Midwest Marauder: Promises of Missouri

by admin on July 12, 2012

Midwest Marauder

* Someone very dear and close to me made a revealing observation about this piece, one which I have never thought about during this writing phase of mine. It was bought to my attention that no matter how innocent or artistic a piece may be to me, others may find it quite offensive and the citizens of the content may be outright insulted. That, by far, was not my intent when creating this. Again, it is merely an outsiders opinion, not one based on facts or hard data. With that being said, I submit this of my own accord, not implementing anyone directly or indirectly in this material. I and I alone express this view and will be held responsible for all if any ramifications for said published piece. Thank you, Brain, for bringing this to light. You may not know this, but I do listen to you.

Promises of Missouri

Missouri, Missouri

How your words are hollow, echoing through your limestone caves, slithering across your River, only to come out as falsehoods and lies. With all your surface beauty, your infrastructure crumbles from within.

You promised me family values, emphasizing the importance of marriage and children when the reality is the matrimonial unions are rocky, unstable; the couples only going through the motions, displaying a facade of unity, easily seen through once behind their closed doors. Your children unhealthy, obese with greed and lazy with technology, not desiring to reach their full potential, choosing instead to stay complacent within the false security of their hometown, their futures bleak and unsure.

You promised me community, a wellspring of hardworking individuals driven to better themselves and relish in their historically rich state. No, that is not what is here. The population and the powers that be have allowed the McCorporations to waltz in, dazzling them with empty promises and cheap goods, wreaking havoc among the locally owned businesses, the citizens forgetting and turning their backs on the very entrepreneurs who had catered to their needs, fed them, clothed them, The Marts and The Depots leading the way. Shame on you for allowing this travesty to unfold. When the wells run dry, when the last red cent is gone from your children, they will depart just as quickly as they came, leaving disappointment in their wake.

I arrived here under the assumption that agriculture and industry would be thriving, being essentially the epitome of the Midwest. What is here is an economic train wreck. Your factories closed, leaving thousands unemployed, further destroying families. Factories whose chimneys once spewed plumed smoke thick with promise and profitability now stand dormant with abandonment; a solemn reminder of what once was, yet another black eye on your already battered face, never to fully heal.  Buildings left empty, lining neighborhoods with reminders of destitution. Land untouched littered with ‘for sale’ signs, waiting impatiently for buyers.

Truman, the great son of your hills would not allow this, neither should you. Follow through with your idealism of simple living, family values, and prosperity. Be a state of your word, separating you from the others. “Show me” that you are better than this.


Heartbroken: Poisonous Lips

by admin on June 30, 2012


 Poisonous Lips

 The things you say…

Hurtful, dagger-like, leaving multiple stab wounds which leak of my very essence

Purposeful and direct, they peel back my defenses, exposing the soft underbelly of my heart

Leaving it vulnerable to the onslaught of your malicious verbiage; you surgical in your delivery, knowing precisely what to say to wear down my defenses.

A masterful linguist, you bring me down with but a few fleeting words.

I fall face first, my knees giving out, my joints no longer having the ability to hold this frame as your verbal barrage continues

The wounds open further, my love cascading out in copious amounts, never to return, never replenished.

My soul lies curled up in the corner, feeling the soil falling over its head, death imminent, accepting its fate.

You’ve got everything now.

You’ve broken me with the very mouth that once spoke of Love, now only spewing hurt, bullying me into submission

Subjecting me to the abyss of sadness.

The things you say…



To The One I Love: Then There Was You

by admin on June 14, 2012

To The One I Love

Then There Was You

When I gaze into the evening sky, the stars form a constellation resembling your face

Looking down upon us mortals, illuminating the way for what was once my lost love

With my one hand, I reach up, outlining your features with a single finger,

Enjoying that face within these grabbing hands

A celebration of intergalactic proportions, here for my eyes only

My own Heaven on Earth

Crying for the desire of you, the need of you

Out of nowhere, materialized through passion and loneliness, saving my turbulent soul,

Rekindling my faith in Love

You and your beauty, answering my numerous prayers from all those bedside nights on bended knee

Fulfilling for me what had eluded me from birth: a righteous love, a love with no boundaries

Love manufactured and designed for us exclusively, the mold shattered, for one use only

God’s touch personally interwoven throughout the finished product

I had almost given up hope, burying myself in the problems of Man

Material possessions cluttering my being, working myself to the bones

All the while hanging on to the elusiveness of Love

Money not quenching, not remotely satisfying my thirst for you

Then there was you and I’ve been a better man from first contact

And I will be alone and spend the night with you


Diary of a Disgruntled Waiter

Do Unto Others

            * This was written earlier this year. I was hesitant about posting it (especially when seeking new employment) but I feel its content falls true to everyone in this crazy business of ours…

So the New Year is here and that means a new outlook on life, right? It’s a time when we shed all old, bad habits and embrace change and move forward in a positive matter. Am I right so far? I like to think that I am. With the death of Bin Laden, The Rapture being nothing short of a joke and consumer confidence somewhat back in full strength, the majority of people within the city seem to be in good spirits and ready to take on 2012 with renewed vigor and vim. Even the weather is cooperating, without even a flake (so far) falling from the sky. And this is February!

Maybe this is God’s way of making life a little easier for us sheep here below on Earth. Maybe after all that 2011 threw at us, it’s a well-deserved break from the madness of life. We should pass on this peace, this calm to one another and bask in all that is good and wholesome.  As decent humans, we should speak and act accordingly, keeping in mind that we like to be treated as nicely as possible when interacting with one another. Lately I have noticed an increase in hospitality among people such as policeman, even the young lady behind the counter at McDonald’s, the mail man…all off these people are treated with the utmost respect (for the most part) and it goes without saying, they are definitely needed. But what about the waiter or waitress at your favorite eatery? Do they not deserve the same treatment as those that serve and protect? I think so but it seems as though people (especially here in New York) go out of the way to make life miserable and challenging for these poor souls and for the life of me, I cannot understand why this seems to happen. It’s as though people go out and once they walk into a restaurant and seat themselves down, they turn into spoiled rotten brats, asking the most ridiculous of questions and requesting everything but what the restaurant actually has or carries.

Be kind. Spare the person who has the awesome responsibility of reading your mind to find out what your gastronomic needs are and follow a few simple guidelines to ensure proper service. Here are a few simple things to keep in mind when dining out as not to have the waiter/waitress go postal on you and take out guests as they leave from atop the roof with a semi-automatic in one hand and a bottle of Dom in the other.

Now as much as I’d like to think that every word that leaves my mouth is taken to heart and listened to by all those around me within earshot, the reality is that they are not. When you add in the fact that I happen to live in The City That Never Sleep aka The City of Who Gives A Fuck, my opinion means absolutely nothing in the grand scheme of things. That’s why when you survey the menu of the restaurant you chose to patronize on your Saturday night off, the last thing the waiter wants you to ask of him/her is What Do You Think of a particular dish or drink. We know our opinion means diddly -squat as to whether you choose the item or not, so why bother? You got your big shoes on now at this point in your life, so you’re on your own. Oh and when we do answer your inquiry about the salmon or the chicken, 99% of the time, we’ll reply with the first item you mentioned. Think I’m lying? Take a poll of the next ten restaurants you frequent and you’ll see that I’m right.

What’s More Popular? Can be summed up in three words: see above passage.

What Do You Like? Really? Are you that desperate for attention? Do you need human interaction from an overworked/underpaid waiter to somehow validate your dining experience? Okay, I like the well-done lamb with a side order of black-eyed peas. Should I make that for two for you and your significant other? Get real, everyone’s taste are different.

When your tired waiter takes your order, brings you your cocktail and or drink and kindly asks you if you’d like another one when you have like a drop left in the glass, please don’t answer with “not now” or “maybe later”; just simply say no. What is so hard about saying this one syllable word once people enter a restaurant? You’re just being indecisive; making your waiter asks you every ten minutes if you’d like another glass of house chardonnay while you steadily answer “I’m good for now.” And do you know what happens? You NEVER get another!!! Come on, I’ll help you. One, two three: NO! Now doesn’t that feel better, tightwad?

Ah, my fellow vegetarians. How I do sympathize with you when dining out with your fellow constituents and they chose to go to a steakhouse or a barbecue joint. I feel your pain, I really do. That being said, please do not scowl at your waiter when he answers your inquiry to what the Vegetarian Options are, and he tells you to review the salad selections in the upper left hand side of the menu and the side order options in the lower right corner. You knew going into dinner  tonight that you were screwed from the get-go, so enjoy that rice pilaf and mushroom medley side and wipe off that “I’m-so-shocked-you-don’t-carry-more-vegetarian-options” look from your face. I hear the fries are bangin’!

If you really want some seriously bad service and probably a high amount of neglect during your meal, just ask four little words at the beginning of your meal: “How Much Is That?” Watch as your waiter’s fake smile slowly transforms into a slight sneer right before your very eyes as they say the price between clenched teeth, “19.95, sir.” And then as quickly as they came to greet you, they are gone, only returning to take your order and drop the check at the end. Congratulations! You have just labeled yourself as a cheapskate and consequently, you just received cheapskate service. If you can’t afford to dine out, then don’t dine out. That’s up there with “Do You Have Free Refills?”

Control Your Kids. It is not the restaurants or the waiter’s job to babysit your child. We don’t give a fuck if they’re teething, colicky, or just plain crazy; we don’t care. Some waiters think that if you pay special attention to the child at their table that they’ll get a larger tip from mom and dad, but let’s keep it real. Most of the time, junior puts his folks back a pretty penny (especially those damn newborns!) and they barely have enough dough to pay for the meal, forget giving the waiter any extra outside of what’s customary. Don’t let them pull out all the sugar packets out of the caddy and play with them after it took the waiter ten minutes to stock them all up for his station. Don’t let them run around the joint, disturbing everyone else’s dining experience, hiding under the table and blocking the waiter’s path of service. Keep them on a short leash when out dining. Instill this in them at an early age. I remember when I was young that when my sisters or I acted up or even thought about breaking bad, my father’s hand would come loose from his arm and with surgical precision find its way across the back of our necks or face, depending on the level of our battiness, and like a boomerang, find its way back to him real quick. I’m not suggesting beating your kids, but if it works…

Finally going back to what I started to say earlier, Treat Others Like You Would Like To Be Treated. For some reason when people find themselves dining out, they turn into the biggest smartasses on God’s green earth. You think you’re being cute and crafty trying to embarrass the waiter in front of your guess when you don’t like something or you’re disappointed in the food or service, when in reality you’re being chicken shit.  I dare you to speak to a complete stranger with the same words or tone in a bar or on the street when you don’t find something to your liking. I dare you. Unless you have no teeth to lose or enjoy long visits to the ER at four in the morning, I advise you to curb your tongue when out. You never know whose one inch away from the rooftop with you in his or her sights.





Excerpts from Give Up or Weak and Powerless

In Hell

            When I was much younger (younger meaning when I was still not a teenager; somewhere between ten and twelve years old), I once read a book that contained a series of horror stories. It maybe had seven or eight total, each one drastically different from the other. My sisters and I were very much into horror/slasher films, so reading about gore and the supernatural was only the natural progression in our minds. Don’t get me wrong; movies ruled. This is about the time that Freddy and Jason were just embryos in the horror genre; not having reached their iconic stature of this day and age so we were fresh minds to frighten and we accepted the challenge of the bizarre and bloody without any hesitation. But every now and then, a book would cross our paths dealing in the same subject matter and we were drawn to it like flies, keeping our eyes glued to the pages, our imaginations running wild with the words taken from its contents. One such book held my curiosity more than the others previously. It dealt with vampires in one story, a haunted house of some sorts in another, and a psychopath in yet another but those aren’t the ones that stood out for me. There was one unlike the rest that had an obvious villain or the same old storyline.

This book dealt with the subject of Hell. It focused on one man’s determination to find Hell itself and the lengths at which he was willing to go through to get an answer to if it really existed. Growing up, he had heard all the adults in his life speak of it as if it was the worst place on Earth; someplace you went to when you were a bad child or an out of line adult. Hell was revered as the no man’s land, littered with fire, lost souls and of course, Satan. He believed it to be a place of no return for the damned and the eternally condemned. The man’s quest led him all over the world, his search spanning over the seven continents, both poles and even uncharted areas of the planet untouched or seen by the eyes man. The journey drove him mad because although he did find several signs of inherit evil, he never came across a true Hell; only pockets of mankind’s selfish, greedy and cruel nature. He returned to his homeland after several years of disappointment a twisted and sick man having been consumed with the idea of a Hell on earth and never finding it.

In an act of rage and frustration, the man took his life savings and invested in a huge estate which he had renovated by employing the weak, the diseased, the severely deformed and the psychotic. In exchange for their servitude, he housed and fed them and they being grateful for someone to watch over them after society had cast them out as rejects and undesirables, came to know him as Master. The windows were blackened out, the bedrooms converted into torture chambers, the floors smeared with the blood of neighboring livestock, and the very foundation dug up in the center of the home and converted to a massive fire pit with a single steel bridge spanning over the flames below. But the home wasn’t enough; he needed people to see his work in action. In the dead of night while the residents of the countryside slept, he would send his minions out to kidnap unsuspecting men, women and children, bringing them back to the estate where he bound them to the various pain inflicting torture devices, eliciting hours of non-stop brutality upon them until their blood curdling screams could be heard for miles around. His victims never left the estate once there. Their families knew the reputation of the estate and once a family member was gone, they said the appropriate payers to God wishing their lost loved one safe passage to heaven as they knew in their hearts that they would never be seen again. The man and his army of henchmen came to be the stuff of legend, scaring young children and adults alike into cherishing the lives that they had and praying daily to ward off the evil of the man who in time became known as Satan himself.

See, the man had made his own Hell which others recognized as the actual underworld. We can make our own Hell. We do it all the time; we just don’t recognize our handiwork. We can work at a job which we cannot stand; being ostracized for wanting to be a professional and not giving into gossip and drama, yet not being rewarded monetarily for our efforts, only seeing the low end of our earning potential. We can be in an unsatisfactory relationship, going through the motions of relations while despising the other party involved. Ten, fifteen, twenty years may go by as we stand by idly, watching our lives being sucked out of us by someone who if given the opportunity to choose again, would not be in the picture. Years wasted on being polite, years never replaced once you realize that they are not the one. It can even be something as simple as where we chose to live: do you stay in your hometown where everyone knows your business and you are stuck having to choose the locals as friends, or do you branch out, seeking refuge elsewhere in the world where you are a complete and foreign stranger?

There is also the Hell our mind creates. We cave in to the pressure of perfection; always putting ourselves before those who we look at as beneath us, but never truly satisfied with our own lives, be it our physical makeup or the materialistic things we long for, crave. We worry about what others think of us, be it strangers, co- workers, family or the on-line community where in reality, there is no one thinking about us as much as we are thinking about them. It’s the sad truth but we put ourselves through Hell mentally concentrating on how we appear to others. An outrageous dollar amount is being spent on beauty products (in the billions) that may temporarily sate our desire to feel better about ourselves, while millions of people starve and thousands die daily  around the world who could eat for months on what we spend on ourselves in a week. This worrying takes hold of us not only mentally, but physically, altering our body weight and diet, making us indulge in an unhealthy consumption of all that is not good for us. That yearning for acceptance, the worst kind of Hell there is.

Such is the way of man. We are damned from birth, with our only salvation being what we do here while we are on this planet. That is our only saving grace. Tread carefully in these precious years that you have here for Hell is only a house away. You could be living in it now, your own private Hell on earth. God have mercy on your soul.




Subterranean Tales: Ohm

by admin on March 28, 2012

Subterranean Tales


 He fancies himself as a gentleman of sorts, partaking in some of the finer things in life. He shops for his suits at Brooks Brothers and Nordstrom’s, paying particular attention to the cut and hemming. His jackets must be precisely one half inch shorter than what other men consider a normal length. His cufflinks and sleeves must always be showing as to bring more attention to the jacket itself. This in his opinion leaves the option to accessorize the color of the shirt, more than the actual jacket. Let’s say you have a pair of Dockers khakis and a navy blue blazer. A white button down would go nicely, the obvious choice, but why not offset it with a blaring shade of bright yellow? Then to capitalize on that concept, a matching handkerchief would offset that outfit perfectly; bringing together the entire ensemble that would not “normally” be fashionably acceptable. His shirts, always buttoned down, always, dry-cleaned, always 100% cotton (Egyptian being his favorite) hang in his closet like soldiers awaiting orders from their commander; starched and upright, they are always at his beck and call, ready to serve their master as loyally as possible. Their one mission: to make him look as regal as possible. They hang from wooden hangers in the darkness of his closet, silent in their stance, dedicated to their reason for being created, unyielding in their loyalty to him.

He dines weekly at restaurants that cater to his eccentric yet specific taste, trying up to three different ones a week. His preferences vary from Thai, Chinese, Italian to American or your high end steakhouse. He dines alone or with a lady friend of his who he happens to fancy at the moment. He enjoys his wine, particularly cabernet sauvignon from the Rutherford region of Napa Valley; the rich, tannic, blackberry and cherry characteristics of the varietal pleasing his finicky pallet. Nickel and Nickel, Quintessa, Caymus, Jordan and Chateau Montelena are just a few heavy-hitting vineyards he admires, spending upwards of a hundred dollars or more per bottle; a drop in the bucket for a man of his financial means. The man enjoyed his cuisine and spirits as a mother cherished her own children.

After years of fighting to find his place in the work field, he had finally succeeded, finding his niche along with the other professionals that occupied his office. At first thought of as stand-offish and not sociable, he found himself the butt of many a rumor, speculating that he was a pervert or a recluse. That blew over after three months of diligent work and by helping others with their workloads or deadlines when needed or before they even asked for it. This had caught the attention of the managers and the higher-ups through word of mouth from his peers and actual observation on their part which subsequently led to a raise in salary and an acceptance by all in his workplace. He had even broken down and attended a co-worker’s birthday party at a small pub not far from their office which surprised everyone, even himself. His career was flourishing and after finding stability among everyone there, somewhat enjoyable.

This doesn’t explain his action.

In today’s climate of high unemployment, job closings, Wall Street drama, the ninety-nine and one percenters and various other troubling concerns for the average citizen, he was not affected by them whatsoever. He was living a charmed and privileged life, complete with all the perks that accompany it. There are people who would kill to be in his position in life; taking everything that he had and living life comfortably, but not him. He wasn’t satisfied with life and what it had thrown his way, and although he had many materialistic belongings to his name and a sizeable chunk of change in the bank (for one hell of a rainy day judging by all the zeros behind the first number, two), it wasn’t enough. He felt hollow and alone, his financial status and all that it could buy never providing any real satisfaction. This had been the scenario for the last five years of his life; him going to work, him smiling and nodding his head to those around him, him keeping up the appearance of a man whose shit was together while inside, The Hollow consumed him; leaving him a shell of a man.

Getting up this morning, there was nothing particularly different. There was no different buzzing from his alarm clock that went off Monday through Friday at 7:00 a.m.; it was the same air raid, too high in the decibel department for his ears, beyond annoying one that he had the displeasure of waking up to for the last year of his life, ever since he bought it on sale from a Radio Shack somewhere in the city. With its neon green display and extra-large numbers coupled with its horn of an alarm, he was never late. Damn the snooze button; the last thing he wanted to hear twice in one morning was that noise, so his ass was up and about without fail for those five days out of the week. Nothing different there.

The walk to the subway station was uneventful as well. After leaving his apartment building, he made the usual two and a half blocks walk down his street to the elevated subway stop, the entire trek taking all of ten minutes from door to station. He deftly dodged the homeless man who reeked of old socks and even older piss and booze with an easy leap over the down-trodden man’s legs which were blocking the walkway that led down into the subway station. Following the swelling mass of other commuters down onto the subway platform, the immediate and unwelcomed stench of trash, urine and body odor overwhelm his senses, causing his eyes to tear up and a clearing of his throat became necessary before he continued on. Once on the platform, he stood in the back of the morning commute pack, watching all the hordes of people rubbernecking towards the sound of the coming train, eagerness in their eyes. He too heard the train’s approach, felt the rumblings in the soles of his shoes that steadily crept of his spine, finally finding a home in his fingertips. In the time it took for him to look down to see if his hands were actually shaking or not, the train’s lights broke through the tunnel at the far end of the station, its powerful engines marching right behind them. The crowd moved back slightly and this is when he decided to make his move.

There was no hesitation in his thoughts. There was no fear or indecisiveness in his movements. No, the time for that was over some time ago. He knew from the moment he woke up until this precise time what was needed to be done. The train is a good twenty seconds from where he is standing, but he’ll only need ten of those. Looking straight ahead at the people in front of him, he takes one hand, using it to gently nudge folks aside, all the while “excuse me” and “pardon me” leave his mouth just as they turn and give him disapproving looks. Only one person is in front of him now, an elderly lady who doesn’t move at first. She only looks back at him with disgust but finally after a particularly nasty sneer moves to the side allowing him to get to the platform edge. He breathes in deeply, takes one last look around the station and is greeted with the crowd staring directly back at him, not understanding what such a finely dressed fellow was doing so close to the platform’s edge, especially with a train approaching so close to where he was. Disregarding the concerned and confused looks of strangers, he steps down, determined to reach his destination, the electrified third rail. A few onlookers yell out to him to get back onto the platform, but it is too late. He is too far gone within The Hollow; too far gone with his own suicidal tendencies.

He is down on his knees a second later and with both hands he grabs the rusted- over rail. Once contact is made, he is instantly paralyzed, his limbs not responding to his mental commands. For a split second he can still hear the crowd above and behind him but that is quickly drowned out by a steady humming, starting out low and almost inaudible, and then rapidly rising to a siren’s pitch. His eardrums expand then explode, sending his blood dripping out both canals, running down each cheek freely. He can feel their warmth and if he could still hear, he would be able to make out the splattering sound they made as they hit the wooden tracks below. His teeth clenched down into his tongue, severing it halfway through its length. The front portion of it fell to the tracks and lay in the small puddle of crimson colored blood created by his still bleeding ears. It twitched violently once or twice then lay completely still as if the air had somehow been let out of it. Although he cannot move his limbs, his eyes (at least his right eye) move up to the platform all of four feet above him. He can see the crowd now with stark horror plastered on their faces, motioning for him to get off the tracks. The elderly woman is staring at him as well, her mouth hung open in shock, spittle forming in the corners of her mouth, too shaken to do anything else.

That’s when his eyes go, bursting with a brilliant ruby spray of membranes, muscles, and nerves, leaving his sockets semi-hollow and oozing with useless vessels and shredded tissue. His hair straightens then sizzles then smokes before the scalp itself peels back a half inch from his head. All his organs rupture and gush within and he is totally unrecognizable on the outside at this point; all that is left is a form of what used to be a human, bent down on all fours, convulsing sickly fast. A loud crack is heard as his spine snaps from moving out of alignment, his back caving into a grotesque “U” shape, as if some invisible horseman straddled him during his final moments here on Earth, riding him out into Death’s doorway. In the last moments before the train hits him doing better than thirty miles an hour and smashing his mostly liquefied body along its steel reinforced grate, The Hollow leaves him, claiming yet another victim to depression.

Its work is never done.





Heartbroken: A Perfect Circle

by admin on March 1, 2012


A Perfect Circle

Around the world, my life spirals out of control

Seemingly out of sync, out of mind, never being aligned correctly…

Fucked into existence through cock and cunt, coupled with animalistic moans of unrestrained passion

Until through no choice of my own, birthed into madness and chaos

of this one world as we know.

Unwanted, uncared for

stealing rancid, putrid air for survival,

Consuming toxins and poisonous copious amounts of bullshit and half-truths.

Such is the way of humans.

Pressured into conformity, free will but a rumor.

Keeping up with Jones’ and Sneaky Smiths.’

Living the dream of the lie of the fabrication which is life.

Dying as I came into the world, shivering and pained.

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Give Me Shelter: Trick

by admin on February 29, 2012

Give Me Shelter


            The beer isn’t doing the trick this time, and this is her favorite brand. The familiar cartoonish bull on the can is one she has seen time and time again: the logo of Schlitz Malt Liquor, the beer of the ‘hood.  Unlike others, she has remained loyal to the brand, consuming the above average alcohol content malt for a good part of her thirty-three years without fail. She tries to think back when she started drinking in between huge gulps from the plastic bag wrapped glass bottle, and she cannot remotely remember what year or age for that matter, it had been so long. What she does remember is her father allowing her sips of his beer as a child, him laughing as her low tolerance level was quickly reached and he would watch her stumble around the small roach-ridden apartment until she collapsed and passed out. She remembers one time vaguely. She was four, of this she was sure as it was her birthday and instead of lavishing in the attention of all her friends and family members who had come to wish her well while feasting on cake and ice cream, she had gotten drunk through no fault of her own and passed out on the bathroom floor, missing her own celebration of life. Yes, four was the age. She can still see the huge devil’s food cake with the four pink candles sticking out; still remember blowing them out, one by one, as everyone around her cheered, sang and applauded, then she draws a blank as all the beer her father had been pushing on her unbeknownst to her mother (theses secret sips had taken place in the kitchen, far from the eyes of the party guests and her mother) overtakes her and then she remembers nothing. Has it really been twenty-nine years since she first had her first drink of alcohol? She nods her head in disgust and takes another swig of her brew.

But the taste of the last guys cum still lingers on despite her almost finishing the bottle in two healthy gulps. Why do they always want to cum in her mouth and have her swallow is beyond her but the forty bucks she made for what was barley ten minutes of her time was worth it as she can get her crack and party in style without having to go back out for at least an hour or so. It’s a vicious cycle she realizes but after being hooked for well over ten years, its one she is not willing to part with. As the last remaining ounces of beer are consumed while leaning against the brick wall of the alley where she “conducts business”, she uses the last swig as a mouthwash of sorts, swishing it around, having it course between her gums and teeth before spitting it out on the damp concrete in front of her. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and reaches into the left front pocket of her black blue jeans and comes up with a half portion of a Hall’s cough drop, wrapped in its original protective paper which has grown stuck to its bottom half. This doesn’t concern her as she pops the medicine into her mouth without a second thought, spitting out the remnants of the paper once it’s wet with her saliva. It’s an old trick of hers that she learned through a fellow crack head/whore some years back and has been using ever since; the cool, minty flavor easily overpowering any bad taste in a matter of seconds. She reaches inside her right pocket reassuring herself that the money is there and it is, along with the three condoms she had purchased earlier in the evening.  With a quick adjustment of her clothes and one final look back on the ground behind her in case she dropped anything ,she moves from behind the rather large green dumpster at the end of the alley being sure to look around cautiously for passersby’s or worse, the police.

It won’t be long now, she thinks as she heads north down Lennox Avenue, being sure to stay in the light of the streetlamps as much as possible to avoid being dragged off into the dark by the local drug dealers and other fiends. The last time, they had knocked out two of her bottom teeth and even when she finally gave in to their assault with a futile bit of resistance and let them have their way with her for well over an hour in an abandon row house not too far from where she was now, they (there were three of them) had beat her unconscious. She had woke up with her pants and underwear down around her ankles and what felt to be a decent sized welt under her left eye. No, the light will be her friend tonight as she makes her way to Jay Street where all the dealers and hustlers sell broken dreams and no futures by ounces and grams.

From the alley to Jay Street took all of ten minutes and to her, it couldn’t have come sooner. The money she had made that evening (80 bucks in all; give or take five for condoms, lube, etc.) would more than take care of the craving for crack that she had for about the last two hours. To her, crack was the truth; it never lied, never failed to take her mind away from her current troubles, and always, ALWAYS was readily available, especially from her pusher, Carl. Carl had been dealing crack for well over fifteen years and she was with him from the beginning of his shady career. She was witness to his early years of corner dealings, with him having to compete with the other dealers on the very same corner, to his very own crack house; a local haven and well-known safe house for all the junkies in the surrounding neighborhood. The best thing about dealing with Carl was unlike other dealers, Carl extended credit to her whenever she would fall short of money or didn’t feel like having to give her pussy away for her high. It was because of the loyalty that she had displayed towards him during his almost two decades of hustling. Another reason she stayed with Carl was that his shit was butter; straight fire. The other work around the way was decent, her taking anything in a pinch, but Carl was a master chef, taking the time not to cut his product too much during cooking , leaving the purest rock out there. This too is what kept her coming back after all these years.

Money wasn’t a problem tonight; she had made sure to that.  In her opinion, the strange cocks and all the fucking made it worth -while for times like this. As her beer buzz quickly wore off and the anticipation of her future high quickened her pace up to Carl’s place, she almost felt happy. This feeling usually came about two minutes before she received her crack and about a minute before she took her first hit. This couldn’t last forever, this self-destructive cycle she had gotten herself in for the last twenty or so years of her life, but as she makes her way up the stairs, ringing the doorbell and waiting for the door to open, that last thought goes out the window and she steps inside to her own private hell once again.

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As If I Had Any Choice in the Matter

by admin on January 17, 2012

As If I Had Any Choice in the Matter

I am officially getting old, long in the tooth. I can feel it in everything that I do from bending over and touching my toes, to the simple act of walking up stairs, I feel it in my joints. I don’t think that its arthritis (or at least I hope not) and I’m pretty sure it’s not due to cold weather (still don’t believe that one). I’m quite positive it is in response to my body aging. I can’t control this, I have tried. I hear of all these miracle cures to prevent aging such as creams, diets, get more sleep, go organic, avoid red meat, etc… all bullshit when it comes right down to it. They may prevent you from dying earlier than say someone who disregards the above, but they won’t and will not keep your ass from getting old, no matter how much time you spend shopping for aloe vera and ginseng root extract. Tired of fighting the inevitable, I have decided to give in to my fate and accept my aging gracefully and with as less stress as possible over how I may look or be perceived by the public at large.
Don’t get me wrong; I’m not pleased or remotely happy about getting old. If I could do it over again, I’d have Edward from the Twilight series siphon off a few pints of blood out of my neck, thus preserving me at twenty-seven for the rest of my life, but I have this thing about guys lips on my neck and I’m kind of fond of the B negative juice that courses through my veins. I’m taking a back seat on this one, allowing for nature to run its course and hopefully, won’t be too hard on me. No, I will not be frequenting the all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet on the weekends nor will I be partaking of the ten wings for ten bucks deal at the local Popeye’s. I’m embracing my latter years and the changes that come with it responsibly; not flying off the handle and over indulging in excess (although the temptation for wings as a Black man can sometimes be overwhelming).
I only pray that I don’t pick up some incurable disease or limbs start rotting and falling off me at random stages on my journey to AARP land. I can deal with the wrinkles, poor vision and people calling me pops, but let it be with all my limbs and in somewhat good health. Unlike my father who loves to be referred to as “Old Man,” I reluctantly accept that title as yet another birthday passes and I grow a year older. Again, things I can’t control. I’ll just sit back and enjoy the ride, no matter how bumpy or how much turbulence I encounter along the way on this journey called life. If only it wasn’t so damn painful!

Taking the local into my senior years,

Gregory McCant


Heartbroken: Hurt

by admin on January 7, 2012



Broken, I lay in my bed, my best friend, crying for the death of me.

 My tears speak volumes of the words my mouth cannot seem to form.

They speak of sadness.

 They speak of pain.

They tell the tales of heartache and suffering entwined with a yearning and hunger for my days of youth.

My heart beats in the rhythm of despair with grief providing the tempo.

As my sheets become saturated and the down within my pillows grow moist, I envision everything and nothing, dwelling in the abyss, embracing the void that my life has become.

In the garbled, confused thoughts of my mind, only one stands out, the one without hesitation I embrace:

I am alone in this world and will forever remain.