Poetry: Route 66

poetry route 66 road to nowhere


my marrow is filching
sulking towards the exit waiting to get
out. it cannot be contained. a hazard
that refuses to drain out. the color of blackness
and a fervor of grey. neither can find their way.


Originally posted here on my AllPoetry.com account

Peaceful Alternatives

flash fiction funerals family

This story was written in anticipation of a family brawl at my grandmother’s funeral. Dysfunctional families eh? But I’m happy to report that things went swimmingly. Literally it was raining like hell.

Please enjoy this story and feel free to leave any type of review or comment.


Funerals are only good for one thing. Showing off your hat.


She hated funerals. Funerals were boring as fuck. At least this was the case with all of the funerals she had been to before, which admittedly had been less than five, but experience counted for something right?

She hadn’t wanted to come to this funeral, but she knew if she didn’t her family would disown her and people would whisper: how could she not go to her grandmother’s funeral? She could just hear her great-aunt’s voice: ungrateful child!

The last funeral she had been to coincidentally had been her grandmother’s funeral. The one she didn’t know not the one currently lying in the coffin. No, this grandmother was her paternal one. She hadn’t wanted to go to that funeral either, but she wanted to support her father. She didn’t know why because he had never in the slightest bit supported her. But Janae had always been the supportive type. It had forced into her psyche to be a good, gracious girl.

Her grandmother had gone with her to the funeral. She didn’t know anyone there despite most of them being related to her by blood. She was sitting next to her grandmother when someone asked who she was.

“I’m Janae,” she said.

“And you?” The woman asked her grandmother.

“I’m Ethel.”

Recognition emerged in the woman’s eyes. “Oh I remember you. You’re Linda’s mother. So this is…?”

It was unspoken in the woman’s voice. She was the outside child. James’s little indiscretion.

The woman smiled. “Well, I’m your aunt, Janae!”

She came forward as though for a hug, but Janae held out her hand. Her grandmother had always told her to be careful around strangers.


She had been worried about all of her family members being in the same place—the same tiny place better known as the ancestral church Hope Springs. Janae was never a parishioner of the church. She had moved from the family’s stomping grounds before she had caught the Holy Ghost. So far she’d been back to Hope Springs only for funerals and that hadn’t changed.

“I swear to God I hate his fucking guts,” her brother said.

“Lorenzo please,” her mother said.

“Why is he here?!”

“He’s her son!”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

Lorenzo hated their uncle. Lorenzo hated her father. Lorenzo hated a lot of people. Santa’s naughty list wasn’t nearly as long as Lorenzo’s hate list.

“Janae, go check on your grandmother.”

“She’s dead mom. I’m pretty sure there’s nothing to check on.”

Her mother gave her a look. She blew her curls out of her face and did as she was told.


She stared at her grandmother. She thought back to how her relatives had kissed her great-aunt when she was in her casket. The thought mortified her. She hadn’t kissed her grandmother when she was well. She was rarely an affectionate person. A quick hug was her idea of showing love.

She stood up and walked to the casket. Her grandmother’s hands were folded over her lower stomach. Someone had taken all of the rings she had worn off. Only one remained: her wedding ring. She resisted laughing. How idiotic. Her grandmother had divorced her grandfather, but she was still known as his widow. Janae had never gotten the logic of that.

A little shimmer caught her eye. She leaned closer to her.

Can I have that necklace?


Please? Pretty please with sugar on top?

I’ll buy you one of your own. This one is mine.

Her grandmother was wearing the necklace she had bought her.

Janae smiled. She bent down and placed a kiss on her cheek.

Yours Truly

Is it black or blue?
This body that used to be
What am I going to do?
Here on the Earth without
Your crooked smile.
Your witch’s laugh

It’s so cliche but that saying is true. I’ll be the first to admit that I wasn’t always the best granddaughter, but I now see that I loved the hell out of my grandmother. I didn’t see it back then, but I was taking the steps to resolve my issues a long time before she died because of my fears of hurting her. I told someone I don’t know why it took her getting sick to see that. But I guess you can’t see the forest for the trees.

Cruel Summer

Summer is the worse for exposing foes

like spring exposing the seeds

summer brings in the weeds of doom

the cycle continues

I never thought of myself as a superstitious person, but I’ve always been analytic. A few years ago I started to notice that every summer something bad would happen to me or my family.  I’ve got a running tally. The Cruel Summers as I call them began in 2009 about a year after we moved to the city. I’m hoping 2016 will break the cycle.

Medusa Smile

laughing babies laugh insane

when they see their mother’s pain

thy father wanes

laughing babies will never be

the same

This poem was written in response to the prompt for a family portrait poem. The picture I immediately thought of when getting to write was a picture of my mother and I. I am laughing and she is smiling, but her smile looks forced. I always find myself wondering why my father wasn’t in the picture especially in light of the recent information I gained from my mother that they were together at the time and until I was five years old. I have no memories of my father from this time.