“48 reasons NOT to work at a Home Depot” – flash fiction



He was a self-proclaimed (1)Do-It-Yourself killer.  He killed the mother.  Chopped up the father.  Hung the son.  Pissed on the dog.  Stepped on the cat.  Cut fresh (2)flowers from the (3)garden and arranged them in a vase in the living daughter’s (4)kitchen on top of the (5)island butcher’s block next to the brain mattered (6)stained machete.  The daughter squirmed beneath his firm grasp on her throat and pelvis.  She was the reason why he was there in this (7)dreadful place of (8)Home Depot memorabilia from previous Do-It-Yourself (9)Workshops.  He swore he saw (10)Homer running behind the (11)fridge after Barbie and Ken with (12)paint brushes and (13)utility knives because Homer caught them fornicating in his (14)orange apron pockets and beneath his (15)orange painters hat.  He could smell Ken’s (16)plastic melted cum sticking to his bald head as Barbie begged from somewhere within the (17)nuts and (18)bolts department to have her hard plastic breasts (19)buffed and (20)sanded and (21)sprayed by instant gold tanning (22)products real women would kill for in a Walgreens drug store if it promised a date with look-alike-Kens.  Barbie was lucky.  “Ken is a fag!” the killer once told his sister when he was a little boy dressed like GI Joe chasing little girls in pink (23)floral dresses chopping off pigtails while droplets of blood wept on those pretty blossoming flowers then shooting at boys who dared to steal his glory as the globe-trotting-pigtail-chopping-military-man.  The daughter squirmed a second time.  She had gold hair.  A ponytail instead of pigtails.  As he originally thought she had in the (24)makeshift park on the jungle Jim on the swings on the Rocket that went sky high from a kid’s eye.  “A kid’s eye” the killer thought slipping his (25)calloused hands over the daughter’s face.  (26)Mashing her skull he then thought of mashed potatoes at the Golden Corral on 75th Avenue where the majority of diners were illegals, aliens disguised as Americans sloughing over the endless buffet because they had green cards that permitted them to.  The killer thought “Since when did America succumb to these atrocities particularly (27)signs translated from English to Spanish?”  And he went on to ponder on why there wasn’t any signs translating on how to get back to the alien river mother-fucking-ships yet there were signs on how to eat at a buffet:  Please use a (28)clean plate when visiting the buffet.  Por favor a usar un limpio plato cuando visitando el bufete cada vez.  Mashed potatoes?  The killer’s stomach growled picking up the machete finishing off the daughter on the kitchen’s butcher block obviously (29)made by the (30)Homersapians of (31)Home Depot.  The head rolled and landed in the stepped on cat’s (32)litter box.  The dog whimpered.  One of the (33)roses wilted in the waterless vase.  Homer chased after Ken who chased after Barbie.  The killer was going insane with maddening hunger.  “This was supposed to be an easy fucking (34) job!”  The killer bitched.  He then spat on Homer as he rushed passed him.  “What?”  Homer sounded (35)orangey offended rubbing the slime smell of ingested (36)lead and tobacco (37)wood from his bald head  “This is your fucking fault!”  The killer rampaged. “Turning me into a fucking (38)carpenter.  A (39)gardener.  A baby-sitter!”  The killer scooped up Homer and Ken and Barbie and shoved them into his (40)tool bag and zipped the zipper shut.  There was muffling.  Barbie squealing.  Homer (41)screwing Ken in his ass as usual.  The killer grunted.  He detested killing on an empty stomach.  It fucked with his (42)lunch hour.  “So how’d it go. . .at the Johnson (43)residence with their newly (44)installed butcher’s block?” a freckled face albino toon in his late teens with gold bling on one front tooth probed.  The killer snuck-a-peek at manchild’s hands only to find they were grotesquely big and hairy (45)green, the obvious signs of good times raped and wasted on palm (46)Rosie and her five little (47)friends.  He made a mental note to take manchild up on his previous offer of (48)retiling his bedroom.  “Well, they were so ecstatic the woman just about had herself a heart attack.  The man just about fell to pieces.  Their son almost tripped over his shoelaces and just about hung himself.  And the daughter. . .well, she just about lost her head!  Those Do-It-Yourself projects can be a real killer, know what I mean?”


(pub2012 in MF)

Musings of a Writer, Blocked


I’m not as intelligent as I used to be


somewhere, somehow, my brain

fell off the grid of post-independence,

now I’m influenced by the vast roaches

inhibiting my fortress of proverbial pain,

though they call to me, whisper my name

their shame becomes all of what I used to be;


the Marigolds no longer bloom on my plantation

they too have become all but a crying out sustenance,

not for water, but for company, companionship,

someone with the greenest thumb to stroke their

whimsical little petals now weltering beneath

the cosmic forces that bind us not as one but as three;


to re-seed another whole new life, I must twist the

dead Marigolds until their necks break, and when those

tiny seeds invisibly bleed out, I am reminded

that now would be a valid time to remember what I have forgotten-

in the soil I watch as those vast roaches clamber beneath me,

soiling those precious anthropoid seeds with their scum scavenger cum;


still, I’m not as intelligent as I used to be but I’m writing again

When was the last time we kissed on the corner of a street?


When was the last time we kissed on the corner of a street

when it mattered the most? You say

why is it that when we age

that drift of sensual exhibition seems to drift from us,

an exhibition that knows no boundaries except

to exploit what we once innocently felt,

like an impulse waiting to explode,

then implodes from the inside out.

that used to be us. . .young, wicked, dangerous, un-wise,

un-visceral, un-universal, genuine angst at its unpolluted

but somehow we have become polluted with the

do’s and don’ts, the acceptable and unacceptable,

the conventional and unconventional of age

so why should we live by those fucking rules?  You grab

my hand and pull me close to you, and far from them,

in my mind you are still sixteen, and your kiss still tastes

of Marlboro mint faintly washed by a bottle of domestic beer

just like the night I snuck out of my parents’ house

to make-out with you beneath a lighted pole on the corner of a street.    

Book Query Update & “If Robert Ford were Jesse James”

Well it’s another year. . .another year of trudging through the economy while trying to avoid being hit by the fiscal cliff, which btw, was somewhat resolved at around 2AM this new year’s morning.

Aside from another year gone, I spent the last few days preparing Queries to Lit Agencies for my new and latest YA novel, “ROMEO”, a unique derivative to the much beloved play, Romeo + Juliet only with a paranormal twist. So I have my fingers (tightly) crossed in hopes to garnishing an agent and a book deal this year. As time progresses, and if my query makes it past the slushpile of an agent’s inbox, I will post it here. Until then enjoy my latest poem.

If Robert Ford were Jesse James

He had collected a memoire of the man
perhaps one too many times, particularly around
the time the last of the snow had fallen and faded,
fallen and faded like hot whiskey cold sweat
off the brows of dense calculating eyelids
in saloons or at the table of ever changing galleys.

Right around the time the wild foxtail wheat
had become aplenty beneath his feet,
he dreamt of Jesse James romancing as
Thomas Howard, trailing his footsteps, each
becoming less than a shadow of a coward
despite a soft unpleasant voice that cracked
like bones when spoken or badgered upon.

Right around the time Zee, pleasant and contrite,
was left a betrayed and loyal weeping widow,
still frames of horses and black lacquer stenciled gold
empty rocking chairs and holy matrimonial secretes
whispered on clean white cotton linen sheets had
become the muffles beneath the four of seasons of what
the future revealed in scripture of what was to be foretold.

Right around the time wind of fire had spread across the plains,
he had lost the inspiration of who he was to what he desired;
A gentleman, perhaps; An outlaw, first and foremost, it seemed;
A trusted hand holding down the hammer on humility
or perhaps, humanity, but never a true cowboy. If Robert Ford
were Jesse James, he would have stripped down his legendary guns,
laid down his best suit coat above the muddy terrains and let
the sins of his ghosts cross into the sunset of no regret-

only if.