​“Look, I don’t need you dying of cancer when I’m an old man” he tapped out the text response and watched the Dorito powder streak across the screen of the phone his now ex-girlfriend had given him the year before. It was just an excuse, really, a gas light. He was already an old man, and battled high blood pressure with medication, cheeseburgers, and Pepsi. Plus, she was almost a decade younger than he, time was on her side. But he was upset and had been caught totally off-guard.

                His concoction of lies hadn’t fermented exactly as planned. It was his hope that she would just swallow his excuses like cough syrup. Her ingestion would have bought him time to see if maybe the grass was greener elsewhere. He wasn’t expecting her to show up at his place for breakfast before he’d left Lé Hotel Michélle. She’d never been so brazen before. He had underestimated her. Oops.

                She’d been a morning cigarette and coffee girl for more than twenty years at that point. There was no hiding that fact, and it was, indeed, a fact. She’d suffered enough loss to last a few lifetimes, paid her bills with well-earned money, and ran a household single-handedly. Morning caffeine laced nicotine helper her focus on the trillion things she tended to daily.

                She knew it wasn’t an endearing habit, but there were far worse things to crutch, so she refused to beat herself up about it. Consequently, she refused anyone else to do so, either, including him. Who was he to judge, anyway? He had his addictions.

                A smoke with her coffee every now and then was not about to equal a cancer diagnosis. They both knew that. Well, at least she knew that. She had studied the genetic and environmental factors known to promote cancer cell growth. Maybe he hadn’t had that opportunity.

                He was just pissed that she busted him out. He’d been caught with his pants down, as it goes, and her morning habit was the only dig he could muster. He tried to slant the story and accuse her of lying about her ritual, which was laughable at best, since it was no secret. She held no secrets. She lived life in a way that disabled such a thing. Life was messy enough without the lies. He knew that about her, too.

                She had shoveled her life story to the man from the word “go” and it was not all sunshine and roses. Nothing ever was at their age. Every divorcee and single parent past the age of thirty carried their fair share of baggage filled with individual histories of heartaches, scars, and damage. It just happens. Life is messy, after all. But this was a mess he had chosen to make. This was his choice.

                The day before she caught him off guard, he had fed her full of bullshit. It was storming like crazy all day, but he was still to go hiking with his estranged teenaged son. The one kid that had been ignoring him for a full year. The one kid that refused to get to know his dad’s girlfriend, for reasons that seemed to change with his underwear. It was a not-so-perfect lie, but one certainly designed to keep her away while he investigated other opportunities that could make his life easier.

                She had caught on to the subtle hints laid out by his adult children. He just wanted to ignore them, and wish for her to absorb such things, even if it meant looking a fool in front of her own children. His grown kids were crafty in their defiance, and mostly, she couldn’t even blame them. They were each a product of an unhealthy dynamic displayed by their now divorced parents. They were the kind of divorcees who weaponized their offspring; each one disparaging the other to each of their kids. They treated the affections of their children like property. Each parent wanting to steal those affections in any way they could, just to hurt the other parent. It was spiteful, and ugly.

                His ex-wife had remarried to a man with money, and no children. That was ok with his kids, as it was the perfect mix of a possible inheritance with no one to contend with. No new people to accept, aside from mom’s new husband. That was tolerable. But dad had found a lady with two kids of her own. They didn’t care for that scenario. So, instead of opening their hearts out of respect for their father, they decided to lay inconspicuous traps meant to divide.

                He grew tired of her discussions about how to bridge the gap. Bridging the gap meant that he would have to confront the situation and lay cards on the table. He didn’t want that. There were cards she didn’t know about. Hell, there were cards his kids didn’t know about. Like the card where he expressed how in love he was with her, and about how he envisioned building onto his house so everyone could live there, or how they might purchase their own home together; a home with room for them all.

               A whole year into their relationship, and he hadn’t even tried to express those cards to his kids. Not to mention the cards that showed how he treated her children when his own weren’t around. It was all too terrifying for him. She understood all of this and had been quite patient. She had her own kids to look out for, too. She wasn’t in a terrible hurry anyway, but the dividing games needed some attention.

                She held a point of view that if light was spread onto everything, then there would be no room for darkness, no room for confusion, and only room for growth. Light helped everything grow. Plus, who were the adults in the relationship? She never wanted to run his grown children away from him, rather it was quite the opposite. In fact, when his son decided to bugger off, it was she that would mention various ways for him to bridge that gap, too. She often encouraged him to set aside time for his son. But there was obviously something in those cards he didn’t want her to know, so he would shut her down with more bullshit. It was all very unfortunate.

                 What would make his life easier would be to find someone else. Now that his kids were recognizing him and wanting more of his time thanks to the jealousy brought on by dating someone with kids, it would just be easier to find another woman without kids. Or another woman whose kids were already grown. Hell, maybe a woman with more of a financial windfall. So, when an old friend messaged him that she was currently separated and coming to town for a visit, well, that provided an avenue worth investigating. But he didn’t want his girlfriend to know, just in case that avenue was a dead end. That’s when his concoction of lies began, along with the underestimation of her intelligence.

                 Instead of going hiking, he went out to the bar to meet his aspiring possibility. Of course, he had his eldest daughter come, too, to make it seem innocent enough, just in case things didn’t pan out. Or maybe it was just to get her opinion. Was the new lady/old friend worth pursuing? At any rate, the next morning was when he was busted out. He wasn’t home when his now ex-girlfriend showed up. She texted him, then went in to let their dog out, the dog she had helped raise from a pup. That poor dog hadn’t been out to do his business in quite some time, as he had his legs crossed. She had never seen a dog piss and shit simultaneously until that very day.

               It took 30 minutes for him to respond with lies to her text that morning. By then, she already knew that she’d been betrayed, and that he apparently held no respect for her, or for her own children. If he had, she wouldn’t have been sitting at his kitchen table constructing a “What the fuck is this?” letter. His concoction had soured. It was ironic, though. His attempt at keeping her in the dark had helped to spread the light. He needn’t worry about her dying of cancer anymore. 

​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.