Americana analysis art atheism behavior belief childhood comfort death divinity domestic violence geneology local color love poetry religion rituals self-love sociopathology Urban Legends vice war writing

old time religion

my parents were screaming

at each other

in Baptist curses

doors slamming

phones torn asunder

sounds of a home splitting apart at the roofbeams

my father throwing the floor model television out the front door

and one frightened sister

smuggling me out a bedroom window to another protective sister

that may not have all happened on the same night

it was so long ago &

this wasn’t constant

not your average weeknight at the Young’s house

but it’s always the first time

that matters most

activism addiction horror Uncategorized

fuck you, all the same

as the days pile up

flash bulb memories

are what i remember

of the alcoholic father

the alcoholic first husband

the drunken loss of a decade with the blue eyes

it may be a disease but that makes you no less vile as a person

there’s no excuse for

trembling as my dad threw a giant television set out the front door into the yard

stairs turning upside down as the father of my sons headbutted me into submission

for wanting to leave his dysfunctions

threats of handguns and bodybags

that’s booze soaked rage

a blitzkrieg of anger

a pot boiled over

every tea kettle in the world simultaneously

spitting steam


Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends writing

he would complain i never wrote poems about him

there is a place where love dies

it is halfway through a liter of whiskey
when his furnace eyes burn
a dying madman’s gaze

i’m five again
and afraid of what daddy is going to do to mommy

like a fool i try to hide what’s left in the bottle
to keep his sickness from swallowing the house

crying out to god in the sink hole
haven’t my children suffered enough

but the gesture only serves to fuel the monster’s rage

backed into a corner
his hands wrap around my throat
spitty growl threatening
to smack me with
a hot iron

all i can think to myself is
you got what you wanted
you stupid bitch
such a fine job you’ve done replacing your father

never again will i accept this as love
i own the shitty choices i’ve made

but some insidious bastards
deserve to get cancer of the eyes

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends writing

i can say this if i call it art

do you remember holding me down on the floor
and blowing cigarette smoke in my face
then spitting on me and slapping me repeatedly?

do you remember tearing my clothes off
and throwing me out the front door
because i wanted to take my children and leave
your sickness?

do you remember the way you would squeeze my throat until my eyes bulged out saying
you cunt i know how to not leave marks?

do you remember saying if i got away from you
you would hunt down everyone i love and kill them and then you would kill me in front of our sons so they would know what their dirty bitch mother had coming to her?

do you remember slapping our boys in the face repeatedly
snot and tears running down their faces when I found you torturing them
because they couldn’t say their abc’s?

do you remember any of that, motherfucker?

i do

and one day i’m gonna come for you

it will be the day i receive a terminal diagnosis

this isn’t a threat
it’s a promise i intend to keep
as you used to say

i still have that hunting knife you gave me
and i’m gonna return it to you
from your groin to your gullet

poetry Short Stories Uncategorized

a kentucky suicide

twenty-nine year old

mother of three

stair step children

all under the age of seven

laboring under the weight

of her fifth month of pregnancy

with the fourth baby

came home from work one night

and shot herself twice

once in the head


once in the heart

yet it matters not

the numbers don’t add up

or that her commonly unlawful  boyfriend

was never charged with the crime

because ’round these parts

they call that sort of death

a kentucky suicide