A Fly on the Wall Inside My Mind

Published poet on a good day. Aspiring writer on the bad days.

 My Witchcraft

Puzzled humans search for magical cures

to their man-made thunder that clouds their sunshine

when they are pushed off mountains,

and cross over into the badlands

desperately needing to quench their thirst

with my entrancing sorcery.


At the summit of their quest,

I spin around the pot inside my hostelry

and brew the most lethal potions

habitually uniting bottles of poison,

one after another,

to offer counterfeit grins,

and temporary chuckles,

to these befuddled humans.


My victims cannot resist the allure of my witchcraft,

my mixology,

so they wait patiently for more.


It’s always just one more.


It’s always one more of my venomous concoctions

they need

to course through their veins and nurture their beasts with in.


I watch mere souls transform

into vampires,

longing to feed their desires

to remember what it’s like to be inside of a human body,

after I feed them Bloody Marys’ to bring them back to life.


I talk to zombies who follow me

and rest in self-induced comas

left internally empty,

their absent thoughts constantly ringing,

and  so I charge them double for my therapy.


I expose werewolves covered in fur and retched teeth,

hungry to howl at more than just the moon,

and so I inject them with silver bullets

to entomb them into their own tranquil graves

and put them out of their misery

once and for all,

until happy hour tomorrow.


Regardless of the creatures I encounter,

I flow in constant motion

experimenting with mere humans,

subtlety converting them into the monsters

that hide beneath the mere flesh that they are.


I allow them to drink,

and drown in the nourishment 

that flows from my teat,

while I sit back and wait for more victims

and they continue to ignore my communication with the devil,

until we possess them all.


The Empty Fridge

I have a cheap, unopened bottle of red wine and

a glass spade with a little weed,

left with apple cider vinegar

singly searching for company in my stolen kitchen.


I have microwavable popcorn,

but no microwave.

Then again,

that room was never really mine anyway,

even though it was my name that was on it.


I’ve filled every inch of the walk-in with my dresses

and color coordinated my shirts,

while my shoes seized the other closet

the moment yours walked out.


I have the candles lit and

I hear the couple argue in the box beside mine,

“So I’m crazy?”


I turn up my music,

transitioned to Diana Ross

vibrating into lost connections,




I wake up on Sundays on my own time,

with the alarm set to what I like,

Caramel Truffle Medium ground,

and I find the blank book you gave me labeled:

“Beliefs don’t make us who we are.

Our actions do.”


So I let you have it all,

while I starved myself to the point of self-destruction.

I threw away that box you took over,

and donated our blankets.

I decided to get a cat

and let our couch go to hell,

while I buried the silver spoons,

and bought a few pictures here and there,

but I quit collecting material items

the moment they flew out the door with you.


I began to cherish the little things,

like my favorite bands’ autographed pictures

framed in an internship I compromised for you.

I keep my roots carved in license plates above the stove

with pictures of my present hiding the, still, empty fridge.


Blind Melon bazookas in the background now,

reminding me of what songs I haven’t sung in a while,

and I remember,

I always wanted to write,

but our walls were never quiet enough to.


It was the kitchen that was always moving,

and I was always too busy doing your side work,

and washing your dishes,

to be able to use my mind to see a future outside of dinner.


Until now,

and now my fridge stays empty,

while the blank pages of your book

feed themselves.

Fall’s Funeral

All the rustic brown,
orange, and green leaves
on every road
begin to lasso October
for his last threads of autumn.

Black clouds flush the fully lit stone,
and fangs soar the chilly midnight air,
the last breath the scarecrows will exhale.

The trademark V will possess the moon,
and pave south to hide from frozen return.
Pumpkins will wrinkle tea-light for children,
while bonfires crawl back inside chimneys,
as the sky unravels behind de-tasseled corn.
The depressed sun will sleep longer than usual
during her blanketed hibernation,
and the grass will awaken frostbittenly reborn,
the moment Mother Nature bares herself to the world naked.




The red eye dilates,

like a plague without a remedy for all the bodies

waiting patiently to be rescued,

while the stench of death compels lingering


that they should have acted yesterday.


It elevates quickly,

one to five,

like a last minute flight

booked too late to evacuate,

to escape.


And now, there are no more planes to take,

no more familiar faces,

no more blame, or shame,

only the presence of faith in an ocean full of rage

with prayers to God

that the hopeless make it home safe

and live to see another day,


while that thin line between love, and hate,

instantly disintegrates

as lives are at stake.

Exerpt: From this Novel I’m Writing

Another Saturday night in this hell-hole restaurant.   9:45 and I get a three top, almost an hour before we close, and I was just about to leave.

A mother, and her two early-twenty-year-old daughters sit down.

The mom orders an Amaretto Sour.  The first daughter orders a cranberry juice.  The second daughter says she needs a minute to mull it over.

I go grab their drinks from the other side of the restaurant, and come back, the other daughter in position 2 says, “Which is better, the Manhattan or the Hardy Pace?”

As a server, position one is the first position on the left of the table, then it goes to two, the one beside them, three, four, etc.  This is how everyone knows what you are eating, where to serve it, and if you change seats.  God save your soul if you do.

“Definitely the Hardy pace,” I said, honestly, I can’t even remember what’s in the two drinks I just want these bitches to hurry the fuck up.

               “Ok I’ll have that.”

The mother asks, “Can we have some of that Asian bread?”

“Um, excuse me?”  I looked at her as if she was stupid.  “The Artesian bread?” I asked questionably.

“Yes can we have some of that, please?”

“Of course.”

“Is it gluten free?” the mother asks.

I thought she was joking, so I looked at her again as if she was fucking stupid, “Um… no.”

“Oh well my daughter can’t have it then.”

“Its OK mom, you guys can still eat it,” position one says.

“OK we will have some of the bread, and how are these lettuce wraps?   They say they have gluten in them.”

“Yes mam they do, they have soy, so they are not gluten free.”

The mom looks at the gluten free daughter in position one and says, “Well, it’s not bread.”

The daughter says, “It’s ok, it’ll be fine.  We can get them.”

So many people walk into restaurants and claim they have an allergy to something

these days, especially with all the trends going on.  I have.  I hate onions, so I say I have an allergy.

An educated restaurant staff knows some things are not true.  This is the difference between a 10% fast-food/Applebee’s tip and a 20% fine-dining tip.

We know ingredients, preparations, allergies.  We know what wine to recommend, what food you will like, how to accommodate your high- maintenance ass.  It may not be  a college education, but it is certainly an education, a trick of the trade, and if it weren’t for us, you might die on the table from a nut allergy.

I had a lady call in one day for a to-go order in the middle of the lunch rush at


“Um do you have anything that is not made with mammals?  I’m allergic to mammals”

“Um excuse me?”  I said, thinking it was a prank call.

“Um, yeah, I have an allergy to mammals and I just don’t want to order something that will make me have a reaction.”

“OK mam… well a mammal will be cooking your food for you is that OK?  Because a mammal will also be serving it to you.”

Eventually the bitch ordered her food with no hesitations.

I went and grabbed the Hardy Pace for the girl and rushed back, “I put your lettuce wraps in, but I just want to let you know that if you really do have an allergy to gluten, there is a lot of it in the lettuce wraps because of the soy sauce, and I am told to inform you that you should not eat them.”

“Ok thank you,” gluten-free-position-one says, adding, “Can I have some ice for my juice.”

“Sure I’ll go grab it,”

I walk all the way back to the back, grab the ice, and come back to the table.

“Oh can I have a straw as well?”  Gluten-free-position-one says.

I force a smile, “Sure I’ll grab you one on my way back.  Are you guys ready to order, or do you have any questions?”

Gluten-free-position-one asks, “Yes what are the FrItes on the steak frites”

I corrected her, “Frites are the French word for fries. Pomme Frites equals French fries.”

“Oh well I can’t have them, they aren’t gluten free.”

I roll my eyes, while the daughter sitting next to her, points to the menu in front of position one and says, “Yes it is gluten free.”

I agree.

“Well just in case can I please have the mashed potatoes instead.”

“Sure.  How would you like your steak cooked?”

“Well done.” She said.


Of fucking course you fucking would you basic bitch.


Only Then

I do not need to intertwine vines,

while the seasons spring into blue and yellows’ offspring

and fall back into the absence of sweat and bumble bees.


I’m not going to constantly announce that my hollow trunk is rotten

while they yank each blooming flower,

and pluck my petals away probing for a seed.


I have many seeds,

and they all belong to me.


My branches stretch beyond the sky, and rest in the clouds,

while my undying root refuses to imbed itself into the earth quite yet.

I will not bear fruit for each shower that quenches my thirst,

nor will I blossom for all the rays that continuously flatter me.


My leaves will fall when the wind catches my breath,

and only then will I be naked.


Only then will I be bare,

unable to blend into the forest,

or hide behind the moon’s blanket

that protects me from the sunburn of each dying day.


Only then will I suffocate as I slide on black ice,

in search of the dirtiest mud to sink my spreading stem into,

and only then

will it all be frozen from my callous bark.


Only then will I stare at my vantage point,


looking at the distance,



for flowing water that treads deeper than the rivers,

or oceans,

that never stand alone.


And only then,

I will stand alone,

and attempt to drown myself in a stream,

I let evaporate under the sun.

Teaching a Girl Fantasy Football

I will never play for money,

always from the heart,

refusing to draft a player,

or let them lend me a dime,

I refuse to back a rival

in a team that has done



and if you are a true fan of the Falcons,

you will understand why I’m not sorry.


Fuck Seattle,

Fuck the Pats,

fuck Greenbay,

and fuck the mother fucking Saints.


Loyalty is everything,

and I have the utmost faith.


I will not sell out.


I will never choose Brady,

or Rodgers,

Nelson, or Adams,

fuck the points they could give me.


Dolph walks in to educate me.

“You might want to change your legions.”


“I don’t give a fuck, if I win or if I lose,

as long as I stay true

to the team that I choose.

I have watched you cheer for teams

that I never thought you would,

all because they might score you

points on the board.

I am not a sell-out,

and I can not cheer for the other side,

that is a found difference

between you and I.

Loyalty is my thing,

and now I see you are a lie,

I never want to hear you say again,

you are a Falcons fan until you die!”


Apologetic Flowers


Prepped in wax,

my stomach trusses like a chicken

under my dusted little-black-dress,

while his eyes smolder her half-buttoned shirt;

her flat chest that appetitizes his fingers

when she wants to crumble inside his palm.


She winks at me across the table,

where she possesses the muteness of his thumb,

and I drown my tooth-picked calamari into

fire-breathing red.


My eyes fuck the assassin’s scimitar,

slaughtering my rare filet in the window

behind her neck,

while my bitten tongue foreplays

with Tikal Malbec

and bleeds like the carcass dropped on my heavy plate.


I stab each tender, salacious bite slowly—twisting each tine,

deep into my serrated, tortured steer,

while her stilettos chew up his feet below my chin

and she roasts her rack of lamb right in front of his processed pig.


I wonder what he whispers to her

through his lips that have gorged on more than just my skin—

when he has ingested my erotic moans and molded caves into his dick.

I imagine it’s something more than my swine vile that quenches his thirst,

like a pedophile who strangles a cherry just to take its breath away,

like an apple plucked every spring.


And I realize, when her thighs begin to curd into cottage cheese,

his mouth will water for my homemade recipes.

She will mold like old bread that waits to expire,

and he will chuck her in the garbage with his apologetic flowers.

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