Smiles turn frail and sapphire

Grins carrying cobalt bullets

Wrestling with a pocket of change

Standing in front of a phone booth

Eight hundred miles away from truth

Love took a freight train to misery

No emergency brake on this passage

Faster than a speed of light

Lost in all of the choices and indecision

Eight hundred miles away from lies

Wearing a royal trench coat of pain

Feeling like a thousand pounds

Too frozen and solid to remove

Still standing in front of a phone booth

Eight hundred miles away from her

Debating and contemplating

Fumbling with the quarters

Should I call her from Indigo


My books are available here.

She murmured sardonic puns, three line riddles and a secret written by her morning phantom
She was sipping on Coca Cola with percolating eyelashes carrying a catatonic grin
I sighed “your diabolical scent is quite ravishing and eloquent”

I didn’t mean to ignite the past
I didn’t mean to love you with the left eye
I didn’t mean to fall so hard with a faithless romantic

She gargled bits of authenticity, lucid theories, and swallowed a vitamin of intensity
She often spills her aggression, animosity, and uneven morals in her bloodhound diary
I cringed “your radiant light is piercing through the thick of the night”

I didn’t mean to surrender to your heart of stone
I didn’t mean to adore your nightmares
I didn’t mean to wipe away the rain in the storms

She has a mystifying language drenched in symbolism and an accent with a pinch of kindness
She miscalculated and misplaced the affection
I gave
I gasped “your insidious magic feels like gold, makes me wonder why your story hasn’t been told”

I didn’t mean to say those words
I didn’t mean to remove your veil
I didn’t mean to make so you afraid


My books are available here.

I know it’s Thursday when the nurse brings the little paper cup with five pills instead of three. A sip of tepid water and I go back to staring out the window. I can’t abide small talk. Never could. Better to observe my surroundings than spin idle words. My wife understood that, why don’t these young kids get that? Always on about the weather and am I comfortable and did I sleep well. Of course I didn’t sleep well. I haven’t slept well since I was brought to this place. I keep quiet, I know when to keep my mouth shut. It’s Thursday and she always made meatloaf with gravy and fresh baked rolls on Thursdays.

I constantly see him gazing. I can see memories crawling up and down a mammoth hill in his mind. I can see his mind slowly deteriorating as the seconds go by on our grandfather clock. I often glare at the Roman numerals on it and think of the precious years our love glowed. It breaks every piece of my heart to see him in a hospital bed. I thought I have embraced every minute with him. The last few years we have gone through the motions and hate the tears that fall into my lap. I’ve thrown away countless hours giving him the bare necessities and nothing more because of the silence that pierces through the friction of our marriage.

As soon as I close my eyes, I open them again to the sounds of a young woman opening the curtain. It’s no longer dark outside and I remember Sarah rose early during the week but slept in an extra hour on Saturdays. The nurse smiles at me and asks how I slept. She knows I haven’t slept but a moment yet her mundane prattling eases the sting of being away from my wife at least for a few minutes. I wonder when I saw her last. I miss her hand in mine. How her eyes sparkled as she laughed and smiled. Saturday mornings were made just for her and me.

He gawks at that nurse like he used to at me. I gave all of myself to a man that knew how to take but struggled to give. Parts of me cry like a baby. He never raised a hand or cheated on me. More often it felt like he was going through the motions. Parts of me are frozen. I often watch him sleep and watch his favorite television show. He was enthralled with details, crime, investigations, interrogation, lines of questioning, and trying to figure out the culprit. Benjamin Matlock was his companion more than I was at times. Parts of me chuckle saying that. Sometimes I even stare at that young nurse.

I remember this one evening, this evening when my wife, Sarah, was so upset with me because she had asked me to fix the sink in the kitchen, we were always having problems in the old house with it and she asked as soon as I got home please fix the sink but I was tired from work and I just wanted dinner and to watch the television, my favorite show came on right after dinner and I was so fascinated with the characters and the mystery and I was tired and I ended up falling asleep in my chair and when my wife woke me up she was so cross with me because I didn’t do as she asked and I remember I always liked to guess the ending of the show before they solved the mystery.

As much as I love him, too many times it came across in our marriage he was consumed by things that weren’t real. It was almost as if he was engrossed by make believe to avoid the realities going on in our marriage. He neglected confrontation and was absorbed by the simplicities of life (sex, television and food). I was marveled by his ability of not needing anyone. The appearance of being fulfilled by “things” fascinated me. I know there is more going on underneath but was never one to display that.

She sits and waits for me to say something. Anything. I know it. I can’t say a thing. What will she think? I was five when I learned my lesson well. Danny was eight. Daddy beat him until he fell off his chair, beat him until he couldn’t get up off the floor. Daddy said he’d learn his lesson. Daddy lifted the iron from the hearth and burned the sin from Danny’s hand that evening. I begged him to stop. Surely Danny would be good now! Daddy turned with dark, dark eyes and asked if my tongue needed the sin burned from it too. I closed my mouth and stopped my crying. I didn’t need the glowing red iron to brand his rules into my mind. I learned my lesson that day. Keep quiet and never get caught stealing. I never could say a word. How would Sarah look at me, knowing she married a coward. I stole the candy that day.

Danny hugged me tight. The tears were endless. William passed away at 67 years old and have been married for 41 years. Just like any other marriage we had our ups and down.

He was slowly decaying for the last 15 years of them. Our love was like rain – it poured, drizzled and sometimes it was dry. I can’t say he or even myself showed love consistently. I loved our memories but as the years went on both of us were going through the motions. Here I am sobbing creating more rain – the love we should have made. Perhaps it wasn’t just him falling apart in the last 15 years, it was myself. I took him for granted. I walked away with my hands clenched trying to be strong. Everyone stared at me. I needed a breath of fresh air and all I could see is rain. William loved the sound of the rain.


Check out Tara’s blog if you haven’t! This was a fun collaboration.

Here I am, I don’t have followers
I have sanguine blisters and
indecisions stirring in my reckless mind
I’ve stood in the corridor of my considerations
and wide eyed aspirations
I’ve been guided by intolerable vices, a stench of trivial knowledge and sarcasm
I have concoctions growing in my garden
I’ve borrowed money from my child like brother
to rent a house not far from the Porcupine River
We use to play like thieves, run like dogs,
and wrestle in the amber mud for hours
I live in a two bedroom apartment,
One block away from the Midtown bakery
On Sunday’s I can smell the Apple fritters
I’ve worked at the local grocery store since I was fifteen
“Lucky” isn’t a word in my vocabulary
I bite my fingernails as I ponder in front of my 1971 typewriter
From 9pm to 10pm I’m a rapid reader
I fell in love with Mark Twain and the storytellers from the innocent wild
Stuck on the lucid and elusive chapter ten
Captivated between the commas and engaging dialogue
I cough at the errors and sniffle at the page count of my thrill seeking novel
I stretch out my imagination like a rubber band
Manuscript growing like a an oak tree
Here I am, born an offbeat writer
The people who know me stand distant
Afraid to crawl inside the brain of characters
I left my day job at the age of forty two
Perspiration and diligence were on my side


My books are available here.

She’s exhausted from spilling ink
She’s uncertain with her fingertips
She’s wobbly and shaking on the inside
She’s powerless from the past
She’s flimsy as a thin piece of paper
Sing me a song for wide hope
Sing me a song for stretched out faith

She’s frail within her bones
She’s isolated from the rattle
She’s licking her wounds quietly
She’s aching for companionship
She’s comfortless and abandoned
Sing me a song for freedom
Sing me a song without chains

She’s tangled up in desolation
She’s withdrawn and torn down
She’s a tragedy without a witness
She’s reclusive and friendless
She’s a sky without any clouds
Sing me a song for change
Sing me a song for healing


My books are available here.

She disguises herself with prescriptions
and 1970 cliches. More often she sleeps in black leaves and clenches to the whispers of the blizzard. She prays to the secondhand lions and searches for forgotten riddles. She laughs at horror films and weeps at the comedy classics. She’s never used the word forgiven.

She wrestles with the fears in the morning and drowns in the insomnia at night. She speaks in a language without discretion. She plays with her skeletons in the closet. She ignores the left side of her imagination. She dances to jazz and dips her fingers into white pages to write enigmatic poetry.

She expresses affection with amber kisses and her fingertips. She said goodbye to her fireflies. She built walls with quicksand and tears. She stares at her right side of her imagination. She pleads with the stone truth. She’s witnessed more endings than beginnings.

She circles her anger like a hawk. She’s deprived of human decency. She loves with a small percent of her tattered heart. The rest is locked in a music box surrounded by caution tape. She sings to her frustrations to soothe the madness. She’s in love with only parts of her identity.


My books are available here.

Deep inside a serious social commentator
I chronicle little nothings from something
Residing in a seven hundred square foot
apartment with spaghetti stains on Saudi Arabia colored carpet
Exhausted from walking on egg shells and shrapnel from the one word responses
“I planted seeds, give me what I need”
She exclaimed with a riddle with her arms raised in the alabaster breeze
Shrugging my shoulders in discomfort
“You dealt me ripped cards, at Zero Point Boulevard”
Squinted eyes, zig zig aggravation, and
disgust is a ghastly taste
I use to dance in your verses and your loose lipped stanzas
Coincidentally there are no replies to my praise
Dwell in your manipulation, circus mind and a diary written in mud
Frankness stood upright and you ignored it
No transitions in your language, just a hint of apricot
Senselessness and ramblings squabble on this path
Coping is your worst enemy


My books are available here.

For I am the gust in this brilliant joy
For I am the hope in these disorientated chapters
For I am the trembling suspicion in the corner
For I am the optimism in your stained pupils

And the fascination pierces in the burgundy sky

For I am the prosperity in this shattered mirror
For I am the wisdom you have never heard
For I am the glare in the whispering blur
For I am the salt in your four seasons

And the enchantment glows in the burgundy sky

For I am the zest in your shaky bridges
For I am the rainbow in your weeping azure
For I am the shine in your rusty screams
For I am the fear in your gripping wishes

And the artistry blooms in the burgundy sky

For I am the peace in your self destruction
For I am the grit in your sandcastle
For I am the treasure you haven’t touched
For I am the daydream in your hallucinations

And the elegance radiates in the burgundy sky


My books are available here.

Scarlet’s Sin

Once upon a secret breeze
thirst and hunger tasted like transgression
Unhinged rage sought out an odyssey
from a provocative voice

And I swim into the deep of the saliva

A voluptuous silhouette in the sky
playing with precarious flames
splash of kerosene, a fatal match
Entwined in intoxicating magic

And I swim into the deep of the cravings

Disoriented from a hazardous touch
A forgotten goodbye evaporated
Dumbfounded and flabbergasted
Sucked in from a beloved sin

And I swim into the deep of the desire

Glazed from the saturation
Distracted and preoccupied
Falling in a pitfall of a fascination
Sinking deeper into the scarlet

And I swim into the deep where I may drown


My books are available here.

That’s the way the addiction grumbles
That’s the way the drunk stumbles
That’s the way the moon serenades
That’s the way the elephants walk in the parade
That’s the way the politicians talk
That’s the way the predators gawk

That’s the way the innocent dream
That’s the way the raped scream
That’s the way the fears surrender
That’s the way the cold remembers
That’s the way the lost are found
That’s the way the veterans weep to the sounds

That’s the way the truth should be told
That’s the way the lies are bitten and sold
That’s the way the victim cries
That’s the way the quiet feel inside
That’s the way the impregnator stares
That’s the way the son of a bitch cares

That’s the way the glass is poured
That’s the way the children are ignored
That’s the way the perception is skewed
That’s the way the label is crude
That’s the way the society thinks
That’s the way the one percent drink

That’s the way the air becomes stale
That’s the way the skin becomes pale
That’s the way the poets write
That’s the way the day turns into night
That’s the way the heart breaks into bits
That’s the way the last puzzle piece fits

That’s the way the thunder growls
That’s the way the thieves prowl
That’s the way the light disappear
That’s the way the dark becomes crystal clear
That’s the way the luck falls
That’s the way the anger crawls

That’s the way the perpetrators finger points
That’s the way the hippies smoke a joint
That’s the way the teacher dresses
That’s the way the students make messes
That’s the way the winners gloat
That’s the way the captain steers the boats

That’s the way the rich treat the poor
That’s the way the small companies closes its doors
That’s the way the snake rattles
That’s the way the beast fights in battle
That’s the way the cookie crumbles
That’s the way the insider fumbles

That’s the way the performers act
That’s the way the sky becomes black
That’s the way the song is heard
That’s the way the villains see the words
That’s the way the view turns into stone
That’s the way the virtuous become alone

That’s the way the branch breaks
That’s the way the dealers make mistakes
That’s the way the world divides
That’s the way the humans collide
That’s the way the people see
That’s the way the universe will be


My books are available here.

Maria laid down some finger tapping,
cement cracking, soul jerking, blue collar working, southern catfish blues
Maria crooned a seaside melody, number one remedy, a splash of sass, with a heavenly blast,
A feel good sunshine kind of tune

Chet was blaring his shiny trombone
JJ was banging his drum with his golden sticks
Ryan was strumming his acoustic guitar
And all the neighbors rocked until dark

And she will get you to clap your hands every ten seconds
And she will get you to move your feet in rhythm
And she will take away all your pain for a while
And she will make you forget what is missing
And if you make a left on Rolling Thunder you can hear the guitar playing
And when you drive away you can feel the earth swaying…

Maria cried out “Sha la la” with a swirl, a vintage southern girl, hitting high notes with a grin, no losers here all the jesters win, music playing all day and night
Maria dancing with a glide, happiness soaring in her eyes, carrying a enigmatic glow, putting on a show, her voice shinning so bright

And she will get you to clap your hands every ten seconds
And she will get you to move your feet in rhythm
And she will take away all your pain for a while
And she will make you forget what is missing
And if you make a left on Rolling Thunder you can hear the guitar playing
And when you drive away you can feel the earth swaying…

Chet was blaring his shiny trombone
JJ was banging his drum with his golden sticks
Ryan was strumming his acoustic guitar
And all the neighbors rocked until dark


My books are available here.

Sweet Ophelia,
Out of morbid curiosity
Are your lingering shadows in disbelief
Bitter tongue bound and burned
The scent of your scars never learned

Sweet Ophelia,
Between your warmth and generosity
How can you be in love with me
Sadness is a hummingbird in my eyes
Broken down with armor in disguise

“She deserves more than I could ever give,
But she clenches on to me as long as we both shall live,
Neither of us know what we deserve,
With her by my side, I can see my worth”

Sweet Ophelia,
Inside this snowflake feel the monstrosity
Are you afraid I will be the one to leave
Fear is the calm wrapped around my bones
Whispering “you are my center and my home”

Sweet Ophelia,
Of all the treasures and the uncertainty
Faith is trusting in the power of what you can’t see
How can you love a man who doesn’t love himself
For I have forgiven the stars, nothing else

“She deserves more than I could ever give,
But she clenches on to me as long as we both shall live,
Neither of us know what we deserve,
With her by my side, I can see my worth”


My books are available here.

From the mind of Braeden Michaels, drink from this cup, the raven’s poison, a concoction of his collected poems all about the human condition. Imbibe in the rainbow of emotions found in the soul’s colors and taste the bitter aftertaste when you’re drenched in rage.

Indulge in the reasons beneath dripping lust before absorbing all the ways we experience our wide-ranging flavors of love and finish off with a sip of self-destruction. This is us. Humanity. All the layers stripped away and arranged for your pleasure.


Check out my book on Amazon!

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ Reviews