Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends writing

between wooden pole and peach tree

my mother’s mother
was the last person in my life
who despite having a dryer
would at times
still hang her sheets

to dry on a clothesline
flapping crisp and clean
in purifying sunlight

as a young girl
how i loved to run
through her glowing linen corridors of delicate pink flowers
cool wet fabric braising my skin
giving in
to kentucky meadow breeze

hung by clothespins handed down
through generations of mothers and daughters with aching backs
aged oak soldiers still ready
for laundry duty

(country people are funny like that
when you have nothing
even the simplest thing becomes
precious because it was your great grandmother’s)

i watched flashes of her through shifting panels
as i played

she would hum as she strung them up
between wooden pole and peach tree
giggling at me
smiling over my mischief

other times she seemed to be lost
the death of her firstborn son
18-year-old uncle i never met
would creep across her face

now i weep realizing her strength
her uncanny ability to make everything right
for those she loved
in times gone wrong

the result being fresh
unsullied purity to the skin
upon crawling into a summer night’s dream
so soothing
as to lull
the most fitful soul to sleep

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

the anarchist’s canon

i need at least 5 more years
to kill the anarchist’s canon

to read everything a writer needs to read
to justify opening their pen cap and mouth

the goal then becomes living to 60
to write everything i want to write

but my liver and the wild turkey are in a race
with my high cholesterol

my heart is a jar of mayonnaise

my headstone won’t be slim either

my body is killing me

thank god i’m living on kentucky time

avoiding church bestows ten years to those
who’ve swum in my gene pool

southerners are good at slow suicides

pass the salt and a joint, please

i want my corpse to look like she partied

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

poetry Short Stories Uncategorized

grand isle

these moments of wanting
i love you
she whispers
only you
tucking her face into his neck
this man who had saved her
they had chosen each other
such suffering to endure
this indulgent desire
grand lamentation with seductive voices
regarding the union holy
every moment sacrosanct
in their arms and hearts
desperate exchanges
confessions and our fathers
covered in black lace
catalysts for renaissance
conduit for life
divine reciprocity
existing not as possessions
but within a shared passion
a worthy religion
accepting they will be the end of reason
and each other