Abandoned ~~ Unwanted | Tossed aside

When you own nothing, you are nothing.

Just piles of clothes. Discarded furniture and hurriedly packing to beat the City Marshals lock on your front door.

Belongings helter skelter across 3 1/2 rooms. Rooms that no longer belong to you because rent unpaid.

One tends to lose people and things unexpectedly.

1st Dad died. Then Mom.  Pieces of Me were lost along the way.

The Little Cleaning Woman me took one look at the fake Christmas tree and ornaments then proclaimed, Into the Trash with that Shit! There are no more celebrations for people like you. People always in transition. Always in flux.  When you were forcibly transitioned out of your American Dream job then your life became the American Nightmare.

I am an Anachronism to my time. 


Happy Stories 

People like Happy Stories.

Fake. Phoney and Make Believe are the order of the day.  Hocus Pocus

Eyes 1/4 Open. 3/4 Closed.

Pollyanna and Rebecca of Sunnybrook farm are it’s painted on smile leaders.


As for me I break bread with my demons and we sup together. Over the years they have become my closest friends and allies because they remind me of what is real.

That you can never escape from the past no matter how fast or where you run. The past always catches up to you letting you know that you will never be released from its thorny grip.

Does the past have a place to return? Will it be cast into a herd of swine? No. It can only return to whence it came. You.

Nearly everyday a long drawn out Struggle.

Despair becomes the norm.
So make peace with the darkness for unlike friends and family it will always be there.

For you.

Life is a Fantasy waiting to end. Rebirth? Who knows?

Not all stories have happy endings and storms rarely do.
I see the lynchings, floggings, whippings, beatings, drowning, and rapes as though it were yesterday. Because it always is Yesterday.


Island of the Damned -- Bocklin

A Building at Rest ~ Goth Holiday at the Museum

A Building at Rest

The museum Thanksgiving Day 2012
the museum is populated by a wonderful yet mysterious quiet & peace undisturbed by the frenetic masses. Silences punctuated only by flowing water, the endless hum and shifting of building machinery.

Even normal noises can be unsettling. Especially those associated with people. The building has become a living breathing organism Uttering creaks moans sighs groans from nearly 150 years of footfalls, voices, radios, songs, cantatas, the chiming of clocks, exclamations of awe & wonder. Whispers from an Archaic Victorian century long past to digital diversity.

Oh what secrets lie transfixed within these silent walls yearning for release.  The Hunger has been unleashed upon the populace.

The immortality of brick, mortar & steel record the march of ethnicities & nations who roam free these hallowed halls.

Sometimes the sudden interruption of footfalls becomes ominous, invading the sanctity of the Holy Sanctuary. Even the sound of my own steps is somewhat menacing. What spirits accompany me on perambulations among the saints and sinners?

The feeble burbling of the fountain stream’s half-hearted attempts to empty its essence, struggling to pollinate magnificent coins.

The day is at end, the light has faded. Now the night crew enters to continue the evening melody.

Hotel California
Hotel California

Reflections Goth Holiday 2013

Cadaver Mind A.D.D.

Heaving sighs and moans.  Creaks, chrupping of brick, mortar, steel and glass pane windows. Blood oozes and drips from open wounds in Laymen’s red brick walls. Elevator doors open and a thousand wailing, howling, grieving souls swoop through the air and into the Medieval Court crying for revenge. Flight of the Valkyries. The Martyrs avenge their unjust and untimely deaths. Swirling and whirling like profane dervishes from netherworld’s portal of the undead.

Angels Falling
Angels Falling

Hail Mary Echoes from thousands of Knights, monks, Nuns, bishops, and church saints racing through Byzantium corridors. Spirits of Reliquaries issue forth warnings and admonishments to modern day savages. Reliquary Fingers of Blessing Inflict Pain Yanking Opening Death’s Door breaking off bits and pieces of flesh, bone, teeth and hair for deposit into ossuary banks.

Slats opening and closing mindfully as though giving some secret Morse Code. Dioramas of Death act out murderous suicidal dramas. Eagle slays Dragon plucking out blinded eyes from empty orbs.

Medieval castle built long ago by invaders long forgotten. A grand foyer flanked by two long hallways of Byzantine art leading into Medieval Sculpture Hall filled with statues of Madonnas, Saints, Mystics, Relics, and tombs from Egypt, Europe, Greece, Cyprus and South America. Kali goddess of the sarcophagus raises her many arms in Victory. Subterranean pipes hissing steam clanking unrest.

Island of the Damned -- Bocklin
Island of the Damned by Bocklin

Secret panels opening up to Mausoleum subterranean chambers containing overturned ossuaries, bones bleached white scattered throughout the tombs.

Abruptly Angels on the Christmas tree come to life and like ravenous vampire bats attack unsuspecting visitors. Reanimated Reliquary Arms reach out to throttle throats of fleeing patrons. Fang toothed Egyptian mummies arise and break through display cases to satiate their ancient eon hunger upon frenzied victims. Their desert saliva spreading infection causing festering vile pus filled carbuncles to captive prey.

Emptiness and Futility of Life
Life’s ignoble Ending

Desire run rampant as sacrilegious effigies coupled and reached radiant necrophilia orgasm stone bodies now made supple. Mystics and Monks glowered lecherously all the while reciting Gregorian chants, dirges and cries for absolution filling the room with the intensity of their mating.

Gargoyles descended from illicit trysts with human females and warlock man beasts gave into the licentious behaviors’ anointing themselves and fleeing clienteles with seminal fluid oily slick.

Orgasm became an exceptional obsession.

Viscous gleaming blood, shimmering with glided preternatural flakes of light. Black Iris her breasts like soft fragrant pillows.

A Mother’s Wail

Massacre of the Innocents

The Massacre of the Innocents is found at Matthew 2:1618, Then what was said through the prophet Jeremiah was fulfilled: “A voice is heard in Ramah, weeping and great mourning, Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted, because they are no more.”

Her very essence is gone. Her core destroyed. Madonna Badger’s face is etched in grief and sorrow. Hers is a piercing cry I’ve heard before coming from the seat of a grieving soul. Her sorrow doubled in the multiple loss of her parents and children in a fire on Christmas Day.

Yes I’ve heard that those mournful wails before within the walls of New Jerusalem Baptist church coming from the mother of Kevin Miller.  Kevin was killed while on his way to get a snack from McDonald’s. A reward from his Mom for making the Honor Roll at school. Kevin another innocent victim of gang violence in the year 2009.

Kevin Miller, 13, a godly boy, holy, righteous, an upstanding youth

A good student, modest in dress and manner

A junior usher at New Jerusalem Baptist Church

Cut down before he even had a chance to live his life


Kevin’s mother and grandmother were at service the Sunday before his funeral. Such a wail, a cry of grief went out from his heartbroken mother that it reached the depths of my soul and I’m sure rest of the congregation. I did not attend Kevin Miller or the Badger children’s funerals but as a woman I can feel that pain, as their tears make a pathway to hoping as the grief stricken Orpheus to make a trail for Eurydice’s lost children to follow.

But alas there is no way back for little souls pure of heart now at play in the garden of Paradise. Women and men everywhere embrace their small souls and your heart Madonna Badger with our hearts and prayers.

Yet like Kevin Miller’s Mom and Madonna Badger I ask Why?