Santa Ana Winds

You left me stranded in a sea of clones
Floating on this island all by myself;
I never thought you’d leave me all alone –
You weren’t supposed to be like everybody else.

You left my soul on a dusty shelf
Inside a cobalt jar full of sorrow;
No kind goodbyes or fond farewells –
Kept me hanging on the line waiting for tomorrow.

There’s a burning in my aching bones
And your shoulder’s feeling oh so cold;
I can’t explain this wild state I’m in –
It must be those Santa Ana winds.

You took the red eye back to the wasteland
All at once I’m nothing but a ghost;
Tell me the truth, baby, if you can –
Why won’t it be me that you will miss the most?

Flying high above the Atlantic coast
I’m nothing but a stranger in your eyes;
I guess I made the perfect scapegoat
For you to leave the stardust of this world behind.

There’s a brushfire in your desert bones
And my body’s feeling oh so cold;
I can’t explain this wild state you’re in –
It must be those Santa Ana winds.

Boy, I tried to give you all my light
Until there was nothing but a spark;
It was easy for you to take flight –
Running away to leave me lingering in the dark.

I’m rotting in the state of Denmark
As you travel the Pacific coast;
To swim with the mermen and the sharks –
Someone I used to know, just another hollow ghost.

There’s an inferno in our scorched bones
And our bodies no longer feel cold;
I can’t explain this wild state we’re in –
It must be those Santa Ana Winds.

All that’s left is my soul on your shelf –
I wasn’t supposed to be like everybody else.

The Day Betty White Died

I bought a hand gun
The day Betty White died
At the age of 99;
Nothing really special, hun,
Just a Ruger 45.

Your un-woke asshole reeks
From the shit your mad mouth spews,
Between those orange cheeks
In front of all these pews.

I’m tired of their twisted lips
Spiitting toxic viper vile,
Over their silicone tits
And plastic cherry smiles.

Kenny ain’t doin’ nothing
To make this country great,
Sipping gin from red Solo cups
Ice cold with so much hate.

I bought a hand gun
The day Betty White died;
A pretty-in-pink one -
Why are you so surprised?

To them, we’re all weirdo freaks
Mock righteousness they choose,
When pecking their crooked beaks
At loose bags of nuts and screws.

A merry round of pistols whip
These Proud Boys into shape,
With a gaggle of firm grips
And dazzling rainbow capes.

Karen ain’t doin’ nothing
To make this country great,
Serving slices of poison pie
On fancy Chinet plates.

All this too shall come to pass
When I cap a bullet in your ass.

I bought a hand gun
The day Betty White died;
Not for sport or fun
Just trying to survive.

In a sea of sheep
Sailing on a ship of fools,
Pray the Lord, their souls to keep
Courtesy of Fox News.

Flo can kiss my grits
There won’t be any trial,
No judges to acquit
When I blast those redneck smiles.

They ain’t doin’ nothing
To make this country great,
Wearing their red dunce caps
Y’all hennies took the bait.

I bought a hand gun
The day Betty White died;
Chic-Fil-A better run
Before I cross the other side.

There won’t be any jury
No church bells down the aisle,
Our palms are clenched with fury
Cuz you treaded on our style.

We don’t wish you well
It’s time to face the nation,
You won’t live to tell
When you face our congregation.

You ain’t doin’ nothing
To make this country great,
This is the hate you breed when
Indifference learns to procreate.

All this too shall come to pass
When I cap a bullet in your ass.

I bought a hand gun
The day Betty White died
At the age of 99;
Nothing really special, hun,
Just trying to survive.


House of Sighs

My breath roams restless in this House of Sighs
Nestled dark along the cemetery’s edge,
Shrouded by tangled webs of twisted pines –
Bones buried deeply beneath the boxwood hedge.

In the attic window, a glimpse may fetch
Mater Suspiriorum, Mother of Sighs,
Wheezing in her rocking chair, cunning wretch,
Slowly suffocating in your demon eyes.

Hear her burning, an inferno she cries,
Mater Lachrymarum, Mother of Tears,
Howling past the doorsill through the Moonrise
O’er a yard of rusty vans and drunken queers.

In the angst of winter, she smells your fears,
Mater Tenebrarum, Mother of Darkness,
Cackling as the Peacock Angel appears
In a hidden vault of midnight starkness.

Shrouded she slumbers, our Mother of Sighs
Behind a wall of blue irises, she hears,
The slaying of the onyx bird with fifteen eyes
And the rolling of seven marble spheres.

Startled awake, the witches know its time –
They release your zombie tangled in the vetch
To roam this viny labyrinth of lies,
Crunching beers cans like skulls in every step.

Walking on crushed bones of lost compromise
I wander this void forever torn apart,
Forsaken, trying to rescue our tainted love 
In this maze of darkness you call a heart.

I cannot breathe in this lonesome House of Sighs
Nestled dark along the cemetery’s edge,
Shrouded by tangled webs of twisted pines –
Bones buried deeply beneath the boxwood hedge.

Blazing A Trail

Tuskegee Airman Story

tuskegee.pdf

Way back in the day, I was a journalist. A community-based scribe chronicling the people and events throughout Boston’s North Shore. Sadly, community-based journalism is a brontosaurus. The heart and soul of quality reporting today is an endangered species.

Many people ask, “What did you write?” Here’s an example. It’s Black History Month and I’ve been thinking an awful lot about Luther McIlwain, who passed away in 2013 at 91.

A distinguished Tuskegee Airman and NYPD police officer, it was a privilege to interview this civil rights pioneer in February 2004. I remember he was a tough interview. He was 83 and I was 28. Luther was skeptical in my ability because he saw me as a yearling – and he wasn’t entirely wrong. I was still pretty green in life’s arena and he had overcome enough obstacles to span three lifetimes.

He was unaware that despite my young age, I was an earnest writer who had already received multiple awards from the New England Press Association (NEPA). Luther put me to the test and I accepted his challenge. I wanted to convey his story with all my heart and soul.

When the story was printed, I stopped by Luther’s house with copies for his family and friends. Whereas he was tough-as-nails during our interview, Luther appeared rather somber upon my second visit. He had already read the articles beforehand and I got the impression that he was surprised by the six-page spread.

In 2005, my story received First Place from NEPA for Coverage of a Racial or Ethnic Issue by an Alternative Weekly. This weekend, I pulled it from my archives and scanned it so I could share. Why? Because this story has not lost its timeliness as racism still exists. It’s engraved into this country’s foundation.

Re-reading Luther’s experiences 18 years later, I’ve realized sometimes you have to look back in order to move forward. Please let me know if you read it and what you think. ✌️

#tuskegee #black history month #civil rights