​She’s a bad ass, and she doesn’t need your love.
She’s a power house and needs no approval.
She’s walked the terrible, crooked line
and has dined on fabrications meant to stifle.
Meant to suffocate her words.
Meant to blemish her self-worth.
But that dirt just rolls right off her back.
Because she’s a bad ass.

She’s toted the note for years.
She’s toiled the spoiled garden
that grows your petty fears,
and her soulful skin reflects the work,
the sweat, the tears she’s shed to get here.

She’s a bad ass, and she doesn’t need your love.
She’s a power house and needs nothing from you
to survive what she has already lived through.
She keeps walking, she keeps talking, and her songs
drown out the soggy menus you wish she’d order from.
She is the culmination, totality, and the sum
of everything that equals strength.
She is a bad ass that carries everything,
even the kitchen sink if she needs to.
And she needs nothing from you. 

Dr. Stephen Parks enjoyed attention.
He grew leaps and bounds
whenever his name was mentioned.
Bee-bopping amongst the people,
fake smiles flying; feeding his ego.
Dr. Stephen Parks liked to park his face
in places incognito, and lie a fool
whenever anyone questioned his M.O.
His modus operandi was to use
other families to make his own re-known.
Sleep with the moms, tickle their fancy.
Shower with gifts, take them dancing.
Treat their kids to chocolates,
fuzzy teddy bears on Valentines.
Love, Stephen Parks, fine and dandy.
But Doctor Parks kept dark secrets.
Information he would omit.
The clients can’t make informed choices
all because of this one small fact…
Dr. Stephen Parks was all an act.
He wasn’t a doctor at all.
He had no PhD.
He held no degrees,
except for separation.
He kept discussions in his pockets,
and other women in his lockets.
Deceit and trickery.
Foolish gains and fuckery.
Stephen Parks could spin quite the tale.
Until he haphazardly let the Queen Mary sail
off into the sea of light
where his lies were fleshed
for all the world to see.
Oh, that Queen Mary disembarked,
set on a voyage to torch the disguise
of one Doctor Stephen Parks,
who loved only himself. 
​

She's the whole package
laying in the wreckage
of a half century landfill.
Do your will.
Do what you want.
Tell her what she wants to hear.
Tear her apart in the search
for whatever the fuck quenches
the thirst you suffer.
She'll do just fine.
Wine and dine.
Stuff her coffers with invisible coins.
She doesn't need 'em anyway.
She's the whole tattered package.
Testament to the old adage
of what does not kill us.
She is victor, victim, and witness.
Testimony of a thousand voices.
Picture show of a million choices
hidden in the shadows and crevices
of where you've never seen her go.
She's the whole damn package.

​“We just do our thing, and if the kids go along, then great.”

                “And if they don’t?”

“Two incomes and one house sure would be easier.”

                “It would. Would you like that?”

“That’s the plan.”

                “What plan?”

“Did I ever tell you that I was in a movie?”

                “Yeah, back to this plan…”

You kiss me.
You kiss me again.
You run your fingers through my hair.


“I’m in love with you.”

                “That’s a good thing. I’m in love with you, too.”

I kiss you.
We stare into each other’s eyes.
Everything melts away.

                “You know. You should know.”

“Know what?”

                “She adores you. She adores yours.”

“Ah, yes. Well, most kids do.”

                “No. You need to know this. It’s important."

“It is. I need that. I need that love. I need your kids to love me.”


You needed it for a reason.
You needed it for a season.
Now that season has come to pass.
The leaves have left their branches.
You’ve moved on.
All I hear are crickets.

A grifter of affection.
Sweet, facade infection.
Dilerious intention.
A stain on the family name.


A user of people.
Church AND steeple.
Collector at the pew.
Twisted pulpit stew.


A black box of messages.
Unlock the vestiges.
Shun the answers in light.


Redirection is his course,
veiled uncertainty his horse.
His mask a white knight
Questions asked -
his kryptonite.

What is greed?
Is it two kids, three cookies,
and one crumby grin?
Is it the amount of time it takes
to snake out of a skin?
​Or is it shoving a loved one
under a bus
to fill a few coffers
with coinage and stuff?
Is it a mental illness
that skews reality,
distorting brain cells' anatomy
and projecting frailty
​upon the inherently strong?
Is it wrong?
Or is it just a human flaw
​betrothed to us all,
to suffer in a time of need?
​Greed.

Two little elves frolicked
in green lush grass.
Playful sprites
loving life
until the deluge of death ash.
At first, it was unnoticed.
Clothed in dress pants of
a kind friend, a sister, a brother,
a muggle wife who didn't like
her elf loving another.
Bit by itsy bit,
sabotage was laid
to rest in the lush green grass
for the elemental folk
to trip over.
Single words whispered
to breathe discontent
around their clover.
One elf could smell it,
and signaled out a warning,
but the other was aloof...
until the ash had settled
all snug and smiles
under their earthen roof.
Bit by itsy bit,
friendly-tailored rot
crept into their lot
to spoil the spritely two.
What were two little elves to do?
They clasped each other's hands,
retrieved some water and rags,
and dusted off their brooms.
They flitted about from
room to room
gathered up the fake,
smiling, friendly-fire masks
and tossed every one of them
out on their ass.

He was methodical in approach.
Seemingly selfless encroachment
entrenched in support.
A pillow for the wounded
until he too, was wounded
in ways he did not foresee.
A crutch for the penurious minds
until there was no more time
for the lucid intimacy left at home.
Too far did he roam
past the realm of what mattered most,
that within his need to hero, to host,
he became the selfless ghost,
lost within a methodical approach. ​

Belly curves carve lines
outside the waste of her jeans.
A reflection distorts,
hips much wider than they seem.
Objects in mirror
bigger than they appear.
Wrinkles and skin tags
bolster a hag
who still feels so alive.
How dare she?
Don't she know she'll never be?
Never live up to what he wants?
Bodacious boobs and a little butt.
A mouth that never speaks.
Sunshine locks on shoulders.
Freshly shorn legs that never quit.
Good for a drink, or ten.
He snagged himself a trophy, again.
But trophies are for shelving.
Trophies for display.
No meat, no vigor, no depth.
No layers, no fray.
Trophies are for bragging,
but then they're put away.
Her belly curves laugh out loud,
they belly-flop
into the crowd
with apologies unsent.
Her lips a caricature
for words with no audible repent.
A hairline streaked with silver.
A bust all a-quiver
underneath the fabric
of her being.
She is layered.
She is frayed.
And absolutely no
apologies are made.

This Burger King was just at the base of a heavy interstate exchange. Skirted with buzzing buttresses of concrete and asphalt, and flanked by a myriad of hotel chains; this joint screamed of irregular clientele and lazy staff. We didn't care. Five hours of grinding freeway traffic, construction zones, and fearless drivers had made us rather hangry. A pit stop refill was needed, and BK was the closest place.

The floor was sticky, and the counter tops even more so. There was a black sharpied "disinfectant" bucket filled with three-day old sludge, plopped by the napkin dispenser. I wondered which new employee had never cared to move it. My guess was all of them. Had I not been so highway frazzled, I may have chosen a different place to dine. Oh well.

We chose our filthy seats, unwrapped our questionable burgers, and dunked our saturated finger foods in stuff labeled "ketchup". We slurped at our plastic straws without caring about which landfill they would inevitably forever lay. Then, she walked in. 

She was a lone, middle-aged stranger from the random realms of public domain, and wore deep sadness on her face. I watched her gather a beverage from the filmy dispensers, walk into the kid's playroom, and settle at a table that appeared all too familiar to herself. 

I gnawed on my chunky chicken sandwich and viewed her hands stroke circles on the table top. At first, I thought she was attempting to clean the surface, but a far-off look in her eyes sang a different story. She was reflecting, remembering something, or someone. 

My daughters poked fun at each other while I stared at our stranger, and pictured a history only a mother would notice. The play area sat empty, except for her. She never drank from her cup, while she laid heavy eyes on a small, vacant seat. How long had she been visiting? Weeks? I'd guessed years, at that point. It was an old Burger King, no question.

We dumped our discarded bits and pieces in the hardly emptied receptacle and mosied back to our car. Outside the window, I saw her run thin fingers through her tired hair, and I hugged my girls as they climbed into their travelling seats. 

"Well, kids, how were your Whoppers?"

Harvest came late and early,


all at the same time.

Fruits were ripe for pickin' while

the first crop lay rotting in the fields,


groves, orchards, and urban greenhouses.

There was no way to keep up

with this burden of blessing.

We had to step on the squishiness of it all,


just to gather new bounty.

Ruined shoes and laces,

hot and sweaty faces,

an eagerness to unload,


to catch our breath,

led us in prayer for more time.

We wanted a rewind,

a step back in time,

just so we could be ready,

so the mess wouldn't slow us down.

But there it was,

glaring in the sun

like a ton of wasted wishes.

All we could do was keep pickin'.

Time’s hands were
hooded bandits.
Robbers.
Thieves.
Ticking a time warp
that stole precious
would-be memories
from a plate
of what
could-have-been.

At least there is a Now.
Somehow,
its hands haven’t
taken the Present,
the Today,
the At This Moment.

Those have been left
for the gray hairs,
the achy muscles,
and the scars.
Today is all that we have.
It is all that we are
till the sun gives way
to grace us.
Someday, we will not be cheated.
Someday, we will not be robbed.
Someday, we will show the world
exactly what we are made of,
and our ingredients are glorious.

Until then,
we remain current
and constant for the ones we love.
Like a time line that will never fade
retrograde, or dissipate. ​

Taps plays out.
Melancholy calling.
A reverberation
rattling my skin,
most holy.
I am flooded
with memory,
lapping up images
like waves of the Mississippi.
Fast upon my banks,
the brassy tones
invoke your every sacrifice,
and I am lost again.
But only for a moment.
The calling lulls...
it settles into the night
of cricket chirp concertos,
and tires rushing,
breezy trees, 
cicadas buzzing.
All is hushing
Taps to sleep.

She had a basket of bits
and things when she stepped
off the boat.
She had her papers tidy,
and a brogue to boot.
But no two stories are the same.
Some have a shirt,
some just sandy socks.

All of them
have a name.

Footprints
for milk and honey,
tear-streaked cheeks,
bellies hungry.

She ordered chips at the deli,
her first meal on this soil.
A man handed her crisps,
and she always recalled the trouble
of her confusion.

Fried potatoes
weren't supposed to
be crunchy.

Little feet hollering for momma.
Small cold eyes full of fright.
Crinkly silver blankets
rustling strangers in the night.
Chastised and caged
needing a better way
just to feel safe.

No two stories
are the same.

We really do have
enough to share.
We have dumpsters of food,
plastic packaging,
fruits for picking,
Tupperware.

We have water,
freshly bottled.
We have sheets,
freshly laundered
by some lady named Maria,
or Lucy, or Clare.

But we don't care
until every other one
born here
gets the choice
of throwing their own dinner away.

To this, I say...

She had a basket of bits
and things when she stepped
off the boat.
She had her papers tidy,
and a brogue to boot.
But no two stories are the same.
Some have a shirt,
some just sandy socks.

All of them
have a name.