Why My Mother?

Dear God

Why did you have to pick her?

Why did you have to take my mom so soon?

Why did she have to go to heaven now?

It just hurts so bad not having her here.

Every time I think about everything she is going to miss

tears flow from my eyes like rain running off a tin roof.

My mother will not get to be here for my wedding.

She will never get to meet all of her grandchildren

or get to see some of them grow up even a little.

I miss her so bad and I need her now more than ever.

Why now God? Why my mother?

 

 

Dear Michelle

Despite what you may might have heard

or seen in those silly horror movies,

there is no pattern or order to death.

Who is selected and when they are selected

is purely by chance, not some grand design.

If you were suddenly dropped in the middle

of the largest most beautiful flower garden

and you were allowed to pick just one

which flower would you pick and why?

Chances are you would seek out and choose  

a captivating flower that beckoned your gaze.

A stunningly unique and wonderful flower,

with a divine strength and beauty that captures

not just the best of your world, but all it is capable of.  

 

One Adorable Train Wreck

It’s a long ride young lady. Why don’t you tell me your story?

Why? Why should you care? You’re just my ride to the methadone clinic. Oh, what the hell do I have to lose? I’ve got to talk to somebody about all this before I go totally bat shit crazy. Why not talk about my life to a perfect stranger? How could you possibly make it any fucking worse? It is not like you are actually going to give a shit anyway. Oh Christ! My life is such a fucking mess that I don’t even know where to start. Nothing has turned out the way I hoped or wanted it to, and right now my future isn’t looking too bright either. I’m a recovering drug addict clinging to sobriety by the thinnest of threads because drugs are everywhere and they are still a part of my fucking life even though I am trying real hard not to use anymore.

At first, I liked getting high because it seemed like a cool distraction from the everyday bullshit of life. Later it numbed the pain and hid the sadness caused by those I loved and those I thought loved me who constantly let me down and in one case even brutalized me to the point of permanent physical injury. At some point, even my fucking little romance with chemicals let me down because after a while nothing eased the pain, and profound sadness I felt. But like all druggies I kept on using until there was nothing left but the drugs and the additional suffering and loss they brought on me.

If it weren’t for the three children I lost custody of and the one now growing inside me, I am quite sure I would have taken a lethal cocktail of drugs at some point and just ended my fucked up life. I had gotten to such a low point in my life that I didn’t think anyone would miss me, but the thought of my children being left without a mother was more than I could bear. Their fathers are fucking assholes, but I do love all of my children. Despite my issues and what some might tell you, I know I was a better mother to my children than most of the stupid bitches that come through the clinic. I am only twenty-six years old, but between the drugs and bad relationships I feel like an old woman.

Driver, this ride isn’t long enough to tell you about all my bad relationships, but there is enough there to fill a cheap romance novel. Sadly, parts of it would be scary enough to send Freddy Krueger screaming back to his silly dream world. Simply saying that I have sucked at picking guys to have intimate relationships with is a huge understatement. I don’t know what it is about me, but I gravitate toward guys that will hurt me, cheat on me, or let me down. The good guys or unusually sensitive guys that I should want to be with tend to be clingy and needy, and unfortunately too much of that shit brings out the bitch in me, so I wind up hurting them. I don’t know what it is about you men, but you all seem to go from being insensitive pricks to overly sensitive little mama’s boys with little in between. The crazy thing is I really do love men, I enjoy being with men, and I enjoy talking to men, but my trust in guys is in the crapper and at this point I don’t think I could tolerate being hurt again. The funny thing is despite having a few health issues, being on methadone, being pregnant, being half-asleep all the time, and in general being a train wreck of a young woman that may not even survive her pregnancy; I can still attract men of all ages. Unfortunately, all of you crazy guys think I am some kind of broken doll that needs to be fixed and I am not even sure I can fix myself sometimes. Oh Hell! I can’t even figure out why I am burdening an almost total stranger with my fucking life story. The fact that you’re a man makes it seem even weirder. I do know what it is about you, driver, but I get the sense that you’re different in some way and for some odd reason… I feel really safe with you-as a matter of fact, safer than I have felt in a very long time.

Well if you’re a train wreck, you’re one of the most adorable train wrecks I have ever met. We all have stories and I’m glad you felt safe enough to tell me yours. Yes I do care, but the truth is we all should care about young women with stories like yours. Look around any corner and you’ll find a woman who has gone through at least some if not all of what you have gone through or a young girl who will go through some if not all of what you have gone through. The only thing unique about stories like yours is that they are rarely ever heard because first, you are a woman in what is still very much a man’s world; second, you are a single mom and that is all your fault and responsibility even though a penis attached to another person helped put you in that condition; and third, you are a drug addict, so put them all together and you are in the druggie single mom group which, not unlike the homeless in this country, are considered a shit stain on the social fabric of America that we as a collective group choose to ignore or pretend doesn’t exist. The truth is that some individuals will care and some will try to help in different ways, but the reality here is that the buck stops with you, young lady, so the question on the table is not whether someone cares, but what are you prepared to do to change your current situation? You can sit there and try to boohoo your problems away, but to my knowledge nary a tear has ever solved a problem. The only thing you accomplish by crying is wasting a lot of tissues you can’t afford. You can sit there and be angry at the former men in your life who helped put you in your current situation and hope they help you without forcing them to make a court appearance, but that would be like wishing in one hand and shitting in the other and we all know which one of those hands usually gets full first. You can continue to use drugs and keep trying to medicate your pain and problems away until you accidentally take too much or mix the wrong drugs and in the not too distant future leave the children that you say you love so much standing over a tombstone or a box of ashes crying over a mother they never really knew because you chose to spend most of your life and all of theirs fucked up on drugs. What you should be doing first is staying the course in this drug program you are in to free yourself from your addiction. The narcotic turnpike you’re barreling down only leads to a place where potential withers on the vine, hopes become a dust swirl in the dry wind, and the seeds of dreams die in the parched soil. The final toll will be the destruction of everything you were, everything you are, and everything you could have been. This is no kind of road for a bright young woman like yourself to be traveling down , so take the exit ramp now before it is too fucking late, and never look back. The second thing you should be doing is trying to figure out how to build a life for you and your children without a man and judging by the number of children you already have and the size of your belly you have already had enough of that to meet the Biblical quota of “be fruitful and multiply.” What you need to do now is work on yourself. Start by redefining yourself and knowing your true worth.

Unfortunately, it is harder for a woman because from the time females are born in this country, they are socialized in a society designed by men, so women are patterned from the male expectation of what a woman should be and shamefully their worth is inexorably linked to that male concept. From birth, male and female roles are being established to define them and the future roles they will play in society. Almost immediately, baby girls are dressed in pretty pink and boys in the more masculine color of blue. Later little girls are given pretty dolls to play with and boys are given trucks to play with and the evolution of roles continues from there. Somewhere during the course of this evolution little girls become daddy’s little princesses and not very long after this young girls burgeoning into womanhood realize that if they look, and behave according to this male expectation of what girls and women should be that boys and later men will be nice to them, do things for them, and protect them. The reason why certain mental illnesses like anorexia and bulimia are associated more closely with females is that they are trying to meet or exceed our society’s expectation. This is patterned from the male conception, of what a woman should look like, so a female no matter how emaciated she becomes from these diseases will always see a woman in her mirror that is too fat to meet this expectation of what a woman should look like.

Men and women both might argue the point that our society is a male construct, but a quick look at how slow laws were passed for women and how the legal system treats women in general most clearly makes my point. Until just a couple of years ago it was perfectly acceptable to pay women less for the same job a man did and until 1973 a man could beat the shit out of his wife and not be arrested for it if the scared battered wife or a witness did not swear out a complaint against the husband. With the number of single moms trying to raise children on their own steadily increasing for years you would think passage of logical legislation like this would have come sooner, but it didn’t because men make the laws and males have always been perceived as the family bread winners in our society. I wonder how many men beat their wives to death before a group of men in the legislature decided it was a good idea to pass a law to give women some minimal protection against spouse abuse. I guess the socialized concept of a man being the king of his castle kept a lot of good men from seeing sooner that allowing the King to beat the Queen of his castle to death over bullshit wasn’t such a good idea. As far as how badly women are treated by our legal system, you only need to watch an episode of “Law and Order” to get a clue. It was determined a long time ago that rape is a crime of violence period, yet still to this day what a woman was wearing at the time of her rape and how many men she had sex with during the course of her life comes up in a rape trial as if it should be relevant to a jury or court to render a fair decision. Where is it written in the law that a vagina of promiscuous women is worth less than that of a virgin. If worth was the actuary used to determine the value of a vagina, one would think the one that has frequently entertained would be worth more, not less. In my opinion, if the rape victim were a prostitute, a charge of theft of services should go along with the rape charge. Why does it matter what the victim of a violent crime was wearing? If the woman was wearing a miniskirt at the time of her rape, how is she less of a victim than a woman wearing a pantsuit? Are women wearing miniskirts less of a victim because they are perceived to be granting the rapist easier access? What is the defense lawyer’s argument here? “Your honor my clients junk has mind of its own and saw that woman’s short skirt as an open invitation and it could not resist the temptation to quell its violent carnal desires.” Our socialization, in this example, makes us believe that women who like to screw a lot of men and wear miniskirts are helping to cause their rape, so in court they are raped again by a system that is supposed to protect everybody. The effect of this socialization is so strong that rape victims themselves will wonder what they did to cause a man to violently attack them. In a man’s world women operate from a different metric, but one that was created by men and unfortunately women define themselves and garner their self-worth from it. My point here is women have to define themselves and recognize their own worth beyond the male prism that they have been socialized to see themselves through. It is not wrong to want to be with a man, be in love with a man, and spend your life with a man as an equal partner, but in order to accomplish this you must first see yourself as something greater than just a hot baby-making receptacle for every cute swinging penis that comes your direction.

You must up your game and you start by getting off drugs, getting an education, and striving for your own personal independence. This is your “Fight Song” because this is how you take back your life. Yes, you might find your Prince Charming somewhere along the way “Sleeping Beauty” and get the fairy tale situation you always dreamed of as a little girl, but you must prepare yourself for likelihood of awakening from your deep slumber only to find that you are in a hard lip lock with a frog. Why should I care about you and all this you wonder? I am nothing but a guy who drives a train wreck to a methadone clinic everyday wondering how an adorable exceedingly bright feisty young woman like her wound up in this fucking circle of hell. One, who silently prays that this particular one has enough fight left in her to claw her way back to a life that doesn’t include a score or a hit? The question here should not be why I should care. A better question would be why don’t we all care? Adorable train wrecks like her are not very hard to find all you have to do is look around any corner.

To Love Blindly

Why do you constantly keep saying you love me?
What did I ever do or say to make you feel that way?
There has never been an intimate moment between us.
We have never passionately kissed or embraced each other.
We never walked holding each other’s hands like lover’s do.
What have I ever done or you think I did to deserve your love?
How can you stand there and say that you love me?
You are either crazy or just another liar.
In either case, I know you will hurt me.
How could I possibly believe in you?
I can see you, hear you, and touch you,
but there is no way you can be for real.
I am too broken to take a leap of faith.
My heart has lied to me far too often.
I can no longer trust my own feelings.
If you do really love me, you must be a fool
I am too damaged to be loved by anyone.
A true heart would be wasted on me now.
I am a bundle of doubts and fears
wrapped in a blanket of insecurity.
Why would anyone want to love me?

The shattered heart captures the caring eyes
of the one capable of seeing a beautiful heart
reflected in the smallest of shards left behind
in the consuming wake of false love’s savage fury.
The one who sees a heart once full of passion
flailing in the rapids of sorrow desperately
grasping for any reason to believe in love again.
The one with hands strong enough to pull
it free from the perilous fate that awaits.
The one who sees great beauty in imperfection,
who thinks a ravaged heart is worth saving,
who believes that it can be restored to splendor,
who blindly loves not what it has become,
but all it could be.

Masterpiece Undefined

On a dusty easel at a yard sale
awaiting a best offer from a patron
sat a severely damaged oil painting
of a very lovely young woman.
Her beautiful frame was fractured and separated at the corners.
She was shamefully abused by some and neglected by others.
She had been colored on by boys, who did not know her worth,
and stored in a damp garage as if she were of no value to anyone.

Everyone passed her by offering no more than a casual glance
except for one old man who had a passion for restoring fine art.
The man stared intently at the battered and abused painting
wondering how a unique piece of art like her got to this place.
With the gentlest of touch, he lifts the painting off the easel
still staring at the portrait, but tilting his head first left then right
wondering if he can restore this beauty to her original splendor.
Yes, that captivating smile, those alluring ocean blue eyes,
and the unbreakable spirit behind them speak to my soul,
so I must try to do what all others have deemed impossible.

No beautiful lady in oil you may never be worth a fortune,
or hang in a museum to be adorned by millions of people,
but you will always be worth one man’s time and effort
for his eyes can only see the masterpiece you could be.

Hurt Blind Heart

Stay away!
I am broken
I can’t be fixed
Don’t waste your time
I am not worth it
Go away! I just want to die.

Why do you care?
No one else does
No one ever has
Some have pretended to care
just to use me and hurt me later
Go away! I just want to die.

You shouldn’t love me in any way
You’re a crayon toting kind of crazy
I will shatter your foolish heart
I am a freaking soul crushing bitch
I do not deserve to be loved
Go away! I just want to die.

No, I do not believe you
You can’t be for real
I’ll keep pushing you away
until you give up on me
I’ll keep hurting you
until you’re reeling in pain
Go away! I just want to die.

You old fool don’t you dare cry
I wasn’t your lover
I wasn’t your daughter
I never really mattered to you
You never really cared for me
Go away! I am dead.

When you had fallen, I tried to pick you up
When you were sad, I tried to make you laugh
When you cried, I offered my shoulder
When you hurt, I tried to ease the pain
When you needed me, you knew I’d be there
Today I cry not for the woman who never knew her true worth,
but for the hurt blind heart that never saw how much I cared.

A Forever Kind of Love

If I could,
I would love you each day for the rest of my life as if there were no more tomorrows.

If I could,
I would show you the shear rhythmic splendor of a true heart that yearns for only you.

If I could,
I would wrap you securely in my rugged loving arms and whisper baby your heart is safe with me, never again will it be broken or shattered by callous thoughtless fools who never knew your true worth.

If I could,
I would unleash a raging storm of passion in loving waves caressing every part of your luscious body ebbing just long enough to fulfill your every desire until you fall weak from the rapture of my love.

If I could
I would make you my queen of love dropping to my knees to devour your succulent flower until your back arches, your eyes roll back, and your screams of unbridled ecstasy rape the night’s quiet.

If I could,
I would make a foolish boyish attempt to be your greatest hero by being your anything and everything.

If I could,
make your heart love me like mine loves you for only a single day I would treasure each second.

If I could,
make you mine I will have captured the scarred unicorn and turned my greatest fantasy into a reality.

If I could,
I would change everything that separates our two restless hearts just so an us could be a possibility.

If you let me,
I would love what’s left of you even after more men have left you scarred and broken on the floor. I would then spend the rest of my days trying to love your shattered tear soaked heart back together.

If you let me,
I would knowing your life was coming to an end lift you up in my loving arms and say not yet baby one chapter has not yet been written and it may never be unless the last dance is mine and only mine.

If you let me,
I would show you the one love you have never known, a forever kind of love.

Brighten Today By Changing Tomorrow

Today a small hand grips a gun

Yesterday a small hand shook a rattle

 

Today a heart blackened by rage

Yesterday a heart thirsted for love

 

Today a mind lost in confusions abyss

Yesterday a mind hungered for knowledge

 

Today a soul wounded by constant torment

Yesterday a soul groped for the light of hope

 

Today a frigid pair of unrelenting eyes

Yesterday a warm pair of innocent eyes

 

Today, a bullet claims one life

Tomorrow, the chair of justice will take another

Yesterday, social complacency murdered two

 

Guess Who’s Bringing The Chicken

  Guess Who’s Bringing The Chicken

A play in two acts

By Kim Morrison

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                        Characters

Harry Morrison      A tall lean man with cold blue eyes who is a bit of a trickster.

Ward Wilsey           A fat beady eyed man of very limited intelligence

Frank Simpson        A short dirty, but wealthy little fellow wearing round spectacles

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Guess Who’s Bringing The Chicken By Kim Morrison

 

 

 

The play takes place during the early fall of 1935, give or take a year or so, in the small town of Cairo up in the Catskill Mountains of upstate New York.  We fade in on a close up of two men driving home from a county work project in their Model “A” Ford truck.  The driver is Harry, “Hank” Morrison a tall lean man with chiseled facial features and cold blue eyes.  His manner is always cool and deliberate, no matter the situation, but he is also a very clever trickster and a masterful liar.  The passenger is Ward Wilsey a tall heavyset man of very limited intelligence with beady brown eyes that look as though they would touch each other, if it were not for the large nose in the middle of his face preventing it.  His manner is amiable and good-natured even when he is drunk, which is usually most of the time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ACT 1

Scene 1

 

(We fade into to Harry and Ward going down a rural country road in upstate New York in Harry’s Model “A” truck.  Harry is at the wheel as usual and Ward, as usual, has already had a good snoot full of hard cider that Harry always kept a jug of in his truck.)

 

WARD

Ain’t it about time for the yearly town supper Hank?

HARRY

As a matter of fact it is Ward.  The boys have decided to have it this weekend.

WARD

How come you didn’t tell me sooner?

HARRY

I did, I told you over two weeks ago.

WARD

Well I don’t remember.

HARRY

Well maybe you weren’t paying attention when I told you.

WARD

I know I would have remembered something as important as that.

HARRY

Oh, bull!  You suck up so much of my hard cider every day you wouldn’t remember what day it was, if there were only three days in a week.

 

(Ward mumbles, leans back in his seat, shuts his eyes, and dozes off.  After a brief pause, the audience hears a clucking noise and Ward wakes up abruptly.)

WARD

Wha… What was that you said Hank?  I didn’t quite hear you.

HARRY

(With a slight grin on his face)

Why I haven’t uttered a word Ward, you better quit pulling on that hard cider jug of mine; you’re starting to hear things.

WARD

Damn it Hank!  I know I heard something.  I thought it was you.

HANK

Well maybe you heard something rattle on the truck.  My truck is getting kind of old you know.

WARD

I reckon that could be.

 

(Once again, Ward leans back, closes his eyes, and briefly dozes off.  The audience hears the clucking noise more clearly and it sounds like some kind of animal.  Once again, Ward wakes up.

 

WARD

Huh! What was that you said Hank?  I didn’t quite catch it.

HANK

(Grinning like the proverbial cat that just ate the canary)

Now Ward, if you keep going on like this, I’m going to have to carry you over to old Doc Parson’s.  You’re starting to sound like a man on the edge.

WARD

Now goddamn you Hank!  I ain’t going crazy.  I could have sworn you said something to me.

HANK

(Still grinning)

Now I know you’ve been pulling hard on that jug today because I haven’t said one word.

 

 

WARD

I’ve had a few snorts today, but I ain’t drunk.

 

(Once again, the audience hears what sounds like a clucking noise over the sound of the engine and so does Ward, but he clearly does not know what to make of it.)

 

WARD

(In a more hushed voice)

Did you hear that?

HANK

What?

WARD

I think you got some varmints in your truck Hank.

HANK

(Grinning)

What kind of varmints?

WARD

How in the hell should I know what kind of varmints?  It’s your truck.

HANK

(With more of a smile than a grin)

Well Jesus jumped up Christ Ward!  First, you are hearing voices.  Now you are hearing varmints.  I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.

WARD

Do you mean to tell me you didn’t hear that noise?

 

 

 

 

 

HANK

(Still Grinning)

I haven’t heard a thing.  I am glad we’re almost to your place because if I have to listen to any more of your nonsense, I’m going to get as wacky as you are.

WARD

(With an irritated expression Ward Folds his thick arms and turns toward the door window)

I ain’t crazy neither.

WARD

(After a long pause)

Hey Hank!  Where did you go during lunch today?

HARRY

Oh!  I had a little chore to tend to.

 

(Harry turns up into Wards steep driveway with a bump and a jerk)

WARD

(Before opening the door)

Are you going to pick me up and bring me to the town supper tomorrow?

HARRY

Well I suppose so, if you don’t mind riding with varmints.

WARD

Oh!  What was I supposed to bring for the supper?

HARRY

You and old Frank Simpson are contributing the chickens this year and I am bringing a pig to roast.

 

 

WARD

(Surprised)

Frank Simpson!  Why that old skin flint ain’t never brought a thing to any of these town suppers.  What in the hell makes you think this year will be any different?

HARRY

(With a slight chuckle)

Well let’s just say a little birdie told me that he was going to be a bit more charitable this year.

 

ACT II

(It is the day of the town supper and about three quarters of the people of Cairo and the surrounding area are there gathered around the crudely made picnic tables set end to end in rows of five.  The tables are covered with everything from linen sheets to hand made bedspreads.  There is every kind of meat you can think of, cooking over a pit filled with a bed of cherry red coals.  However, the aroma of fresh pork and chicken turning on spits is the most prevalent.  The first person to join in the food part of the festivities is old Frank Simpson.  Despite the fact that he was one of the wealthier individuals in that area, Simpson always looked like he never washed, and could be best described as a dirty little man who wore small round spectacles.)

 

FRANK

(looking over all the food)

Boy!  Everything looks so good this year I don’t know what to try first.

HARRY

(watching Frank)

Why don’t you tear a piece off that chicken on the end right there?  It looks nice and plump.

FRANK

By God I think you’re right Hank that chicken there does look like it might be just a bit tastier than the rest; I think, I will try some.

 

(Frank fills his plate, sits down next to Ward and Harry, and begins to gnaw on a chicken leg.)

FRANK

(After chewing the last piece of meat off the bone)

My goodness that was the finest chicken I have ever tasted.  I can’t remember when I had better, Hank.

HANK

(With a huge smile and talking loud, enough to be heard by everybody seated there)

Well it ought to be Frank.  It was one of your prize winning laying hens.

 

(There was a loud roar of laughter that shook the tables.  Some people laughed so hard they choked on their food while others just rolled off the picnic tables.)

 

FRANK

(Waving his fists violently in the air)

Damn you Hank!  Damn you all!

(Frank exits mumbling and cursing)

 

WARD

(With a smile)

Well I reckon I won’t be hearing any more varmints in your truck Hank?

HARRY

(With an even more devilish smile)

Well not for a spell anyway Ward, not for a spell.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Deadly Illusions

Wake Up My Children!  Wake Up!

A creature of many faces stalks you,

A human chameleon devoid of soul,

He hides not in the shadowy corner,

But among you, under the unwary eye.

Do not be fooled by this great pretender

A white hat may adorn his head,

But blackness fills his vacant heart.

 

Be wise my children!  Beware!

He’s the crown prince of trickery.

He’s the grand master of disguise.

This creature can masquerade in godly robes

while writhing painfully under their holiness

Evil can spout the prophetic words of a tribune

while the lie festers under his tongue.

He’s a true disciple of the damned.

 

Wake up my children!  Wake up!

Do not be mesmerized by this alluring creature.

With his apparent straight talk and honesty

He can make you a mindless believer.

But he’s a liar and a charlatan.

He hides behind a wall of illusion,

Preying on the fears of the ignorant

And captivating the ears of the innocent

 

Evil Has Many Faces

Why do you come now?

Why do you besiege me

with your fowl unholy presents?

You are the Prince of Darkness,

the keeper of tormented souls,

you are Satan himself are you not?

 

Oh  call me what you wish!

History has seen fit to adorn me

with many provocative names

and I detest each one of them.

For they perpetuate the myth

that every bit of the world’s evil

springs directly from my loins.

 

Why do you come now?

Why do you torment me?.

I have been a great man of God.

I spread his word with relentless zeal

wielding the sword of righteousness

toward all I deemed evil and wicked.

 

Why I have come to take you home.

You have been a fantastic disciple.

Few have served our cause better.

You have made the worst sins

tolerable to the great masses.

Cloaking evil under Godly robes

was a masterful work of genius.  

 

No!  No!  This cannot be?

God has spoken through me.

I have been his earthly conduit.

I am one of God’s chosen people.

I devoutly followed his teachings

and actively preached his word.

 

 You perverted God’s so called revealed word

into a twisted rendition of your own creation.

You stoked the fears of the ignorant into a inferno

and reaped all you could from the true believers.

You have spawned a most delicious type of hatred.

One that will continue to bear fruit for years to come.

Evil has many faces, but none more hideously vile

than those who hide behind the curtain of religion.