Word Vomit

The words spilled out onto the sidewalk

Like blood gushing from a wound.

A terribly deep cut, right across the mouth.

Word vomit.


Puking up syllables and inappropriate sounds

Left and right.

Just when you think it’s over,

You taste the familiar coarseness that is common with

Regurgitated words.

Words you swallowed long ago

To suppress some sort of


Nervous tension



They taste like week-old meatloaf

With the scent of iron, the bloody kind.

Here it comes again.

You try to stop

But suddenly all that emotion is pouring out onto the

Receiver’s polished shoes.

They’re so damn entitled, aren’t they?

So ignorant.

So infuriating.

So hurtful.

A retort?

You think not.

And here comes the vomit again.

Spewing insults as fast as the words can travel from

The locked box in your heart and the passion can pump them

Up your esophagus and shoot out of your mouth like

A canon.

Boom. Boom.

Boom. Boom. Boom.


They can’t respond.

You’ve filled their mouth with your word vomit.

They turn and walk in a dejected shuffle,

Away from the scene of the crime.

Now full of anger

Self- conscious timidness

And surprise

To go unleash on another soul, deserving or not.

Then the thought floats through your mind,

Your oh-so-relaxed mind,

Maybe they were undeserving…

Just maybe.

Just the thought of it

Calls real vomit to the mouth.

But you chose to ignore.

No responsibility here.

You soon forget.

But they don’t.

They don’t forget.

They unleash.

And the cycle starts again.

Go gag yourself.



Photo Credit: Olga Nydia Galindo, Artist




The Ballad of the Millennium

I enjoy every minute

Of every second

Of every day,


When people realize

We’re not



And love,

It hurts.

So bad you know.


For those still


You’ve got to know.


And life,

It’s a painful



But don’t forget

To stand up

And sing.


Because one day

He’ll leave



All alone.

And you’ll sit.

And bitch and moan.


Like the world


About you kid.


The fucked up fights.

The things

You did.


The life you

Gave up.

The crimes. So fucked.


And if you’re not,

The least bit



Then you aren’t

Watching what’s



In the world

We all call



Forgotten Friend

Dark room,
Pale face
Porcelain skin,
She’s a waste.
Cracked blue eyes and
Ragged clothes
Someone left her
In the cold
Unwanted and unneeded
Her blonde hair frays
She sits and waits
She dreams of the days
When her beauty was abundant
Her eyes, glossy and new
They held no smudges or cracks,
They were a perfect blue.
Her hair was shiny and
Softer than a sheep
She missed her lacey dress,
But she never said a peep
She sat and stared
With an expressionless face
She’d been stuck in the attic,
Just taking up space
Her best friend forgot her
As she grew old,
Replaced with real girls
Their friendship went untold
So our little friend
Sits in her place,
Waiting for someone
To dust off her pretty face.

Sister Summer Sundaes

Sizzling summer nights

            Cooled by a slight breeze

Dancing through the air.

The drive up to the custard stand is

Filled with discussion of flavors.





Sister and I decide to get both,

The decision will please everyone.

Pint of chocolate. Pint of vanilla.

Homemade. Creamy. Delicious.

Excitedly speed home

With the convertible top


on the cherry-red Mustang.

Loud music blares from the stereo as I search for nonexistent stars in the suburban light.

In two minutes the car is parked in the driveway and we’re jumping out.

Search the pantry for gluten-free graham crackers, Hershey chocolate bars and

Marshmallows, the key ingredient.

Get out the bowls! Don’t waste any time!
One for Mom,



and me.

Scoop the custard into the bowls. Don’t be shy, fill it up!

We fight over who gets to roast the fluffy white sweets until they are golden brown,

Sister always wins.

I usually set them aflame and then they become a burnt snack for the dogs

to get stuck on the tips of their noses.

She runs off to the bonfire in center of the backyard.

The dogs chase after her, she has food after all.

I stand on the back porch, laughing at her and her limped run.

She’s training for a marathon and sprained her ankle.

Shaking my head,

I crumble gluten-free graham crackers into the custard-filled bowls

And shout to her to hurry,

the bowls begin to get soupy in the summer heat.

Next comes the chocolate.

Three sections of a Hershey bar are allotted for each sundae

And Sister comes back with perfectly brown, still puffy marshmallows.

Two for each sundae.

Sticky fingers spread the white goo

and drape it over the now semi-frozen treat.

Mom complains there isn’t enough Hershey candy on her already chocolate custard.

I add more to mine too.

We are addicted to chocolate.

Dad comes outside to claim his sundae.

We take our seats on the porch and listen to the sounds of summer:

Crackling bonfire,

Dogs playing, woofing at cars and kids,

Crickets, or maybe grasshoppers, because none of us really know the difference.

And the sound of spoons scraping the bottom of empty bowls.


The Roaring Twenties

The smoke rises through the air

And the night is just beginning.

The bartender fills up my mug

The charming young man picks up my tab.

Music floods through the scent of cigars

As the piano man strikes his first chord.

The speakeasy sways with the sound of the dancing


                                                            Then right

            Left again

                        Twirling girls

            Twirling girls

                        Twirling girls

                                    Twirling girls

Their vivid dresses mock cherries, emeralds and ocean tides

            With specks of gold and silver

That charming young man has returned

His dark hair slicked back to show his ice blue eyes. 

He extends his hand and nods to the dance floor

I smirk.

My cigarette holder finds a home on the bar.

Taking his hand we dance.

My dress embodies the night sky that we hide from in this illegal place.

It’s dark colors swish and sway with the beat as my feet tap around his.

The gems surrounding the collar and chest reflect the light perfectly so that all eyes watch Us.

We are the bee’s knees. The cat’s meow.

Our bodies move through the Charleston,

Then the Shimmy,

Then the Bunny Hug.

Dance. Dance. Dance.

The night is ending soon, however.

The sun will rise within a few hours.

The piano man slows his fingers.

The speakeasy empties slowly

The charming young man wraps his jacket around me

We walk to his home under the twinkling starlight

Followed by the sweet cigar smell

The music still ringing in our ears




Flowers, Chocolate and Material Things

In my mind I am lost

Without you by my side

For one night, cares are tossed

As we go for a ride


Start the car, take it slow

Hold my hand, don’t let go

Music plays, smiles beam

Sing along, the stars gleam


How I love being here

Spending time, just us two

We’re best friends but I fear

I am falling for you


Every year, I’m alone

So let this be my gift:

Spending time as best friends

And a Valentine’s kiss.










Cravings of the Heart

The hem of his midnight black trench coat sweeps

the cherry red floor.

The window reveals bombarding rain

like missiles in a war, the drops do.



His black fedora adorns his head and he steps out

Into the missile fire.

His coat hides blood red roses, thorns

stabbing the newspaper they’re wrapped in.

Thunderous drumming rain pounds the sidewalk

Not pausing for a single


Each drop is an explosion on the pavement



Some water jerks back as it slams the pavement. Rejected then falling into place.

He pushes through the descending H2O only to meet more icy rain that stains his face in harsh



He glances up, facing the wrath of the downpour only to be greeted with

black iron gates.  A gothic cross-placed in the center, surrounded by swirling, twirling, fierce coal-colored metal.

His hand grazes the iron.

It is arctic.

It is soaked.

It is unforgiving.

It is of deaths nature.

He lingers for a moment, catching his breath.

He has not been running nor exerting himself, he simply needs time.

A moment to believe she is alive in him.

in his beating heart.

His fingers go numb from the thorns pressing into them, like novacane to a bad toothache. But it does not help. It does not ease the pain. It does not distract.

He is focused. His hurt thrives.

His feet carry him past the colorless trees, their beauty rotting on the ground underneath him like browning banana peels, yellow and spotted brown.

The wind picks up and carries the heavy scent of the roses up through his jacket and teases his nose with the beauty of floral purity.

The edge of the grass disappears as the storm reveals the mud underneath.

His reflective, dark dress shoes dip into the mess.

Marble granite. Grey. With hints of stormy sea blue.

The rectangular stone beams out of the mud.

Tall. Proud.


Just. Like. Her.

Engraved roses on the border. Intricate stems. Vines.

Confusing twists. Simple beauty.

He sits. Disregarding the mud that will clot on his jet-black jacket.

He watches. One single little raindrop hit the rose. Fast yet delicately.

Swimming through the marble,

It follows the engraved vine.

Loop de loop.

Loop de loop.

And then it falls off the tip of the stem to the base of the headstone and joins its

Brothers and sisters,

Gleaming over that marble granite.

His attention turns to the words.

Hannah Rose Gordon

March 2, 1995-February 5, 2023

“One person’s craziness is another person’s reality-Tim Burton”

She was crazy.

But good crazy.

He loved her.

The roses make their home in the mud, peering up at her beautiful name stuck in that grey-blue marble granite.

The missile-like rain, still pounding away.

He sits. He cries. Again.

He whispers.
I love you.

The wind is his messenger.

His hair flies back in the breeze and as the gust whirls around his ear, he can hear the faint whisper.

I love you too.