A request I cannot deny

June 29, 2013

Aren’t most writers egos waiting to be petted like a lap cat…mine is. I try to stay humble though, because we should never assume we are already the best at what we do. Sure we should remember confidence is the key to moving forward, our work improving, but overly confident is often a sign of an arse, well in my book it is. I haven’t met an overly confident person I really care to linger with in any room…

Avocado Kitchen With A Gold Accented Childhood: a mosaic prose collection of my adolescent voice


When I watched momma cook, I learnt— if you squeeze lemon into milk it will sour, replacing buttermilk in biscuits for a family with little to feed, because a daddy guzzled down his paycheck and found his self in a drunk tank for days. She took me through each step, as a movement to remember curves.

The feel of the mix squishing between my fingers; flour, butter, eggs, baking soda and the curdled white substance she had poured into the mixing bowl, becomes sticky. Momma said to throw flour onto the counter before I dump it out. Cool flour only added to growing lumps on my hands.

Excitement doesn’t listen.

She shows me how to roll it out and cut perfect rounds with a cold glass. We have no money for a cutter she said.

Hunger waits for no one.

And there is no need for butter or jelly on those fat hot pieces of bread. I often wondered what would happen if milk sat out all day next to the hot stove, would it become an even bigger monster than learning to fit in at school with dyslexia, and facing the bullies at each turn.


Did mom even notice sisters gum stuck to the underside of our bedroom window ceil, when she would herd us into the backroom to take a nap on our small mattress. My brother got to stay in his room and play with his microscope set. She said it was to help with her headaches each day.

Eventually we gave into the tiredness of it all. I would lie so still, reminding me of when all seven of her children from two marriages slept in one room. The oldest two sisters slept at one end holding my little sister, I at the other with the box fan blowing right into my face, and hoping they wouldn’t kick me.

The white noise drowned out my mother’s crying when daddy stormed out in anger in the late night. Often he never returned home. But we would hear the phone ring, and it was the police letting her know he was having a sleep over.

After a few hours we got up from the nap, my sister would simply pull off one of the wads of gum and chew it over and over. Depression makes you want to roll up in a ball, and hope the world doesn’t chew you up.

(first published in Wordgathering.com September 2012)


I never cared much for the taste of coffee. But the wonderful smell of it brewing my nostrils, and awakened me without it ever touching my lips. If we rose before momma or daddy it was our responsibility to make a fresh pot. Four scoops of freeze dried beans into the old percolator metal bed- slip it into the tiny hole in the bottom of the pot, fill it with water, and plug it in. The coffee would perk up and swirl brown in the clear plastic top on the lid. I was watching water boil.

Running the old gold and red coffee grinder at our local A&P was another thing I enjoyed. I would press my chest and arms up against it when it came alive making loud one pound grinding noises. Pull a lever and out it came; spilling out, and the overflow sometimes went all over the floor. You had to roll down the top of a foil bag to lock in freshness, and then place it into our shopping cart. Off to find momma was the next challenge.

Everyone in the house liked their cup of Joe black, but me. If I even gave it a minute of my time, staining moms shiny new speckled counter top with clumsy spillage, I would slip whole cream and six teaspoons full of sugar into its depths. No matter how much I stirred, the coffee was bitter and left an oily film on my tongue. It is an acquired grown-up taste everyone would say.


From Latin- A cloak made of patches, or patchwork poem. A cento is a poetical work wholly composed of verses or passages taken from other authors; only disposed in a new form or order.

Years after my husband and I began dating, and attending wine food pairing dinners parties, sometimes my own events as a chef I would overhear (because I myself did not drink while working) women in the bathroom say the most amusing stuff. Of course you have to imagine these lines slurred somewhat, but hubs found it amusing and began asking me what unusual things I heard when I returned home, and we would giggle- I also could tell a few stories about our own over indulgences. This title is out of creative endeavor not hate. This is still in a draft state, but with some order of my notes on napkins and a small pad I would carry.-

Drunk Betchez Talking In Public Bathrooms

Standing In Line-

I have to pee so bad I’m going to explode. I might have to go right here!
OMG did someone fart; it literally smells like ass in here
Whose taking so long in that back stale, let’s throw the bitch out!
And make sure I don’t tweet. I already tweet too much shit.
The guys are so DAMN cute tonight I could take’em all home. Which one should I take home? Do you think the guy buying us drinks is cute. I can’t believe we haven’t spent a penny tonight. Who’s buying us drinks?
Do I sound like a slut?
Do you think we will be married by the time we’re thirty?
Girl you sure got the moves on the dance floor. Drop it like it’s hot girl!
Does this outfit make me look fat, because I think you look f’ing good in your outfit. You always look good when we go out. I have no taste. Let’s go shopping together.
Can you believe I’ve had ten shots in the last hour? We are drunk aren’t we? I love youuuuu!
My feet are KILLING me. God I want to take my shoes off. Should I take them off?
I’m going to take them off if we stand here any longer.

Conversation stale to stale-

There’s no toilet paper in here, can I have a few squares?
Can you believe that bitch at the table?
Do you squat or sit?
I want to be horizontal right now.
I’m taking my underwear off. Do you have room in your purse?
I can’t believe he had the nerve to show up. He’s such a liar!
His sister fucked my boyfriend.
I want to lose ten pounds in the next few days. Drinking makes me bloated.
I’m gonna flirt with that guy to make him jealous!
Am I acting clingy? Should we have a signal for it once I do? I want to text him (the ex).
(bangs on stale wall) Are you still in there bitch? I love my bitches. My ex can eat me!
I swear if I see his new girlfriend in this club I am going to fuck her up!

Conversation between strangers meeting for the first time in toilet-

God I’m so glad I met you!
I don’t usually tell people this stuff.
I don’t usually say this stuff a lot, but I’m so glad we met.
Did you see her tits falling out of that dress? Yours implants look better.
Do you have lipstick I can use? I think I lost mine on the dance floor.
Do you think I look good?
If I was gay I would do you.
Want to see my new tattoo? Here help me pull my shirt up.
I always wanted a tattoo here (she pulls shirt up over bra and points)
I’m not even drunk, how am I not even drunk?
You should facebook me.

Standing In Front of Mirrors (some do not wash their hands)-

My hair is messed up (putting on lipstick and running hands through hair)
Oh shit, where’s my purse, oh it’s under my arm (snort laughs)
That bitch won’t stop talking at the table, should we kick her ass bitch?
OMG can you see the sweat marks under my pits?
Are you sure I look okay, I feel so fat.
OMG I’m so hungry I could eat a horse. No I shouldn’t eat a damn thing; I’m on a no carb diet. Let’s order pizza when we get home.
I wished Taco Bell delivered.
OMG! Do you hear that? We gotta get out my songs on!!
Should we do some more shots before we leave?
(one more look at the mirror before walks away) OMG we should make a pact not too look in mirrors ever again. What am I wearing?

And at least one always walks out with toilet paper stuck on her high heel pumps, or has her skirt stuck in the underwear…


(This also maybe a good argument for some to stop drinking all together!)


Leaving a dry spell…

June 10, 2013

I have been caught up in editing/publishing duties, classes, and other life stuff. Haven’t written much outside of that…until I saw a photo and found myself thinking of my expired youth. On the outside of the body, inside, I still feel 20. No 33, that was the best year, and I traveled to Ireland for three weeks. Will say no more, just leave you with this…


Mom Said Good Thing You’re Pretty


‘Me being ‘Kward’ was written

across the bottom a photo. A beautiful blonde

girl or woman

stacked in a pile of photos

fallen across the coffee table of a friend.

Her daughter was barely eighteen and I found myself

a bit jealous of youth in a crowd

of dripping hormones and angst pool side.


Reminded me of myself

three decades ago; posing on the hood

of an old restored Chevy, painted red—

my peach sun dress barely on my shoulders,

busty and hips bursting through, and my mind

was still on a quarter tank.


Are females hood ornaments

driving through a parade of testosterones.

Me. I was little embarrassed and shy

of exposing thighs on a set of legs

my mother always told strangers

was one of my best attributes.

I believe it’s now considered old fashioned

and prudish to think all you need is a good set

of teeth, strong arms, and good hips

to make it in the world.

( a total draft, I already have ideas of additions and subtractions)