of all the good ones
the preachers’ kids
the deacons’ kids
I was in the thick of them
from diapers through learner’s permit
and I was the one who caused heads to shake
for daring to question things
God bless the pastor who took a knee
to thoughtfully ponder my heretical queries
who welcomed the pious punk
and all the questions that simply aren’t asked

interesting that I’m the one of the baptist brood
that prays and says grace
and curses when i’m glad
while the good ones grew
to worship the coin
saying “In God we trust”
fooling no one – we all know
how they got their gold
they stink of dirty money
blood-frenzied by equity
but they’ll always have a place
on Sunday morning
a quiet hour to sit and think
of ways to guzzle more and more and more
of their brothers’ dollars Monday morning

I am secure in my spirituality
my truth is lifelong pursuit
not something I glance at once a week
and only mention when politically prompted

they lash out hatefully when they don’t understand
but are internally justified
because they are the good ones

don’t misunderstand me
this isn’t contempt or resentment
simply a commentary on growing up
as one of the good ones
but deciding that I wanted more
daily i am thankful for parents with vision
who taught by example, love and respect
daily i remember the pastor who only thundered
when love was on the line
when the good ones radiate hate

there are good ones who stayed good
there are good ones who went bad
and there are good ones who write poems
about the good ones, looking back



force of habit
sleeping on the edge of a mattress that sleeps two
waking up, reaching out for warmth
finding only cold empty
a pillow never creased
never wrinkled
half of a comforter never turned down
leave it untouched, the hope is sweet
someday soon the dreams will
conjure a remedy to the empty
and then, will be only to sleep
unempty sleep
go to sleep you simple fool


here, take this spoon and gouge your eyes
I will do the same
we’ll set our optics on the windowsill
a quarter turn for each
maimed and marred
pained and scarred
but at least we’ll see eye-to-eye

next, we’ll use the kitchen knife
make sure it’s good and sharp
slice the skin and chop the bones
and carefully take out our hearts
they’ll thump, you’ll jump
our throats will lump
but our sleeves will wear them well

our surgeries will be messy
the linoleum permanently stained
but once the acrid smells have aired
we’ll be better people for it
we’ll be better
we’ll be people


i want to die like a firefly
a violent smear on a windshield
one final glowing blaze of glory
to let you know
i was

i want to live like a lightning bolt
a terrifying point in time
unbridled burst of brilliant vigor
to let you know
i am

i want to begin like a maelstrom
a tempest to shake the heavens
a harbinger, a prophet, a wayward fortune told
to let you know
i will be


the future ignores me
and that is haunting
i won’t be there, in the future, for very long
maybe fifty more years
and then I’m done
I’m not afraid of dying
but of being ignored
how many billions of people have died?
how many billions more
by the time I’m gone?
and how many of those dead ones do we remember?
fractions. splinters. a dusting.
time won’t remember me
the chances to leave my fingerprints
on the wet cement of life
have come many times
and gone
less than a shadow
less than a whisper
a nothing
a clear, empty, never was
that’s what I’m afraid of
because it cannot be avoided


between clasped hands and heads bowed heavenward
before knees bent on marble floor
and mumbled litany of desperation
echoing amongst the belfry
there is no god to hear
no saints to intercede
no seraphs to take heed

nestled in archaic stoup
blessed water to grace hands
to sprinkle over cherished babes
to banished spirits, darkly wrought
to pave the wave for prophets
there is no god to feel
no saints to offer rest
no seraphs to abide

in ancient wooden relics
carved by anointed hands
in bones of believers young and old
laid to rest in ordained tombs
there is no god to understand
no saints with revelation
no seraphs to appear

behind the final breath
drawn from the bottom of lungs
in the last frightened prayer
flung into the tidal dark
there is no god to pardon
no saints to welcome in
no seraphim to join



In a tense standoff between Group A and Group B
a double-standard was touted as freedom of speech
even as Group A activists sought to silence Group B
in what the former called “a crusade against fascist propaganda”

Authorities responded with what both groups called excessive force
but representatives from Group C applauded the action
and leveled a Twitter campaign against Groups A and B
causing the hashtag “#VitriolicIgnorance” to become
a trending topic within minutes.

The peaceful demonstrations turned violent when the equality
of both groups was threatened by the authorities, acting of course
on behalf of the Establishment. Groups A, B and C protested
this act of inequality, and the resulting penal action further agitated the crowds.

In a press release from Group D, representatives blasted both
the three previous groups and the establishment saying:
“Everything everyone is doing is completely wrong and a lie.”
The group later issued a statement denying the comments
and apologized for any perceived offense.

In other news, space is still our last hope for survival as a race
but no one seems to care, or is more interested in who they can find
in the latest data leak scandal.

In tech news today facebook, Google and Amazon want your soul
and selfies are still a thing

dec. 2015



Fate (I’m told) left a fingerprint on my glasses lens
now I can’t see but it seems to be fine
It’s nice to know She is aware of me
A decent trade- sight for blind faith
I can’t be sure, but it seems to me
that things are going better now
True, I missed the bottom step
and broke my ankle
But Fate (I’m told) works mysteriously
and perhaps the fracture is part of the plan
Impossible to know, but I’d swear my life is easier
for the finger-shaped smudge obscuring my vision
and the Fate (I’m told) that put it there
that makes me break my bones

moving and shaking

Happy Wednesday, dear followers.

I’m excited to let you all know that I am shifting my focus from poetry to short stories, and I have some really fun things to share with you all. It would mean a great deal to me if you would follow me at my new blog and join me in a new literary journey.

I’ll still post the occasional poem here, and I have a few other fun projects I’m working on that I will share here as well.

If you haven’t already, hop on over to Instagram and follow me @13bottlesofpop too, I’ll be sure to follow you back.

And finally, thank you all so much for following, liking, reblogging and commenting on my work. This is a very emotionally involved endeavor and your support is like the breath in my lungs. Stay awesome, keep writing and thank you, thank you, thank you.