See what not to be….



Be a monster! I must be the reflection of the words I see.

Be a monster! The kind that is not a part of me.

Be a monster! Everything I am not.

The sins of another I must duplicate then find the man inside the monster of hate.

To be another person takes skill and finesse,

To become societies, monsters take talent to the test.

A brother, a son, a keeper of justice, with a time bomb inside.

Ready to explode on many occasions before and aft.

A reflection to take on so that its horrors are destroyed in reality.

To become a monster to convince people to not become, or be them.

My prayer is to be the change I wish to see.





I don’t believe in soap!  Deodorant has no consciousness, but if it did I am sure it would wish for a better life than the one of servitude for which it was created. A beautiful thing of wonderful fragrance protected from birth until finally one day it finds its own. The one person it is meant to be with for the rest of its life. It does not care that it is used once or twice a day and rarely appreciated. Used up on a short amount of time, stuck with a dirty job, never thanked or acknowledged; knowing it will be replaced as soon as it is no longer able to perform the most deplorable job.

Today was different. Of the thousands of bottles of deodorant, disposed of, forgotten, neglected, and taken for granted over the years, today I appreciated my deodorant. All it took was a glitter covered armpit, a clean smell, and a fresh new outlook. Never to treat soaps in such a despicable manner again. Thank you, soap, and enjoy your new glittered self.


The forty-two year old women had tended the bar for eighteen years. She had seen the owners change the bar name and theme eight times, and every kind of customer walk through the doors. If that wasn’t bad enough, eight years back she had moved upstairs to the small apartment. Now she never leaves except to buy groceries. Her skin is leathery from years of cigarettes, sun, and hard living. Her teeth half gone, no one had called her good looking in many a year.

Tonight she decided would be her last night in the bar. She had tried to get fired before, to no avail. The owners put up with her because they knew the customers loved her and the day she went so would half their clientele. Tonight she was determined, so she went to the church before work and borrowed a habit from a nun. She walked in to work and no one said a word. She gave lap dances to drunk customers, and her bosses didn’t flinch. Finally she jumped on the bar and poured beer on herself, watching the fabric turn see-through and sticking to her breasts.



Then, the infant awakened bright-eyed and giggled at his mother who wondered what babies dream about. She did not know they dream about their past lives.



The bishop poured the barbecue sauce over his mashed potatoes. He lived barbecue sauce as most people love hot, fresh cinnamon buns. He ate it on everything sweltry, including licking it off of his sultry love affairs. He bought the stuff in five-gallon jugs. He even got a restaurant license so that he could buy it in larger batches, hoarding it, for he knew one day its production would cease. He prayed fervently that the manufacturing would continue after his death. Sadly the gods and the fates laughed at his serious behest. Two years after his sixtieth birthday, to the day, the shipment stock came with the dreaded words: LAST SHIPMENT – CLOSE OUT SALE.” He wrote, called, and visited the company’s owners begging for the recipe, but to no avail. The company would keep its secret to the grave.



Three years passed with rationing. He made it to a young sixty-five when his body hit delirium tremens from the lack of sauce. He tried AA meetings, rehab and prayer. Nothing helped him overcome his torrid love affair. When the tremors began, he knew he was close to the end. The monosodium glutamate and other chemicals had done their work. Knowing that because of his addiction god would not receive him into the kingdom, he did what any sane man would do. He decided to end his life. Going through the aisles at the local store…on his way to the bullet department…to fulfill his life, he happened upon tapioca pudding from the sample lady. His eyes were opened, his life found new purpose. So, he retired by writing his story and cramming can after can of tapioca pudding down his engorged gullet. Until one day he exploded from over-mastication.

The moral: Better to barbecue a pit, than become the pudding!