The Sunrise Over Phoenix

They arrived on the last plane into Phoenix, and in the dark of the early morning hours made their way to the car rental. In a building, far away from the main terminal, the monolithic car rental complex seemed towns away. The couple trekked along the main atrium and found their stall and began bargaining for a better car. The attendants didn’t understand their jet lag and took their impatience for some kind of personality disorder, rather than adjusting from the New York time zone into the early morning Arizona time.

When all was said and done, the couple then gots to their car, tried to figure out the computerized mechanisms. Used to old school care where a stick shift and a key were mainstays, the computerized vehicle completely left them at a loss of how to start this car. For what seemed like an eternity, they searched for something to press or pull, and eventually had to ask the attendant for help. When this young man gingerly showed them the start button, they both sighed and gave an embarrassing laugh, nodding and then apologizing for bothering him. It never dawned on them that this boy was meant to help them, and really wasn’t doing his job to help orient the customers on the features of the latest car models.

The car purred when they started it. A brand-new Mercedes GLA Cross-back that inspired grand ideas about themselves. They drove away feeling rich inside: lucky. The delusion of grandeur, and the hope of lasting opulence seemed possible in visiting another place. But as they pulled up to the little Pueblo home on Diamond Street, the soft edges of wear on the houses, and the closeness to the highway reminded them that their luxury lived in a distorted perception.

They pulled into the driveway and spied Lily sitting on the small wicker sofa next her cast iron side table, filled with various cactus and a sizable aloe plant at her feet. Leaned over and engrossed in her phone, Lily talked to its beating heart of images and texts in-between heavy drags of her cigarette. Lily has cancer.

“Oh no you don’t!” she scolded into the phone.

“I can’t believe that you would ask me such nonsense.” She spoke to the picture of a friend.

Looking up, she gazed into the morning darkness. Took a drag of her cigarette, which lit up her face, then scrolled some more, coming upon a picture she liked.

“Awww. Love it! Miss you tons….”

While taking the last drag of a cigarette before putting it out, Malcolm and Darby’s care rolled into view. Lily looked up when she became bathed in light.

Like a spotlight on an actress center stage, Lily’s drawn, gaunt face became real. With one hand, shading her squinting eyes, the other reached for another cigarette. Her familiar smile grinned and signaled her gratitude that her guests arrived.

As Malcolm put on the breaks, Darby jumped out of the car, and Lily lit the cigarette.

Darby noticed Lily’s glazed eyes and pasty skin which slowed her pace. Then she heard the medication so obviously in Lily’s speech.

“HELLO!!!”, Lily slurred with outstretched arms.

Darby carefully gave Lily her big hug, careful not to overwhelm Lily’s 85-pound frame. Darby, afraid for Lily’s fragile condition, Darby held onto her. Their emotional reunion reminded them of their long-ago choice to be sisters in recovery.

Lily spoke first. “I’m so glad you made it safely!”

Then Darby. “You were worried?”

Then Lily. “No…yes…always worried. Something might – there might be something unexpected.”

As Malcolm took the bags into the house, Lily and Darby sat on the porch in reunion of one another. Lily took deep drags on her cigarette between the stories of what happened. Darby patiently listened.

Each wondered if this would be their final visit.

What is good?

Flammarions Holzstich, Wanderer am Weltenrand (au pèlerin), Mensch steckt Kopf in die Himmelssphäre; 1888.

We got caught in the rain coming back from the beach.

While walking up the path it began to downpour.

The water hit me like soft pellets – what seemed torrential from the blackened sky was actually warm and soothing as it hit my skin.

A strange dichotomy of between the threatening landscape of dark clouds, and yet the water made it all seem safe: like the bad on the outside was being washed away as the pellets dripped off my skin – my hardened skin – afraid to get smooth – to feel the safety in warmth or cold – using leather and doc martin boots to shield from any pain.

As I made my way up the path, I realized that there really isn’t anything that can really take what’s inside away from me unless I let them.

In that moment with the rain and the threatening skies and the lightening and distant thunder – nature was telling me that torrents will always be there – they will reel around my head and forever saturate and yet also nurture the ground in its swelling rains.

I am part of that ground to be saturated and nurtured by the waters cascading off my body.

I am nurtured – and I kept saying that word over and over in my head like in some way that word would make me into something I had not become before.

My own woman.

Standing strong on my two feet.


In an Instant

Young Girl (YG)


(Screaming) THAT IS WHY I’M HERE!

You were going to help me be who I am suppose to be 

So why are you trying to now push me out of the very thing that will help me to feel that there are people in the world who love me because I can’t feel my feet on the ground and when you can’t do for yourself you look to others to do it for you 

So the outside world becomes a place of validation and you are that outside world my place of validation and in this weird mode of therapy that in some way is suppose to help me find myself is really all fucked beyond fucked

We’re in a world ready to blow ourselves up in deception and denial and the future does not look bright we can’t deflect the bad behavior we need to tear down the walls to stand up or fall for anything I need influence and I need love I need sleep need food clothes and care. I need you to influence me. To love me back. 


A thunder sound knocks the single light over YG to black out.

Preacher King

I crawled home. On my own. Bloodied and dying. 

No one came to look for me when I went missing. 

No one came to pick me up.

I crawled home. On my own. For days.

When I finally arrive, no one came to the gate to welcome me.

Momma scolded me for being late. Pops threatened me with a whip. My bloodied body bruised and broken was my fault.

 I went upstairs to wash. Slept for days.

Woke up in rage. Grew up into that rage.

Found a needle to pinch my voodoo arms. 

Took a lifetime to end that shit. But finally got ended when I accepted the truths I never wanted to see.

Went to the desert. Let the burning bush burn away the pain.

Celebrated the possibilities.

I became a part of my now.

I am the Preacher King.


Lights up on a female identifying pitch person, dressed in skinny black jeans, with high heels, a tight black turtleneck and a hat adorned with pheasant feathers, carrying a whip.


You’re here.

Each and every one of you.


For what you don’t know.

You’re here

Given the privilege of looking.

You’re here

Looking at the differences

Challenging the urge to judge

To dismiss.

The otherness what isn’t you

Or is it you? 

And you just don’t wanna see it?


This moment

Our journey


The Other than what you think

Other than what you know

Other beings

Other expectations

O there. Are. Things. Yet. To. 

Be seen.

Bodies are our soul.

A landscape.

A landscape we paint. 

Do you like to paint? 

Making choices?

Physical choices?

Perceptions, or urges…

What are your urges? 

Bodies react

Between what is and what isn’t. 




Or other

Pushes us to dig deep. 

Or deep comes to the surface.

Fantasies or fact. 

Little kids love to dress up

And I love the costumes you all wore here tonight.

We put ourselves on the stage.

Dressed bodies

In staged rooms

Rooms telling a story

Each room a story…

Will we turn away?

You paid your ticket.

You want to be entertained.

So come inside our journey through story telling rooms. 

Searching for what is true.

Their truths.

Their landscape.

Their choices.

Despite how the world responds.

Don’t walk out.

Don’t turn away.

Stay and judge for yourself.

Do these creatures deserve compassion?

Do they deserve protection?

Or should they be gone from sight?

To the dark corners of the night

Come into our world for a moment.

Judge for yourself.

Bodies are our landscape.

Bodies hold our soul.

Young TIG

Why don’t you like me? I’m…I’m sorry. just seems like…I want us to be friends. You’re so confident — and I..I know I can…I…I…I just want us to share this movie together. I have a friend — Eileen. Or Ellen. Anyway. She’s a PA. On Grind Down, and she tells me how the industry is and what to expect and stuff…and I kinda hoped we can be friends like that…sharing stuff…like she showed me this video a grip guy took during a closed set. Seriously, this actress…totally flippin. Like full throttle breakdown. Zero to 100 screaming how the director’s a jerk While he’s throwing shit everywhere she just walked off. You see this? It’s on the in-ter-net. Damn, can’t remember her name. Eileen thought she’d quit, but she came back with some dude trailing her. God, what’s her name? Ohhhh…it’s on the tip of my tip of my (tongue). “R” something. Ar – r Arianna! Aww so cool.

Anyways…I was hoping we could like be friends, and share stuff like that.

I am of —

I am of —

A parent trapeze – a man and a woman – that tried to make a perfect world from imperfect outcomes – a paradox of wits

I am of —

A name – regal power of womanhood – formed from ancient spirits – inherited force and determination – with bow and arrow, a quiver and knife – Artemis searching fields and forests for an entourage

I am of —

Skin and bones – accepting and rejecting – always learning – striving to live with humility in contrast to selfishness needing to be understood

I am of —

Conscious thought – ideas engaged in nurturing brainpower – images and words creating silent narratives – sputtering synapses – memories caught in déjà vu like moments

I am of —

The human condition – OZ –witches and prophecy – wisdom trees – giving wells – deep riches difficult to hold steady – arrogance that seeks recognition but never prosperity

I am of —

An earth absorbed by commerce and speculation – seeing auras of hope that are often blinded by the deep intentions of others to do harm

I am of —

This city home – with family and friends – art and theater – one step – two step – dancing along cement paths – floating islands – screaming silences looking for shade from harsh environs – eavesdropping on conversations

I am of —

Plays and poems – representation of half true stories – spinning narratives – or messaging call to actions – like taromancy signaling a journey in one’s divinity of choices –

I am of —

A workplace – filling pockets with change – giving purpose to sacrificed time – to do more with less – discovering a wavering hope – measured by successes – giving reason to move forward – financing security so the landlord doesn’t foreclose the door

I am of –

My age – withering in an older something – skins shedding – changing colors while a heart beats for truth – legacy – a lasting portrait in dharma – to celebrate the passing.

I am me.

Night Becomes Mourning…an excerpt

LOURDES: Isn’t this my reckoning? 

EARLE: Is this a tragedy?

LOURDES: I hope not. 

EARLE: Listen. I’m not what you think I should be to you. I’m a user. Resentful. Angry and never satisfied. I’m unfaithful. I was unfaithful and that’s why I’m alone. Not because of anything I wanted my life to be. I’m here because I can’t be where I want to be.


EARLE: No matter how much you feel you can handle the situation. I’ll always look for the exit.

LOURDES smiles.

LOURDES: Of course you will.

EARLE: The only way I can take something from you is if you let me. 

LOURDES: And I let you. Because I wanted you. 


EARLE: Don’t be stupid. Play your cards better.

EARLE starts to move toward the door.

LOURDES: We need to finish this.

EARLE: What do yo think we can give each other?

LOURDES: This is a two way street. It didn’t just happen because I willed it to happen. You wanted something out of this.

EARLE: I got what I wanted.


LOURDES: I’ve never been able to understand your infatuation with Instagram. Perhaps that’s where it all is in terms of the deterioration of relationships, right? All stuck in a blip.

EARLE: . . .

LOURDES: Shallow games. Self worth tied to the “likes.” All Emojis and manipulations targeting for acknowledgement.

EARLE: You don’t post.

LOURDES: You noticed?


LOURDES: Texts.  Insta-posts. 

EARLE: Where are you going with this?

LOURDES: Blips don’t replace real connections. One can’t compete. I..I found myself going deep into their portal to find the truth about people. It became a distorted truth I’d think into my circle of want. Because in this brave new world, that’s the way we resort to find our place. This technology, held tight in our grip, begins to believe that people’s posts are their intuitive truths, their true first thoughts. But they’re masks? 

EARLE: They’re curated.

LOURDES: I found myself spending hours, scrolling posts, trying to find some understanding. Something you’d reveal so I’d know what you thought. If you’d thought about me. I posted for your to see me. Then, I had the brilliant idea of writing you a text. Participate on your level sorta speak.  Hoping there would be a cascade of conversation that would spark more, and more, and then open into something more meaningful. 

EARLE: Curated conversations.

LOURDES: But you didn’t play. So I swore it off. Had no interest communicating that way. Too much misunderstanding or avoidance. But there is something that kept calling me back. Our moments together lifted me. Made me feel I was doing something right. 

EARLE: I’m flattered but I’ve nothing worth giving.

LOURDES: Maybe you never stopped long enough to take notice.

Running on Soul

I paid the man and he took my money without blinking an eye…and now I’m down all that stuff and can’t make it out to pay the rent. He stole from me my means to an end…I have no way out…no way to keep things close…to allow things to happen…no way to keep it goin strong. When I replay over and over that moment…over in my head…I get so mad I wanna hurt some one…wanna hurt myself…you know what I mean? Do you see what I’m telling you?

This ain’t no Ken and Barbie shit this is real…real life poverty knocking me out of the game…and I’m running…running on soul and the ice…is its real thin…like it don’t matter anymore if I’m dead or alive. You get what I’m telling you?

Little Fe(a)t

Across the road, in a small gathering place, elementary children sat, in woods conjuring, fantastic worlds, beyond knowing.

While sitting on logs, heroes pretended, with protecting swords, saving the weak.

One morning, a kindergarten girl, stole in the gathering place, imagining pretended fire, occupied logs, in a summit of conversations.

Realizing her solitude, imagining hands reached, the sky dissolving in-between treetops: a confluence of man and nature.

A broken thought interrupted: Why is it so hard to tell the truth?

Trees answered, understanding, beyond a single moment, representing all moments, as witnesses of harm: nothingness is easier.

Senseless harms, let houses burn, skies smoking war, or oceans disintegrate.

The winds howl, shook branches, pointing to bystanders, with closed eyes, shielding fear, then, returning to circles, around fires, killing all things, outside the circle.

In the clearing across the road, in the small gathering place, children sit in woods, conjuring fantastic worlds beyond knowing.

Sitting on logs around a pretended fire, planning futures, pretend swords, protect damsels in distress: heroes saving the endangered and weak.