I write things, in the middle of the night, under stary Oklahoma skies, under the guise of anonymity with the realization that hardly anyone in my life knows about or cares. 

Sometimes, I stop in the middle of the day, on an old backroad, and scribble fragmented phrases on napkins I keep, just in case. 

I bare my soul to a inanimate object in silent hope that I can somehow find myself in the words of my heart-speak. 

At dawn, I exhale my dreams into a page so that I can not forget or deny my subconscious. Because the heart has a mind of its own, and I dare not forget that it speaks. 

To whom? I do not know. To myself, to undercover writers, to shame-filled sinners, to dreamers, and society’s shunned lovers? Perhaps, because, I am all of these. 

Therefore, I will pour out from this overflowing vessel, so that it may be filled again and again to overflowing. 

The Hot Seat…

Now, you can try to hide yourself behind fancy words, new clothes, new hair, no food after five o’clock, no soda, no smoking, or happy hour but like I’ve always said, “A tiger can’t change its stripes”. 

Believe me, I know. Because damnit if I haven’t already tried. And for the most part everyone believes. Except for the select few. You know, the ones that can see right through you. 

Those people, well- They are fuckin dangerous. 

They don’t buy your confident smile, your high dollar boutique clothes, your expensive cars, your white teeth, your perfume for different seasons, your lingere, your porn addiction, your alcoholic intrusions, your secret obsessions. 

They won’t cash your check of self-dillusion, your power to please, to manipulate, to captivate, to dissimulate. It has no significance in the lives of those who stand nothing to gain. 

Truly, there’s only one or maybe two of those people who can really see. It’s no superpower, no whispered dream, no illusion, no gift, no title, no pedigree, they don’t need the help from some outside source, some cracker-jack wanna be. 

Because when you can look at someone else, you can peel away the pretense, the fear, the absolute need, you can begin to finally see, the only difference is you stopped looking at yourself to glance at me. 


She let the sun wash over every inch of her skin, she did not adorn it with clothes or swimwear, it was offered up to the sky with no false barriers.

Her palms were open, head thrown back,legs parted, back arched, eyes closed. There for the taking, she could never get enough of the warmth spreading from between her thighs.

Tiny droplets of salt water rolled downward following their gravitational pull, making people jealous of their travels.

Salty-sun kissed blonde hair swept back in a barely-there Summer breeze. It too envious of the sun’s places on her body. 

It’s scorching fingers, caressing delicate and begging skin, following the whispers of more as she turned away offering her other side.


I’ve never spent time in a jail cell but I’ve spent years in prison. A life sentence with no crime. Skeleton Keys locked away in the hands of one hundred forty-four thousand unknown jailers.

I’ve stood on the hills of a thousand cities and never saw a single light. Blacked out by the haze of history’s cruel lies.

I’ve tied thirty-nine nooses around my own neck and still I breathe the toxic fumes of your feared abomination. 

Strapped my bloody knees to the carpeted floors of a million temples. Poured a broken soul onto the alters. 

Drank from twenty-four Holy cisterns. Scorched my own tongue on Heavanly fires. Mumbled through sixty-six novels. 

I’ve prayed the prayers of the dead at the top of my lungs and whispered pleas of forgiveness in the ears of the living.

And I’ve swam in your lake of fire and gashed my teeth while begging for a sip of water. All of these things, just to hear the door,

of a single cell open. 

Danger Ahead…

They took old backroads, Summer sounds filled the cabin of their rattle-trap Ford. Dusty trails leading back to an open plain.

The overgrown grass waved in the humid heat. Indian paint brushes, sun-dried blue-bonnets, rolling hills of yellow-faced flowers. 

An invitational front porch, old wooden rocking chairs– peeling white paint. A tattered American flag, overalled leather- skinned men smoking pipes of cherry tobacco.

Bright red cannas, lemon grass, bugbane, indigo, pretty young things in baby blue dresses strolling down dusty dirt paths.

Over looking deep water ponds, cheeky teenage boys casting rods from the banks trying to catch the eyes of their girls-next-door.

Who roll up the legs of cut-off cheap jeans, untie the strings of barely there bikini-tops and drop the jaws of the middle aged husbands. 

That they close their wishful eyes and dream about backroads, Ford trucks, wild flower fields, and dirt roads with Siren’s that call them to the rocky shoals of Summer’s stillborn days. 

Lay, Lie, Laid…

I’m laying in the floor, laughing. Closing my eyes so tightly that I see stars, actual stars in the sky.

Because I’m dreaming, of the moment my eyes met yours and I couldn’t look away.

Not for a minute, did I ever believe I wasn’t in good hands, the way they move in time to match the rhythm.

Oh my heart, its staccato beat, like the sound of a million warriors taking over the jungle.

Of a mess, my mind used to be, right before you kissed my lips, the ones aching to be touched.

Lashed and lapped, heated before they cool in the day’s moonlight under your blanket, of stars. 

While I’m laughing and dreaming and laying on your floor. 

Fresh Start

What’s to fear in beginning again? Starting over, a chance to reinvent. 

It’s a gift, perhaps? To wipe away the grime of yesterday. 

To forget what has been said, say it again, this time because you know!

Tell the story, differently? Make a hero out of a faliure- make beauty in the midst of a stain.

Reinvent the past, it didn’t really turn out that way. Dreams and visions know one really knows- start again and be her, the one from your stories.

Be fearless, be determined, be breathtaking, and true.

Be smart, be funny, but most of all, just be you.


Has the world gone deaf? It seems no one is listening. There’s no important message, no earth shaking need, no desire to fix it- only empty space- a vacuum of nothingness

While I sit and scream and cry and plead, someone has turned down my volume- hit mute and whispered, must flee

Took my pen and my page and my voice and set them all a flame. Burned them into ash and scattered them to lay

In a pile of useless trash, left on a curb, a long forgotten playground of yesteryear’s full days- where speakers played on blast, the sounds of life and love and joy

The very day before, someone turned down the sound and simply walked away

Costly Mistake…

You can only tell them so much of the truth; all of it is just too much. 

Believing the lie is easier, for everyone– including you.

Because, you’d have to accept that the first lie built all one-million of the lies that came thereafter. 

Starting over from that one, would mean your entire life is a lie. There’s no such thing as the truth, that is a lie.

Not a little-white-one, it’s huge. It’s so huge that it blocks out any small shred of the truth, any fragment, any sliver, any hope of. 

So you fake it all, everything. Every smile, every laugh, every wish-you-well. Every dream and desire, you say it never was, because it can’t be. 

And you mean it, deep down you always knew. In fact, you regret that anyone else ever knew any part of it all. Because now, you don’t even own the deepest part of what was your truth.

You gave it to them, to wield as a sword. To cut you in two whenever they want. You sold yourself, cheaply for a dream, a fantasy, a wish. 

And now, you can’t afford to buy it back. 

Brother o’ Brother…

So now your scared? And we all have to pick up the pieces? Broken, shattered, splattered everywhere.

Your children, your mother, other family too, why don’t we matter that much to you? 

A needle, a pipe, a pill, somehow they have the answer that fits the bill. 

That cooks your mind, paranoia’s best bud, haphazardly setting up shop just to leave you buried in the mud.

And we roll around in it too, because everyone is trying to save you, to save themselves from a lifetime of regret? Or remorse? 

Do you really think you can still blame this all on their divorce? For how many years? Decades? A millinium or two? 

It didn’t effect just you! Don’t you remember? Can’t you still see me sitting there with my tear-filled blank stare? Trying to piece it all back, my mind still not allowing the slack it needs to just take a breath.

But, you…

You don’t really care because to you:

Meth is breath, is meth, is your