to live in the now
to focus on today
that's the closest to the future
that I dare to flirt with
He knows and teases
"We'll build the future
under your groundless feet
as you fly over distrust,
and leave it far behind
So please jump, my love
I promise, I'll catch you..."
I close my eyes,
hold my breathe
I take
a leap
of faith

Sunday, November 20, 2011

Possibly Until Tomorrow

He tells himself that he'll tell her tomorrow. He tries to look past his reflection in the store window and lose himself in the excitement of the games flashing on the HD screens. Its initial glossy allure fails to distract. His friends' voices fade into the distance. They're heading to the local sports bar. The guilt of yesterday cannot let him enjoy his Sunday afternoon. He's riveted by his image blasting into painful 3D. Blue eyes that are clouded with pain and insecurity stare accusingly back at him. A mouth so full of lies, open and close like a hooked fish. "Tomorrow, I swear it! I'll tell her!" His words are met with reflected self-contempt. Hands angrily bat away the air, stomping feet hurriedly chase after buddies oblivious to his procrastination.

She knows something is off. Not necessarily wrong, just "not quite right." Restlessly she gets up and looks out the hotel's bay window. The boats are bobbing up and down, lights are winking on as the sunsets, and brilliant colors soften into night. It's an hour until dinner. Her cerulean blue dress, his favorite on her, hangs patiently waiting for the appointed time. By the door, pointing the way out, a pair of sexy white heels. She smiles suddenly at her reflection. A well of hope blossoming its way into her heart and mind. He's been so secretive and moody, so up and down about this trip. The promise of, "This will be a trip to remember..." echo in the memories of her mind. This was their five year anniversary. Would he finally? Could he possibly move past it all? The petals fall away and hope gently slips away into hibernation. She feels helplessly in love, but quiet logic thinks, "If not today, then I will no longer waste my tomorrows."

Dinner is silent. He holds the menu like it’s some protective shield. The flame flickers, she can almost hear the air whisper, "Run!” It started normally enough. Then she asked how his guy's day out yesterday was? She knew his team had won. He didn't come home until about 2 p.m. and for a change, he wasn't worshipping the porcelain god. He noisily climbed into bed, bumping her on purpose. When she didn't respond. He stared at her instead. She faked sleep because she didn't want to start a fight. Not on the morning of their anniversary. Her determination to prevent a fight on one of their anniversaries forced her to bite her tongue. But she blew it. Her intuition was in over-drive. The truth must come out, one of them must give. The waiter came, took their order and the menus. He was forced to look at her. The anguish that overwhelmed his features made her want to reach out and tell him that it was okay. Ignoring her gut instinct, she waited for him to break.

"Baby, I'm sorry! I'm such a dumbass..." He looked at her apologetically. "I wanted this anniversary to be special. You've been my dream girl, but I f---ed it up, again!"

Her doe brown eyes blinked back tears. She knew it, he cheated and now he's confessing.

"Baby, I swore I'd tell you the truth," he's voice was low with guilt and humiliation.

"God, you're so beautiful. I don't deserve you!"

"Damn straight!" She spitefully hissed. She begins to rise.

"No, wait." He drops to one knee. "Please, you're the love of my life. Please marry me."

Her mouth drops open in surprise. The restaurant freezes, watching.

"Baby, I'm sorry. I've been so stressed out about it. I forgot the ring at home. But please marry me anyway."

Her laughter rings out. Relief and hope spreading throughout her body. "Yes, you moron, I'll marry you!"

The restaurant patrons clap and cheer. He stands and pulls her in. They passionately kiss. She's smiles up at him. He whispers, "I swear, I got the ring and you'll have it when we fly soon as we walk through that door." She kisses him into silence, wiggles her hips into his, "Don't worry, we'll find ways to make the time pass quickly." Congratulations and catcalls follow them out. Dinner forgotten...possibly until tomorrow.

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

The Curious Case of the Brown Shoes

The laughter echoed down the alley
Tourists and locals turn their heads and smile
Innocent or Naughty
No one would venture down to find out
Yet imaginations run wild
The light, appreciative laugh of a female
the deeper rumble of a satisfied male
her teasing voice emerges
calling over her bare shoulder
her buttons are off by one
she bursts out into the sunlight
barefoot runs across the street
horns blare in protest
her long legs flash
wolfish whistles
women's jealous glares
Heavier steps, that don't sound quite right
"Ma Cherie..."
She's gone, he sighs and leans against the brick
Contemplates his bare toes, black socks
hanging from khahki pockets
He shrugs and walks back to the hotel
The next day
an imp finds brown shoes
facing the corner
and wonders
Que diable qui s'est passé ici?

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

6ft2 brown eyes

Big brown eyes
so high above me
look down
and deep into mine
fleeting intensity
hard to capture your stare
what are you afraid of?

We sit
you look every where but
at me
how should I take this?
Conversation goes well
Though maybe neither
one of us is ready

Attraction, a spark
hidden beneath
He's so cute,
he'll never call again

That's okay
It's probably
better that way

Another chance

It's a hurt that goes deep into the infinite depths of the soulIt only comes when I'm alone
gently, it expands its fingers around around my
unsuspecting heart
squeezing until my awareness turns inward
and sees the cracks that leak blood from a tormented love
the damage done that keeps me from
believing, yes, it's time to move on,
time to forget, time to forgive
I stare into brown eyes that have been burned
as bad as mine
I wonder if his thoughts wander the past, avoid the present
and fear the future
a fork in the road that cause feet to freeze
in indecision
I would be fine if the pain stayed in this dimension
leaving me be when I escape to dreamland
But it stalks me there, perhaps
because I let it
company of sorts in a vast universe
endless emotion, finite logic
His gaze holds mine, we both have a silent plea
"Let this be it, the right direction, please be the one..."
Torment rears its ugly head, egos scream in protest
Love's tendrils gently encompass
Hands clasp
May we both accept the chance we have been given

Monday, November 7, 2011

In Love, In War, For Lust, Forwarned

"I'm tired," she whispers to the air.  She sinks to the ground her misery filling the air with heart-wrenching sobs of a conflicted soul.  Her boyfriend, of one month, telling her he won't propose. But please know that he loves her and can't live without her.  However, he'll never chase after her. It's not worth the effort. Then suddenly her exes, both, asking her back.  But only because they know she's with someone else and happy-ish. "What the hell?" She cries and crawls on the floor around to the other side, looking for tissues.  "What the hell?"

When the phyical display of emotions finish, her mind considers insane possibilities. She could choose the past, but which one?  The one she has the longest history with?  Or the most recent with the most incredible sex ever? Both were abusive but familiar, so similar. There's a safety in the predictable. She could be financially secure again?  But live with the constant need to be checked for STD's?  The fear of the law breaking down the door? Or she could be in orgasm heaven and completely treated like a china doll goddess until she broke a rule?  Her dark hair falls forward in vehement shaking. Or stay with the current that claims a future together.  But whose trust issues seem to run deeper than hers? Or do they?  Overall, it's so natural.  Maybe it's just her and he's responding to her skittish vibes?  Can she trust his "Let's go slow, baby...I'll wait for you as long as it takes...we can build a future together?"  Ah, but his abrupt and painfully recent schizophrenic statement of "Baby, I can never marry you, but..."

"No!" she looks into the wall mirror.  It indifferently reflecting swollen glassy eyes, blotchy skin, and a red runny nose.  It makes her laugh.  If they all saw her now, the choice would be easy.  They would flee.  No sign of a beautiful temptress here!

Her cell phone vibrates, more pleading texts from Brandon.  Most of them saying, "Sugar-love, you owe it to us to try again.  I'm sorry that I fell off the wagon.  I'm sorry about Sheila ... Cindy... Karyn... Tanya... blah, blah, blah." Slowly she stands, walking over hateful love letters from her Latin lover, Raul.  Those essentially accuse her of everything she caught him at.  The biggest lie of all being that he's divorced.  She found the papers, incomplete and unfiled.  He's still married.  That was the day her lust died. No more multiple o's for her.  She sighs heavily. He still insists that she is his, "Mi Reyna."  He swears that he will find it in his heart to forgive his Reyna for all her sins. 

The land-line rings.  Caller ID states that it's Josh.  The answering machine kicks on.  Her heart wars within her.  Answer it? His deep voice comes on, "Baby, I'm sorry..."

She hisses, "Don't any of those bastards ever use my name?"  She stalks out the bedroom door, grabs her keys.  Be forwarned, the decision's made.  She was going to f--- the first guy that actually uses her name...the whole night.

Sunday, October 30, 2011

Autumn's Angst

Is it the cooler weather?
The dark intruding sooner
The wind, the shivering trees
reaching out, failing to catch
the swirling leaves
the fallen, settling down
to warm the earth
for the upcoming snows?

The need to sit quietly
and listen to the sounds
of Autumn's angst
stirring in my soul
trying to understand the need
to run away with the seasons

Concrete Butterfly

Her best friends are back from church. They're skipping rope and singing a new jumprope song. The group of girls' laughter, add to the brightness of a perfect summer afternoon.  Except for one angelic, wistful eyed child. Her big brown eyes observe the scene below.  Moms and Dads, including her own, are out in their front yards, chatting amicably. It's a traditional Sunday off. Golden-haired Mother is beautiful in her new dress. The sun frames her form, she's Madonna, complete with innocent, chubby, three year old Carrie.  Daddy looks fit, casually tosing the football to her brother, Jeron.

A flash of resentment, she's always in her room, watching her friends through the window.  They all look up and wave.  She waves back.  They know she's sick...again.  She'll be allowed out in a few days. They know that for certainty, too. It's a strange, yet predictable pattern.

She feels like she's stuck in the life cycle of a butterfly.  Although she's never the egg.  It's always into the chrysalis for a painful transformation, then a short brief stint into the sunlight.  She sighs and closes the curtains.  The clock flashes 4 p.m.  Bleh,  it's another two hours until dinner. Not that she's hungry anyway.  Then another three hours until bedtime.  Repeat, until the Dr. says that it's okay.  She grabs her favorite book and reads it for the 100th time. She forgets what her Dr. looks like.  Mother always just calls.

Exactly two hours later, footsteps come up.  They are so soft that had the third step from the top not creaked...she shudders.  Mother always brings up the nastiest drinks.  She can't believe that the Dr. would prescribe something so awful.  It smells a little like pine sol. 

Mother frowns at her, "Are you feeling better my dear?" Mother brushes her hair off her forehead.  Her french manicured hands test her temperature. She rebelliously contemplates saying something contrary.  But she knows that means that mother will come up again with more nasty drinks at around 3 a.m.  She dutifully replies, "No, mother. I feel worse.  My stomach is hurting."

Mother smiles, "Here's your medicine my precious butterfly."  She sips it slowly, trying not to gag. Her face brave for Mother.

The doorbell rings.  Mother snorts annoyance and leaves.  It interrupts her routine of making sure not a drop is wasted.  Relieved, she quickly pours the drink into the dead potted plant.  Thank heavens, Mother hadn't removed it yet.  Her stomach relaxes in gratitude.

A tell-tale creak, then the bedroom light snaps on.  It's 3a.m!  Why is Mother up here?  Didn't she act sick enough? Mother's ice-blue eyes pierce sleepy, brown ones.  The face wore a practiced look of concern.  But Mother's eyes...she awakens into full-blown fear.  Mother touches her flushed cheeks lightly.  "My precious butterfly has killed the plant. Did you forget?  It only needs water."

Mother picks the pot up and leaves.  The door shuts gently, ominously.

It's morning, her eyes are bruised from lack of sleep. She waited for the third step creak all night.  The family sits silently, heads bowed for grace.  She looks up.  Daddy winks. Mother senses the disturbance and glares both back in to correct behavior.  Daddy reaches across the table and gently pats her hand.  Little Carrie's voice lisps the final line. In unison they say, "Amen". She feels the anxious fluttering in her stomach. Mother has made her a special bowl of...soup. She shoves it away.  Daddy's concerned.  She pulls the bowl back.

After breakfast, Daddy grabs Carrie, and also manages to lean over to kiss her forehead in apology. He knows that she hates being stuck at home.  Lucky Carrie, it's her playdate with grandma.  Luckier Jeron, he gets to go his friend's for a sleepover.  She is once again stuck at home with Mother. Another day of listening to her friends playing outside.

That night, the ultimate metamorphosis.  Soon after, at her funeral, she hovers watchful. It's another perfect summer day.  But no one is playing.  Her friends are crying. Daddy is bowed and looks old. The colors are dark.  The truth of her demise is painfully clear, but only to her. Her family's auras flash with sorrow, except Mother's. It's triumphant.

Carrie is asking, Where's sissy?" Her mother's tearless face leans over.  "Wouldn't you like a statue like this?"

She floats over to look with them. The cheap concrete tombstone engraved with flowers and butterflies has her name and dates.  Mother whispers, "Don't you want to join sissy?"  Carrie's sweet voice lisps and her shiny brunette head bobs.  Mother's red lips curl into a thin smile, "Then you shall, my precious butterfly.  Then you shall."

tombstone - concrete butterfly

Monday, September 26, 2011


Something's happening somewhere
it's written in the stars
and I don't know
who I'm weeping for

Someone far or near
do I know them
or is it just you
an unrealized me
suffering from fate
a destiny long forgotten

I felt the thread snap
this morning
tears flowed silently
my yellow chakra dimmed
the echoes of ending
reverbating through my bones
and yet
I know not
who or what
I'm weeping

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Yellow Daisies

Last night, she was riding her bike trying to catch up to her big brother. They were rushing home for dinner in the fading evening light. At the last minute she noticed a big rock on the sidewalk in front of the neighbor's. She swerved to avoid it, but her overly long shoelace got caught on their tall sprinkler-head. She fell onto the barest edge of their daisy bed.  Yes, she smushed a few, but they perked right up, after daddy fixed the evil woman's sprinkler. 

The harsh voice of Mrs. Evil Dugan screaming "Jesus Christ, you stupid girl! You horrid flower killer!" made her ears bleed.

She gasped in shock because she knew you couldn't say that, especially not on Sunday.  She told the evil woman that if Moses was alive, she would've died in the flood. Then she was inspired by what daddy had said to mommy one night.

"You're going to hell.  You married a white man."

Mrs. Dugan paled and then said, "My God's the only true God. May your children die and cause you pain."

Daddy spanked her for being careless and costing him his relaxation time.  Having his beer and news was the only thing that daddy loved.  With the tears still drying on her rosy cheeks, her beloved, big brother took her outside to the treehouse to look at the August sky.  They waited 'til the morning, shivering under frayed blankets, for all the shooting stars. They really needed them to make wishes on.  She ferverently hoped they would come true.  She thought of Bonanza, the heros, the freedom and the love.

The next day, the stinging on her rear temporarily forgotten, she happily tramples the neighbor's beautiful side yard of daisies. The happy yellow's the opposite of the evil woman that tends to them so lovingly in the evenings. She's up early from a frightening nightmare about Mrs. Dugan. Mrs. Dugan was ripping the heads off of all her toys. The old witch was tossing them one at a time while saying, "Will she live or will she die?" She abruptly remembers that she is the flower killer and should destroy them all. She must save her toys.  Her face turns serious.

The young flower killer instantly became silent as the doorbell's ringing stops dinner's progress. It's Mr. and Mrs. Evil Dugan.  Mr. Dugan's face is enraged and alchoholic red. Mrs. Dugan's wickedly smirking at the thought of punishment.  Mr. Dugan used to be nice before he was sent to Afghanistan and brought back Mrs. Dugan.  She wants to hide.  She knows they are there for the destroyed daisies.  Mommy's shaking scared and shrinking in the dark hallway, trying to become a shadow.  Daddy's clenching his fists and politely placating.  His voice slurring his apologies and promises to replace the flowers.  Brother tries to sneak her to the tree house. It's the safest place. Daddy's too big for the tree house.  He'll just yell up at them and then go back inside.  But tonight, they're not fast enough.  Daddy closes the door, sees their reflection in the glass. He grabs her from brother and drags her to the garage.

"Not the park daddy, not the park." she sobs. Brother follows and tries to pull her, daddy shoves him into the bikes and opens the car door. Mommy's whispered pleadings barely pierce the air. The garage creaks open, looking like the mouth of hell.  She looks out the window in despair.  She swears she sees Mrs. Evil Dugan by the mailboxes.

It's after midnight.  Daddy tosses her on the couch, like he's done many times before. Her dark-stained jeans and missing buttons on her favorite red plaid shirt.  But this time she's unconscious.  Mommy creeps out to clean her up after he stomps upstairs.  Brother's armed, waiting.  Mommy finally gathers her "too little, too late" courage to take her to the hospital. Later though, the newspaper report that gang violence caused the broken stalls, and a bloody shattered mirror.

She's hooked to machines.  Brother holding her hand.  Mommy speaking to some man.  Everything sounds fuzzy.  Another man's leading mommy away.  Brother whispers, "Daddy's gone." She thinks she hears, "Forever." 

"This man is our uncle, he's come to take us far, far away.  He says it's a ranch, we'll love. We'll grow up and own it."  She tries to gently pats her hand. "One of your wishes is coming true...a home, a real home with animals."

She's 21 and feels like she's on Mt. Olympus...she sits on the top of the hill, all grown up, watching her brother and uncle rounding up cattle.  She's queen of all she surveys.  Her smile grows into genuine happiness as one of the ranch hands heads her way.  Her Zeus, though she chooses not to be Hera.  She prefers the status of favorite mistress. One that was placed with the immortals and turned into a goddess for bearing him a favored child. Tenderly, she caresses her belly.

Nine months later, her baby lays tiny in the oversized, casket. It's all the undertaker had.  She cries knowing God must have a plan, giving her baby wings so soon. But she just doesn't understand. Suddenly, Mrs. Evil Dugan's face flashes before her. She freezes. She knows with certainty that she didn't kill all the flowers that day.  The priest approaches, he stops, under the bison head.  She's paralyzed. Demon horns.  Mrs. Evil Dugan's laughter mocks her.  "Will she live or will she die?" The priest tries to place a yellow garland of daisies on the casket.  The spell of  terror is broken, screaming she grabs the baby and runs. She must get the baby away.  Hallucinated voices, as well as real follow her out of the ranch house. 
 "Come back, Seraphina...bring back the baby....stupid girl...flower God is real...your baby will die..." Dark stained jeans and broken stalls... Mrs. Evil Dugan took her baby.

They found her four days later. Singing to the dead baby by a small fire.  Milk leaking down her shirt...flies every where.  They brough her into town to the big hospital.  One of the Doctors tricked her out of the baby by saying it needed a bath and then by bringing her back a doll.

Husband, Uncle and Brother watch her. The nurse whispers to ...even though she couldn't hear them through the glass. "Poor thing thinks she on Mt. Olympus and shooting stars grant wishes." 

They look solemnly at the nurse and nod. "She also has a bad reaction to yellow daisies.  Please send a different flower or none at all."  All protest that they didn't send the daisies.  They watch the oderly sweeping up the debris and the doctor stitching up a young candy stripper.  As they turn to leave, they wave to Seraphina and the plastic baby doll...pretending with her, hoping it'll bring her back. But deep down inside they know.  Unlike the saying, all the world's a stage, when this curtain closes only they will go back to their lives.

Monday, May 23, 2011

White Lies and Darker Truths

Her sweet smile hides the truth. It's the little white lies behind a darker truth.  It's okay and everyone's complicit. The smelly, little girl had no clue that she shouldn't keep it all inside.

That day the plumber came over and said the only way to fix the basement bathroom was to do it without their clothes. He seemed fun at first, showing her how the chemicals could make colors like yellow and blue made such a funny, puke green.

Mommy and daddy had no idea she was home.  She snuck back in because she fought with Allie over the dare to eat the moldy oreo.  She never wanted to see Allie and her stupid toys again!

She looks at the pyschologist's calendar and smiles even bigger, "Is that a special day?"  pointing to the red circle around the 26th.  "We circle all our special days in pink 'cuz I love pink."

The girl swings her pudgy legs up and points to the fading rash, "Mommy and daddy took me in for that and I have to drink medicine and rub cream on it. It's from VD... who's VD?"

She jumps out of the chair and heads to the dolls, "I got to go eat KFC and daddy made me cry, saying I was eating Chicken Little. Then he said he was joking."

The psychologist keeps her friendly white lie of smile on, trying to encourage her to speak more. And yet, as she idly taps her fingers on the armrest, she's thinking if she could get another collagen injection at 4 if she cancels the rest of her afternoon appointments.   She jerks upright when her ears caught, ""

"Emmie, will you please repeat that?"  Emmie looks up surprised and says matter of factly, "He has a cock ring...he told me that he got a pubic hair cut especially for little girls like me and he was glad that I didn't need them. He made me laugh, he said that dogs drink from the toliet bowl because it's their vodka.  Mommy and Daddy drink lots of vodka."

Ms. Fancy Brand New PhD feels pale and wonders if she shouldn't have continued with her original, safer degree in women's studies, with her thesis about women's roles in revolutions. No, she had to pick the one that would actually make money.

The smelly, little girl blithely continues.  "We got to play pretend and he had me drink from the bowl like I was a dog.  He said he would be a dog's tongue and nose..."

The psych's glad the recorder's on because she completely forgot to take notes while listening to this once innocent child's story, and watching, in horror, as she moves the dolls around, acting out the words.  Suddenly she pictures setting this man's pants on fire long enough to burn his crotch while he's tied to a toliet bowl.  Maybe in prison he could then be the one taking it in his new hermaphrodite state, and they could torture him like a cat playing piano. Or maybe choke him with wire...

Time's up, the psych gets up gratefully, her fresh out of college sensibilities shocked into numbness.  She freezes in horror as the girl begins slamming the boy into the girl, "It doesn't hurt, shut up you little bitch or I'll eat your face."  There's a fresh smell of feces.  The psych forces a step forward, hands out to take the dolls.  The smelly, little girl smiles up at her and asks, "I did good?  Can I see you and play again tomorrow?"

Thursday, February 10, 2011

Muse 2: "Reluctant Titans"

I wake suddenly and completely.  There's no gentle transition by sunlight.  No comfortingly annoying clang of an alarm clock. I am unbelievably aware of weighted darkness. All five senses on overdrive, trying to gain anchor in any recognizable dimension. There is no light to grab onto, my eyes feel better closed as a pounding headache and nausea threaten to overwhelm me. My dry mouth tastes bitter bile. What the hell did he shoot me up with?  My nose thinks it smells clean sheets. My extremities have gone numb.  I feel that I am encased in ice, rendered immobile.  Fighting the panic of the incurable claustrophobic, my ears take over. There's a grinding, a dull roar. Impressions of glaciers implacably progressing over rock. The hum of the...airplane engines? A ship's?  The mechanical beast's inner workings are barely muffled by the thick, satin lining of the coffin.  I must have been given the almost, high tech, noise canceling headphones.  Forcing my fists to unclench, I stretch them to explore the short distances boxing me in.  It seems to be a high-end casket.  It reminds me of the one my cousins purchased for Grandmother.  Why a corpse would need to be comfortable was beyond me.  Personally, I believe in cremation, we need the land.  Well, at least I am finally traveling first class.  Hysterical laughter escapes my lips.  It's deadened abruptly by the padding.  So disturbing. I begin to shake uncontrollably.  The vibrations and noise are unbearable.  There's a tank of some sort pinning my legs. I repeatedly scream my horror, pounding the lid. Gasping for air, adjusting the oxygen mask on my face.  I can only sob helplessly.

A warm breathe, a golden glow.  My grandmother's voice slips across my mind.  "Darling Amelia, you are not earthbound, come back to me, visit the heavens later..."  Something she always said when she caught me daydreaming. Calm enters me.  I realize where I am heading, at least, and even have a vague idea on the why.  They are taking me to New York.  My mouth turns up, at least they don't have the amulet.  When I fled Grandmother's house I had just enough time to hide the real one and substitute it for another ancient, but inert amulet.

Thinking back, uneasiness sets in. I remember nothing during my unconsciousness. Normally, I have impressions from fading in and out of worlds.  I am always cognizant of every detail around me.  A family curse and blessing for one never feels truly rested.  But my last memories are like a rewind of one man only, since I fell and surrendered on the gravel.  His tanned, inscrutable face, incredibly handsome in that classical way. The cliche of the sun highlighting and haloing his beautiful, wheat hair and shadowing his bottomless gray eyes.  Eyes that apologized. A soft, sonorous voice wishing me a good journey into the dreamless space of deep sleep.  Did he say that for a...fourth time? There's something about him.  He is familiar to me and he's not right, not vibrationally of Earth.  My intuition shudders. Grandmother's lilac scent wafts around me as I recall her words, "Amelia, you will be saved by one of your enemies.  A reluctant, one of the offspring of the Titans."

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

We're All In Deep Shit

He watches her restlessness through the one way mirror in quiet annoyance.  The pristine white sheet they had used to cover her like a recently deceased corpse wrinkles up, betraying the life underneath it.  Sliding off to the side it reveals a pale face framed by curly black hair.  Wine-red lipstick.  His favorite color for all women.  Scanning her, he sees a drab, dried out piece of leaf in her hair. Her hands are pale from gravel dust and dirt. She fell over her own feet running from him.  To her credit she did not cry out, and simply lay still as he plunged the needle into her flesh. She did not respond in anyway when he wished her a good journey into the dreamless space of deep sleep.

His displeasure increases as he realizes his focus diminishing.  He should not be noticing details of the quarry, nor replaying the hunt.  He should not be feeling unecessary guilt about the inability to provide a journey of oblivion.  But willing his mind back to order isn't easy when the serum they gave him to subdue her for transport wasn't working as promised.  He had to dose her twice to get her through the ten hour drive from Oceanside to Tahoe.  He reflects once more that they were simply rich amatuers. They did not know what they were doing, much less what they were talking about.  He heard them arguing through the carelessly left open door about how it might not be right for her blood chemistry.  The shorter one protesting that they improved it, plus Amelia was younger, shouldn't kill her like the last one.

He frowns, then quickly corrects this outward emotion.  None of this is for him, he has one last task to complete and a huge bonus waiting off shore.  Get her to the airport.  Face smooth and expressionless, he studies her one last time before opening the door to administer the third dose, in the hopes of maintaining the schedule set by them.  Intense hazel eyes flicker open as he appropaches.  "Help me, please, or we are all in deep shit..."  Stabbing her again with the ineffectual concoction, he really wished he didn't know her name.  The Mark should be closest thing to a name.

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

In the Corner of the Room

The room was dark, musty. The smell wafts slowly toward me, like an old person rising to greet a long lost friend. Even the hinges creak hello softly as I push the door to my grandmother's bedroom wide open.  Dust swirls around me as my presence finally creates a wind of life raising the dead.  What stories could the sparkling particles tell that vie for my attention as I rush to open the thick wood blinds?  What is recorded in their layers of my grandmother's last days? Their silvery twinkles fall to settle at my feet as I survey the room in the dimming light.

Her bed is still neatly made, covered in the many-colored, multi-textured quilt we made after my parents died in a car crash.  She knew I hated to talk about my emotions and she kept me busy, sane with the plotting and planning of a quilt that would represent our family. I still find it amazing that a piece of cloth, nearly square, neatly stitched had such power.  I still marvel that random scraps had the ability to be a trigger of information that could break one down, make one laugh, or sigh for the wanting of the past.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, facing the plain, oak headboard, I settle easily in the indentation that I created while watching grandmother's shallow, labored breathing, night after night.  I tried to be there, to keep her from dying alone.  I failed, called away by an emergency at work. Her gentle, but firm, "Go Amelia, go..."

A false call, for when I arrived, no one was there. By the time I returned...tears creep up. Suddenly I can feel her hand in mine.  So very real.  I close my eyes, it's comforting to hold again, her thin, bony and dry crepe-paper skin. I trace the patch with blood-red rose that we had picked to represent her.  She said the petals and thorns accurately depicted life.  I did not understand her then. My twelve year old mind thought it was beautiful like her.

The temperature abruptly drops.  A wisp of air blows across my cheek, causing me to turn.  I hear a whisper in my ear.  The chills cause me to stand up and my attention is drawn to warm sunlight that unnaturally illuminates the corner.  The unique, triangular dresser beckons.  The hand-painted golden roses gleam. I finger the tiny skeletal key at my neck. It feels like ice and I lift it off my skin. 

"Hurry, hurry!"  Was that Grandmother's voice or mine? The urgency swells, am I imagining tires coming down the gravel road?  I tug at the key, breaking the silver chain.  No time to worry, I unlock the third drawer, flip it upside down, press the left corner of the base of the triangle.  It pops open.  Were there two sighs of relief? I turn my head and catch a glimpse of a shadow.  No time to worry.  I clutch the dark, velvet wrap tightly.  The hard shape reassuring me it's definitely there.  The only thing I would take away with me. I back away, quickly scanning, the room would look undisturbed, except for the dust.  It records my presence, the others will know I was here first. There is nothing I can do.  The neighbor's dogs bark  Yes, they are coming.  But I have it.  The proof of beginning and the end of the entire bloodline of  La Croix.

Monday, January 24, 2011

Left Behind

My soul aches for yours
It sees what you've stopped listening to
It wonders at how you've managed
to stop its nightly
journeys to the heavenly realms
how limp, so shriveled in its human cage
black from absorbing earth-bound light
no longer reflecting colors into white
no longer singing celestial songs of love
impure now
spewing venom from red lips
viewing the negative through hatred's
depressed eyes
touching with aggression
willing all to feel your pain, its pain
filling the empty spaces with self-loathing
my soul used to commune with yours
and now there is nothing
I wish I could save you
but you have chosen to be left behind
God has forgiven you
may you forgive you
for this temporary self-neglect
and come back
to truth's embrace
It is nothing to fear
learning our lessons with the human race
Time is infinite and time is illusion
our souls are permanent
these lives are not
In the end,
all will be healed.
I love you
and hope we commune again
when you chose to re-awaken,
when you chose next time,
to be left behind

Tuesday, January 11, 2011


What do you do when your trust has been destroyed
How to you get over being used as a pawn or toy
The hurt from the past that has never faded
Frozen heart, beyond the simpleness of jaded

Hopeful words, admiring eyes, warm smiles, friendly hugs
met with smooth practiced responses, cynical mental shrugs
Outwardly flirty, a hint of naughty, hot, intriguingly cold
They're the conquering hero, territory bought, but not sold

Under soft flesh,  protected by a thick, titanium core
Detached mind notes: Cupid's arrows, such a bore
As the volley flew in total desperation
A piece cracked under the assault's vibration

Can the fire at the weapons' tip, at this point, really matter?
Can it melt her enough so she doesn't completely shatter?
No, it's too late, razor thin shards carpet the ground
follow the bloody trail, but please,
don't          make            a                sound...