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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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“O hell, what do mine eyes
with grief behold?”
Working with an old
Singlejack miner, who can sense
The vein and cleavage
In the very guts of rock, can
Blast granite, build
Switchbacks that last for years
Under the beat of snow, thaw, mule-hooves.
What use, Milton, a silly story
Of our lost general parents,
eaters of fruit?

The Indian, the chainsaw boy,
And a string of six mules
Came riding down to camp
Hungry for tomatoes and green apples.
Sleeping in saddle-blankets
Under a bright night-sky
Han River slantwise by morning.
Jays squall
Coffee boils

In ten thousand years the Sierras
Will be dry and dead, home of the scorpion.
Ice-scratched slabs and bent trees.
No paradise, no fall,
Only the weathering land
The wheeling sky,
Man, with his Satan
Scouring the chaos of the mind.
Oh Hell!

Fire down
Too dark to read, miles from a road
The bell-mare clangs in the meadow
That packed dirt for a fill-in
Scrambling through loose rocks
On an old trail
All of a summer’s day.

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Hello All,

I am sure many have noticed that I have not been on here in a while. You can find me on instagram.

I have not posted any new material due to some soul searching and over time you will see my blog change. I am currently in transition and reinventing myself as a writer.

I appreciate all of your support.

Thank you,

Braeden

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And how sweet a story it is
When you hear Charley Parker
tell it,
Either on records or at sessions,
Or at offical bits in clubs,
Shots in the arm for the wallet,
Gleefully he Whistled the
perfect
horn
Anyhow, made no difference.

Charley Parker, forgive me–
Forgive me for not answering your eyes–
For not having made in indication
Of that which you can devise–
Charley Parker, pray for me–
Pray for me and everybody
In the Nirvanas of your brain
Where you hide, indulgent and huge,
No longer Charley Parker
But the secret unsayable name
That carries with it merit
Not to be measured from here
To up, down, east, or west–
–Charley Parker, lay the bane,
off me, and every body

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I hold the most intimate

possessions

I hold your “personal” items

I hold your fixes and thoughts

I hold your chocolate

at the crack of midnight

I hold your lip gloss and chapstick

I hold the second volume

of your cherished diary

I hold items that give you something

that your husband can’t

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Stranded on euthanasia street

A number of casualties walk

on the chalk lines around the

thousands of the bloodless scarecrows

Weeds and black roses grow

in gardens of screeches

A morbid hawk hovers the emptiness

barking of a dog reverberates

Eyelids are glued to mailboxes

A mindless city stuck in the trenches

Watching television from the grave

Chuckling as coffins close shut

Numbness and laughter blend

Mothers cauterized by loneliness

Fathers gravitate to only lust

Avoiding love at all cost

Mice crawling from pillow cases

Skeletons playing poker Indian style

in front of the rusted closets

Using marrow as golden chips

Despair and poverty shook hands

Pull the exasperating plug

on any side of this hellacious town

Take a sip of cyanide before crossing

this sharp and dying town

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Rotten and spoiled

Under a behemoth sun

Thick as molasses

Bubbling and boiling

Covered in a thousand ants

Wretched and horrid

Even the dog whimpers

from gory stench

Earth worms screaming

A ruthless sight

Accidentally generated

Even the stars hide

behind the glossy clouds

Ground breaking substance

A couple created

living off the land

No animal will consume

Forever rancid

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Chopped up dialogue

Interpretations of saturation

Absorbed by lost brain waves

Unfolding by a misunderstanding

Swallowing mashed up berries

Filling heartache with sand

Surrounding it with ten pound cement

Reminiscing the foolishness

Blaming the scavengers

Walking down Cheap Wine Avenue

like a stray dog in an empty storm

Plagued with expectations

Relentlessly undressing the wounds

Baring the char broiled soul

Washing the spots of hands

Praying to turn to the left

to see the state of peace lane

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Woke up in the pitch black
Staring at the reality
Shackled with no hope
Barely crawling
Trying to move my tired body

Sounds of the sizzle
Shuffling of feet
Jameson walked down stairs
Scrambled eggs and bacon
glancing at my swollen eyes

“I’m sorry to hear about your father.”
A phrase that swam in my mind
over and over as I scarfed down grub
No time for drops of tears
No time for sadness
“I can’t stay in these clothes.”

Jameson paced like a rat
Imprints in his rattled mind
Struck a lonely frozen nerve
Nervousness and sweat blend
“I will get you clothes.”

Forgotten details befuddled him
Inside of me snickered
Ignited a circle of thoughts
Finally seeing a shadow
Outsmart the predator

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Shivering thru the animosity
Like a dungeon with a stench
A fourteen inch rustic door
No remorse or guilt resides
Disappeared in the thick of the night
Tip toeing in the burning fog
Covering her tiny mouth
Eyes wide as tears flood in fear
Disturbed by her resentment
A creeping shadow stands callous

Locking her in the musky trunk
Mystic drive to Blackout Hill
A lost and unknown address
Between crumbled mountains
Surrounded by jagged and lonely trees
A splash of maroon stains
As she attempts to claw away
Carried like a new born baby
in a pitch black bag
Throwing her down like a sack

Gazing up at the scene
Fumbling thru the grudge
Licking a sense of familiarity
Slightly a recognizable face
Face peeks out of the hole
Replaying the anxiety
Cold sweat drips on her frigid skin
Confused in a cellar
Trapped in a vault
Laying on the frozen bedrock

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Hello All,

I want to do something different. When I glance through the reader I see awards that are presented to bloggers from other bloggers. Most of the awards you have to reveal things about yourself answering questions and to me it looks like “homework.”

I came up with my own award that I hope bloggers will use. The only requirement you have to do is actually write why you like their blog with a solid description. Those shows that you are actually reading it and not just hitting the “like” button.

I came up with the title because if you open up the chest you may discover many talented writers if we all take the time to read them. Their work is the “treasure.”

You only have to nominate one person and pass the award around once you receive and accept it.

I nominate Kindra M. Austin. I nominated her because I constantly see her promoting others blogs. It shows she is reading and honing her own craft. Kindra is not afraid to write about politics, religion, and throws in a curse word to display her passion. Kindra’s writing is raw to the core and it’s essence has tough fabric.

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Charming pavement

Dazzling hopscotch

Skipping and jumping

Appreciation overload

Barely touching

the luminous ground

Dressed in affection

Block away from the

Everlasting sugar factory

A smile away from the

beaming playground

Sounds of belly ache

laughter and pride

Wishing the entire town

was abundant of love

and respecting humanity

Hoping and praying

the elated joy will expand

beyond this holy cement

Please check out my books!

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I am filled with darkness

and completely empty

I am losing touch

with full packages

I can not relate

Please fill me

with old clothes

to give to the poor

Please fill me

with toys

that children

can play with

Please fill me with

something meaningful

so that I can help

the deprived world

I am empty for a reason

to give others light

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I’m a fabricator

A creator of illusions

Wishful imagination

that does not have a

shut off valve

In and out of the rush

Inside the blinking

castles in the air

I’m a architect of phrases

A vivid storyteller

Dreaming of what

does not exist

A innovator of scribble

Fantasy maker

submerged with words

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Strolling down

Bleeding Havoc Lane

Counting the

shattered porch lights

Awakened by the

mountains of trash

Recognizing the last

names on the mail boxes

Falling aluminum siding

Mesmerized by the

paint chips

Boarded up windows

Awkward silence

Desolate skeletons

in the mourning closets

Tortured furniture

is howling at midnight

Roots below the ground

remain pessimistic

Only whiskey pours

from the ancient faucets

Slowly I pull up to the

street sign

Eyeing up the tape covering

the name

Tearing it off like it’s a sore

underneath

Burnt Memories displayed