Blank pages, white screen
I have words I sometimes think
write them down like poetry
write them down consistently
then they stop, stop so suddenly
a blank page sits right in front of me
minutes pass then hours go by
words that dance but never abide
settle or structure or even really stick
words come in floods flashes extreme
but then there is none, no humidity
the well has gone dry, no more bleed
just pages being filled with black space
and tantrums

Daily routine

A woman in white watches slowly through the windows
watching the street she knows just where you go
sees you everyday about half past three
she knows you’re having an affair and with who it might be
a woman in white no she never leaves her house
she’s watching the passers by through the window right now
sometimes from the living room and sometimes from her bed
she knows who you’ve been meeting with and the time of day
she knows what you’ve been doing on your lunch
when you started your diet and when you’d cheat on it
the world is so predictable when you have time to watch
she is watching all the time and is even writing a book
a woman in white watches slowly through the windows
watching the street she knows just where you go
and when you least expect it something you can’t believe
a book comes out rather haunting about your daily routine

Stone days

everything I do
a joke for what
no one consumes
a portrait
of desperate be
a broken doll
American poetry
and obvious
lack the list
to kick the trick
the dragon flying
the pen is dying
words that fail
meaningless prevail
for every win
for every loss
the meaning of
a pointless cost.

Burning white

I breathe
something useless as words
I breed
the creation of things
things that mean nothing
but everything
words that dream of being something
I bleed
and rainbows drip slowly out
I cut
tell you what creativity is about
hell is
a fire that never dies
words that refuse to thrive
a rhyme with good time
I bleed and dine
in white

Creating magic

Every line is magic
when you know the trick
click the rhythm over
make the brain drip, drip
give over to the main beat
it all sounds like the same thing
make the feet keep tapping
we flow so sick
we rapping
when you got that magic
you write the words like tragic
Shakespeare would be stabbing
starving from the grave.

Sweet dreams are made of

We once again find ourselves falling. Crashing, really. Graphic and Wicked collide with a roof and then with a couch though with roof under them it really doesn’t matter.
They’re surrounded by the old world, the old, old world. Picture frames still hang on the walls, trinkets lay out on tables, and a fireplace sits before them with a radio on it’s mantel. The girls don’t see this. They don’t see anything at all. Graphic sleeps, deep and hungry. Wicked’s waking up, but she can already tell-they’re no longer in Kansas. She finally understands what that means.
Eyes still closed she reaches for Graphic, “Dude… you alive?” smelling the air: it’s entirely foreign. It almost burns her nostrils and then she remembers.
“We-we went over-we went over!” eyes burst open, “Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-wake up!” pulling rubble off her slumbering friend she feels the burn of untempered sun, she’s panicking.
Her skin’s growing greener the previous expulsion long gone, it’s effects rendered useless. Grabbing Graphic by the shoulders she shakes her violently.
“Wake up-wake up!“ she tries to keep quiet afraid of what could be around.
Graphic doesn’t stir only mumbles and drools. Wicked’s eyes bulge, her heart’s pounding while breathing in the heavy acid air. The freshness is killer. She looks around, it’s just a normal house. A normal centuries old house. A dead person’s house, a long, dead, person’s house. She prefers the sewers. As she looks at the dusty walls all the pictures blank destroyed over time-all the colors faded, hey mouth goes dry.
“Graphic get up-please-please wake up you bitch! You have to get us out of here!”
They should be dead-completely, and utterly dead. Wicked bought the warning: hook, line, and sinker. They’re in the dead zone and her only way home is dreaming of fried chicken.

The new Brenda

“GET ME THAT FOOTAGE OR YOU’RE FIRED!” Cindy screams throwing her script at the assistant’s face. “I am sick of these limp stories! This is the Cindy Owens show! The Cindy Owens show people!” stamping heeled foot she rages, “I need more from you,” her screams turn to coos, “Okay, sugar?” she grabs her assistant’s face he’s a young man, but everybody fears Cindy. Everybody. “I need you to get me that footage,” the last words a threat.
He gulps. This boy is shaking in his cheap shoes. He’s never felt this way and he doesn’t like it, but he swallows deep. “H-h-how? T-th,” he swallows hard once more, “they said no media I-”
Pinching his chin between her thumb and index finger she smiles, “Oh honey is that all? You go back and you tell them Mrs. Owens sent you. Can you do that sugar? Bring back the footage and,” in a loud whisper, “keep your job.”
Brett remembers Brenda and knows his dick won’t save his career. He’s not gold, after all. “Yes ma’am. I’ll return with the footage,” he turns quickly to get started, but before he gets away-smack.
Cindy’s palm finds his ass, “That’s a good boy,” the sound of her voice is humiliating, purposely so. Then she squeezes, he swallows, hard.Taking a deep breath he ignores the gasp from one of the female grips, and he shoots hard angry eyes at his colleagues assuming glances. He keeps walking. Head high, don’t let’em see you cry.
Then Cindy orders, “Move people! Back to work we’ve got a B&E to cover-get that cellphone footage up and running.” He can hear the room forgetting him. Just like they forgot Brenda, but unlike that bitch, Brett’s coming back-with or without the footage.


She’s at the counter again. Counting to ten-can’t stay idle too long or the boss will threaten her job.
She’s tired. This is her tenth day on. She’s been working long days and staying into the night-she needs the money. God, she needs the money.
She’s got a rowdy kid in the booth to her right. Her hands are on the counter-she’s got five more seconds. The kid throws a glass. Had five more seconds. She can’t hear the crash she just moves to pick it up. Robotic. She hates the feeling of the unconscious movement. The fact that she’s been a waitress going on too long now, it truly is automatic.
The mother of the kid catches her attention-she can’t hear a thing. It’s not alarming more of a Peanuts kind of thing-wah wah and all. She’s apologizing, at least, that’s what it looks like. The kid throws a napkin dispenser as her mother gasps in horror of her little angels actions. She continues to apologize then grabs her daughter by the wrist and sits her down.
The waitress sighs with a smile and a nod going to pick it up. She’s thinking it might be good to turn back on the sound now if only she had a choice. Today’s one of those days-there’s no choice.
Sometimes she wonders how the brain works, how days like this happen and how she’s managed to function without hearing the orders. She wonders a lot of things all at once before walking directly into her boss. His mushy barrel chest hitting her entire face. She’s not a small woman, but he’s a rather large, large man.
She backs up. He looks down stern face turns jovial and he laughs “lost again Cathy?” she can hear again. This doesn’t make her happy. She smiles and sighs thinking of what to say, obviously, too slow “that’s alright girl!” he grabs her shoulder, she shrugs, but he doesn’t let go “I need you to go to the back grab some more pies and display’em the new girls they don’t know how to make’em pop like you” she smiles, nods and walks past him as she does he swats her butt. Her face hardens.
The loud noise of the diner surrounds her as she’s reminded she needs this job. All the thoughts constantly working through her mind have found focus. Even if she wanted to fork the man’s eyes out, she just can’t today.
Passing through the double doors to the kitchen she walks toward the refrigerator, enters then quickly exits. “Goddamn it! Can we not fuck where the food is!?” the cooking staff just laughs having watched her walk in, knowing. “Seriously” she huffs stamping back out onto the floor. Shoving passed the double doors mumbling about the state of the world.
She smiles at the customers and nods to the other girls who all have smirks on their naive faces. They all knew who was getting hers from the recently released. She can’t help, but wonder what young girls see in post prison sex. Shaking her head the kid from before is at the register she smiles down at her. The small girl no more than six smiles while slowly raising up her hand displaying a proud middle finger. She smiles bemused and shakes her head.
She’s happier now, thinking that she needs the money for rent and not the parasite she gave up.
She goes back behind the counter starting back at ten peaceful-motherhood is for the birds.