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Antidotes tasting like black coffee
A chalk outline of Patterson’s grumbles
China dolls parade 13th street with
residue on the corners of their mouths
Adversaries hack up off colored jokes
under a jagged and teary eyed sun
whispering forgotten fairy tales
“I can’t shine, I don’t have time,
I’m lost and forgotten in these rhymes”

And the ghost of Patterson counts his secrets
Smears his name at the gates for attention
Picking the lock, shouting at the kingdom

Romantics playing hopscotch on
cracked and overused sidewalks
Protagonists and thieves banter
in the smog at Jameson’s bar on Kingsman
Cynics and skeptics erasing evidence
of hope on belligerent walls
Butterflies flying over restless Samaritan’s
chained to oxidized dumpsters
Walker struts with a nervous alibi

And the ghost of Patterson counts the bullets
painting his name on the golden walls
Crouched down, yelling at the kingdom

Walker stalks the neighbors, wrestles with friction, and turns into a killjoy
Leaking out minor details and spilling of a lethal homicide filled with inquiries
Butterflies swarm the garden, surrounding a sealed box
Sounds of an ax break the venerable crate
Intriguing signatures, bag of money, and a letter from Patterson to a world class criminal
Conviction and Walker go hand in hand

And the ghost of Patterson sheds its feathers
Staring up at a dot of light,
Staring down at a dot of black,
Cemented in a glass underworld

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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.

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Unpaved pitch black
Torturous and twisting
Glaring at a rustic sign
Unrecognizable and foreign
A lump in my throat

Cracked rear view mirror
Pieces of a faded sunset
Reflect a wrong direction
No map to point us South
Toward a new life, new route

Passing up Evergreen Cafe
Sipping on luke warm French Vanilla
Clenching to my hand
Whispering fear next to me
Grasping onto hope like a flask

I slip a quarter in the jukebox
My lips moving to a song
Forgotten in the tattered backseat
A memory that makes me yearn
For heat, flesh and forgiveness

Locked in the friend zone
Secrets guarded with a flag
Minimal and discrete conversation
Continually crossing borders
Stations only turned twice

Silence embraces then suffocates
Greener pastures a mirage
Our defenses are stone walls
Covered with heavy sighs
My hand crosses the fine line

Stuck at a broken light
Struck by the moving sensation
Trying to hide the risen tension
As she stares at my flush face
Urges from her leap forward

Unsure if he will yield
to the congestion of emotion
My smile a signal or a hazard
Time for me to shift gears
And fuel his lost passion

In the midst of driving
Unthinkable and unforgettable
Lips surrounded
Lighting a fire
Masterful tongue

The windows fogged
With curvaceous temptation
Our journey begins anew
A landscape drawn and devoured
In flashes of passing lights

Barriers removed
No caution tape around
Wanted and needed
Slipping into her palm
Astonished and amazed

Braeden – Non Italics

Amberangst – Italics

Check out Whiskey Tales and Spells if you haven’t! This was really fun to collaborate with her!

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Somewhere east along Highway 37
A neon sign flashes intermittently vacancy
The Scarecrow Hotel remains alone
Stained threadbare carpets muffle TVs
And tearful phone conversations
Sixteen parking spaces yet only four filled
Warm shower and a sagging bed for the night

The ancient bricks lure the demented and sick
Vultures eying through the windows
Black and blue clouds crying endlessly
Wooden floors feeling troubled feet
Surrounded by ravens and blackbirds
Five miles east of the bloodhound river

She threw her suitcase on the queen
Predictably it flew wide open
The latches never held right, just like her heart
Two changes of clothing to cover her bruises
He’ll never touch her again but
Wrinkled clothing and a wad of cash
Don’t heal scarred faces

The letter “E” is barely visible in the sign
Voices humming a overture in the cellar
Last names engraved on walls by spirits
Doorknobs hanging by three threaded bolts
Driveway gravel is black as night
Welcome mat covered in red ants

He stares into the chipped mirror
Five o’clock shadow daily dulls razor blades
Just like the rings that dull his once bright eyes
The phone bill shows her increasing texts
Every time he travels to pay for her wants
More hours, more money, more fancy things
Less of him with less of her, he looks away

Dark stories unfolding in the rooms
Sheets covered in lies and betrayal
Cigarette smoke stirring up shadows
Tiny cracks in every bathroom’s mirror
Brown mustard dripping from faucets
Stained tears found in the corners of closets

She hears voices not her own
Listens every day upon a rented bed
One weekend she opened her eyes
Bloody hands and a very dull knife beside her
Finally a quiet clean house
Ever since then she lives with a smile
Mama taught her little girl don’t take no shit

Storytellers, dreamers, and howlers visit
Intending to sleep but fall in the depths
Replaying memories of the past
Cynics and liars raise a toast at the bar
Tipping the bartender bullets instead of dollars
Quarrels served at the table tops

He loosens a tie used as a tourniquet
Money well spent on the tricks of a whore
Last Friday he played two gigs stacked
Brain damage found in riding a white horse
Picks up his guitar and hums a few chords
Remembers the eyes of a lover
It’s another night, another hotel, another road

A neon sign flashes vacancy nonstop
Full of headaches, screams, and lost souls
Built on a cemetery of the Crowe family
Generations of terror between 6am and midnight
Sleep is just a word inside these haunted walls
Stories never die…

Braeden – non italic

Tara – Italics

This was a fun collaboration! I enjoyed it. Check out her blog if you haven’t.

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Gliding into a smog

Pouring firewater into a shot glass

Exchanging gossip over

mixed drinks wrapped around

a mesmerizing saxophone

Overheating remarks on Socrates

Reciting lines from the book of Proverbs

Observing the couple in the

deep chocolate booth sipping

on luscious martinis and chain smoke

to the sound of the rhapsody

Entwined notes and soulful galore

Hypnotized to his shuffling feet

As he sways back and forth

Nicknaming him Jazz Brown

A entertainer in the center of the heart

Playing for thousands over decades

Married to his sweet saxophone

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Sweet brown sugar
Habenero pepper on her lips
Invigorating serene eyes
Dashing wild smile
Intellectual stimulating
Culturally educated
Admiring her heritage
Embracing her history
to build a brilliant future
Desiring your seductive mind
Appreciating the center
Itching to just be beside you
Absorbing your presence
Thoughts of you are magical

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The stench will never disappear. I sit here in agony replaying the years in my head. I stare into the pitch black and contemplating the decisions that I have made in my colorful life. I was a jester. I have discarded all the useful cards in the deck only leaving myself with only a few to hold in my tired hands. I steer away from the root. I run away from the tears that refuse to see the sun. I was the fool in believing in the word forever. You took me for granted. I took you for granted. You didn’t have the ability to own up in your own mistakes. You chose to be stagnant. I thought I was the infant in this relationship. I took my vows seriously. My heart is full of mush, layers of sensitivity, and the cream you find in the center of a donut. I wanted more. I craved depth. I took responsibility of my actions. I stumbled away shapeless seeking the truth. I am a lost soul. All I can see is a twinkling light. I will find my way out. If there is one thing I do well it’s being persistent. Nobody will tell me I can’t do something.

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Scolded by police sirens
Fire hydrants craving a drink
Chards of glass from the window
laying on the pavement with anger
Barbers and bartenders exchanging
witty nicotine sarcastic conversations
Mimes and witnesses pleading
the 5th amendment to the scene
Instigators snarl at the defendants
Allegations and half truths spoken like
lawyers in a lions den
Blood stains dry on Dripping Ink Avenue
Desperately screaming to the stop light
The curbside is a destination
for gamblers, burglars, and vendors
staring up at the mustard sun
Faces of debutants and vigilantes
walk past the New York landscape

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Blaring hardcore

Metal music rumbling

Guzzling down a fifth

of Jim Beam at

the snakeskin wheel

with her licking her

saturated lips in the

passenger seat

Scorching engine

Curbside flames

Gateway to the

magnificent underworld

Drenched in the

madness and her

lustrous eyes

Salivating on the

speed lane to hell

as lightning crashes

Aching for the bombshell’s

fingers on my

trembling knee

to release the

infernos tension

She’s worth the

impact and ashes

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I was born to feel

I was born to absorb my emotions a bit different

I want to see the world through others eyes

I was born to be a poet

I was born to be a writer

I want to be in touch with my tears

I want to know where they came from

I want to know where your scars came from

I want to understand you

I was born to be something I didn’t know existed

I was born to love you

I was born to share something that is suppose to bring us together

I was born to hold you

I was born so we could be together

I was born to love you until the end of time

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I don’t measure myself by the dollar earned

I don’t measure myself by possessions

I don’t measure myself by the scars

I don’t measure myself by what I write

I don’t measure myself by the quantity of friends

I don’t measure myself by my beliefs

I don’t measure myself by who I know

I don’t measure myself by my fears

I don’t measure myself by my philosophies

I don’t measure myself by my tears

I just don’t measure myself

I am who I am

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As I grabbed the notebook I cried hard. Words poured out:

Dear God,

I am suppose to believe in you. You took my Dad and I’m very mad at you. I don’t understand and why won’t Nathan cry? What is wrong with him? How could you do this to my mother? Is it possible for you to provide me answers soon?

As I was writing this my mom yelled up.

“Allie is at the door.”

I threw down the pen and wiped my tears. I went downstairs to let Allie in. She said my mom called her mom to tell her the news. I could tell she didn’t know what to say.

“Are you going to school tomorrow?”

“No I’m not going but will go sometime this week. My mom said there was lots to do. I don’t know what she wants me to do.”

“Did she tell you next weekend you and Nathan are staying with us?”

“No she didn’t.”

“It will be fun.”

“Allie Do you believe in God?”

“Yeah I do.”

“Why would God take my Dad?”

Allie just stared at me for a moment.

“I don’t know. I can’t really answer that. Is your notebook full yet? You said you would write something every day.”

“It’s almost full. I wrote something today.”

“What did you write today?”

“Today I wrote a letter to God. I’m hoping he will get it soon and write back.”

“I don’t think that’s how that works.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well at church we are told to believe in him. I don’t think he gets mail in heaven. He doesn’t wait for mail. My mom always says things happen for a reason.”

“So are you saying God took my Dad for a reason?”

“I don’t think it’s that easy to explain Ben. He didn’t take him to cut grass in heaven.”

I didn’t understand what Allie was trying to say.

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A few months had passed and everything appeared to be normal until a early Sunday morning. I woke up to the sound of my mother crying. I laid there in bed and it sounded like she was on the phone. It was barely seven in the morning and Nathan was passed out cold. I never heard her cry like that. It made me nervous. It was then that I saw the knob turn on my door and saw my mother wiping her tears away. I closed my eyes immediately and she sat on the bed. She placed her hand on my face and softly said my name. I opened them up and my mom was frozen.

“Ben I have some bad news.”

She stopped right there. She struggled to continue crying. It struck a nerve in my ten year old body. I could see she was in so much pain emotionally. I could see it at the age of ten. I begin to cry and felt my world was about to change in a drastic way.

“Ben your father was in a car accident and he didn’t make it.

I sobbed just as much as my mother. Nathan was still sound asleep. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. How am I suppose to go on without my Dad? I was so mad. I was so angry inside. I sat up and hugged my mom for life. It was hard to believe that I would never see my father. My mom left the room to make us breakfast and I had to tell my brother. I woke him up and told him. He didn’t cry, he just looked at me.

“So Dad won’t ever come home?”

“No.”

“He was going to fix my bike. Ben who is going to fix it?”

I didn’t have an answer for him and was confused that he didn’t show any emotion. Our Dad isn’t here and all he could do is think about his bike. I didn’t get it. How can he not show any emotion?

It was a gloomy Sunday. My mom called everyone she knew to tell them. She was in tears all day on the phone. I walked around my house imagining my Dad not being here in the house anymore. No more playing football. No more car rides. No more wrestling. Something came over me as I walked around my house. I ran to my room and grabbed that notebook.