I guess it’s never too late to get all Celtic on ya. 😉 I got some new collage supplies today and was reading about some goddesses from Irish mythology for my book, and well, here you go. 🤗❤️☘️🇮🇪🧚🏻‍♀️✏️📝✍🏻


she knows the heat in your face
didn’t come from pulling The Lovers
out of a tarot deck,

she knows the blue streaks in the fire
you study is an illusion, tempting you
to wave your hand through the flickering daggers,

proving to everyone but yourself
of your resiliency.

She knows you can grow anything you want
without killing it.
She drives barren hands
to burrow deep into the boggy soil,
to hold bulbs like a child you’ll never know.

She knows when the wells have run dry,
and the battles are about to begin,
yet she satiates, inspires, ignites fuses
you never knew you had. #art #poetryandart #poetrylovers #brigid

Nostalgic poems


My father had this persistent habit of laughing 

at his own jokes. Not a hearty, bellowing laugh, 

thank God, but a gentle, closed-mouth chuckle, 

as if he was trying to clear his throat. 

When I was maybe 12, he recorded my little cousin 

having a meltdown in the middle of my uncle’s pool, 

after she’d been thrown in by said uncle.

 “Help, help, save me,” she cried, 

wearing her inflatable arm floaties 

and my old Minnie Mouse dance leotard I didn’t need anymore. 

“No don’t, I could get money for this tape,” he joked. 

And then there was the laugh, which I will now call, 

the pigeon. 

The pigeon was often best heard on our camcorder. 

We had one of those cameras that used little tapes

that we would then have to put inside a big tape

in order to watch the videos on our VCR.

For years, Dad literally took that thing everywhere with us. 

In a Christmas video, the laugh came out 

when he cracked a joke with my aunt 

about my great-grandmother receiving a gift certificate 

to Pathmark. “It’ll probably all go towards feeding the dog,” 

he pigeoned. The same aunt called him out on the pigeon one time, 

and he denied it – while actually doing it. 

The same way he denied all the afterwork martinis,

the 60 hour work weeks, the tantrums he’d throw at red lights, 

and the cancer. 

We all thought he’d drop dead of a stroke at 52 

the way his father did. “Never sick a day in his life 

then boom.” Pigeon  

But dear God he’s still here, and I can’t recall the last time

I heard that laugh. Whatever he records on his IPhone 

rarely has his voice on it. But from his laugh, 

I learned that sometimes you do need to nudge 

other people’s sense of humor. Then sometimes

you have to nudge your own to remind yourself 

you still have one. Dad still has that dry jokiness 

even when things get tough. 

No matter the month, day, or hour 

everyone in his circle has to be okay. 

If I told him that it’s okay to not be okay, 

I don’t think he would understand. 

But when seeking absolution after a rock bottom hit, 

he’s the one to remind us there’s no where to go but up. 

And then he may pigeon slightly as if he’s the only one

who knows that – and most of the time he is. 

I’m from…

streets once crowded with Ben Cooper costumes, 

running from door to door

through blocks of military housing. 

In grassy courtyards, we’d spread out

old comforters and brought out Cabbage Patch Kids, 

play food, and stuff we thought all women 

had to carry in their purses,

like Dep hairspray, press on nails, and candy cigarettes.

On our blanket home we were adults 

without a roof. We were women 

without concrete ceilings. 

Minor poem purge – thanks to Rupi Kaur’s Healing Through Words

Without Flight 

“Because I’m leaving 

on a jet plane…” 

that could kill me. 

Please don’t plummet to the Earth 

at 300 miles per hour. 

I want to believe humans are meant to fly. 

We end up building our wings 

instead of being born with them. 

Don’t we have to earn everything 

we’re not born with? 

I know without flight, I would have never 

heard the guards shush people in the Sistine Chapel. 

Those men are still gods to me. 

Not only are they divine creatures 

for putting up with tourists, 

they are there to protect that heavenly ceiling 

from unnecessary noise, 

flashes of light, 

the breaths of millions who remember only 

how God created Adam. 

Without flight, I would have never been held 

under a stone at the top of Blarney Castle. 

Hands that held hundreds before me, 

yet I didn’t trust. 

Two widely spaced bars and a stranger’s grip 

were all that stopped me from plunging 

head first and backwards onto the lush green below. 

I pressed a kiss to my palm and reached for the stone. 

With the same hand, I patted the arm of the man 

who kept me from dying. Perhaps he knew 

I didn’t need or want the gift of gab. 

Without a jet plane, I never would have experienced 

the happiest place on Earth, once I finally 

got a sense of what happiness was. 

Without flight, I couldn’t have sailed away 

with old and new friends, 

for several days – doused in margaritas and men. 

Friends who reminded me of the me I needed to get back. 

Flying could kill me. 

But without flight, 

being stuck on the ground 

is death’s fingernails on a blackboard, 

its own virus that feeds on words and chances. 

The Parasite


You’re a need to be alone

but not be lonely. 

You’re a yearning for independence,

yet you always need help. 

You’re a control freak, 

but you pour responsibility freely 

into the cupped hands of others. 

You rarely make sense, 

or you make too much sense – as difficult 

to put into words as love – or more so. 

You’re the friend nobody likes, 

but that’s why you’re kept around. 

Having you is better than feeling nothing, 

yet not having you is like the moment 

your host’s body adjusts to the cold water. 

You’re the racing mind with too many targets 

and the checked-out mind shrouded in a marble veil.   

Those who carry you 

know more about you than you think. 

You’re the baking soda packed 

into the depths of consciousness, 

waiting for your host to spill the vinegar. 

You forget how easy you are 

to wipe clean after the storm. 



Lights On 

Could you do me a favor 

and never not wear black? 

Keep making me laugh 

until my asthma kicks in a little? 

Nothing your finger 

tracing the length of my spine

can’t remedy. 

I wouldn’t mind simply grazing 

your collarbone with my lips 

while my hand strokes the dark hairs 

on your chest, exposed by your 

missing top three buttons. 

Tell me you love animals 

while you build me the world’s

perfect writing desk 

with reclaimed barn wood. 

Come close to tears of joy

when all I can repay you with 

is a scarf and a gentler 

Sylvia Plath-style bite to the cheek. 

Sing other people’s songs, 

and I’ll forget they’re covers. 

Read me your poems, 

and I’ll remember how to breathe, 

at least until you lower me to the floor 

with your promise to never leave 

the inside of me completely. 

The Sleepless Knights – novel excerpt…I lost count.

So this is an important part of the story because we get to know more about this mysterious band, what their powers are, and what their mission is. This is the first time I’ve ever attempted to write any form of fantasy with a very “superhero” vibe. As a reminder, this will be an urban fantasy novel set in the late 80’s early 90’s. Let’s say Stranger Things meets Marvel I guess. But there are no gruesome creatures. The monsters are very real, even though they’re demigods. Hope you enjoy and as always, I’d love to see some productive and useful feedback. 🙂

When you run. 

When you fly.

Every time you hide. 

Every time you cry.

If you forget to run from the tide. 

I’ll part the oceans 

to be at your side…

The venue several miles outside of Newport, Rhode Island was a large but old playhouse turned concert venue, so it had great acoustics and lots of secret entrances and exits, perfect for when The Sleepless Knights needed to split undetected by fans or staff. They weren’t supposed to go on until 9:00, but they typically tried to get rehearsal and sound check done as early as possible. They never knew what was going to happen right before a show. 

Ardently, Kyler belted out the final chorus of their new song. Even though Cayden watched his brother perform countless times before, he couldn’t help but stand there and be in awe of him – his confidence, command, and passion for performing was a sight to see. Kyler Donnelly never seemed to have to work hard for that power. Cayden, on the other hand, had a hard time getting used to an audience whose eyes he felt boring into his skull. He knew he wasn’t the only one they looked at, but in his head, he envisioned hoards of girls pointing at him and laughing. 

Do I have a stupid look on my face? Is my fly open? Am I screwing up a note? 

He was his own worst enemy.  

“Well gentlemen, I think we got another winner here. Quinn, brilliant work as usual, compadre.” Kyler took a much needed gulp from his water bottle. 

“Thank you, brother. That is sure to spread some beautiful love and energy this evening, huh?” 

“Let’s not get too carried away, guys. There’s only so much we can do at these smaller shows anyway.” Donovan wiped his sweaty neck and face with a towel. The Knights often forgot how much physical work playing the drums entailed, and Donovan’s remarkable strength rarely kept him from sweating like a farm animal under spotlights. 

“Don’t worry, Don. We’re never going to be out of jobs.” Rian worked on changing some settings on his keyboards. 

“We better hope not. Or what the hell are we going to do with our lives?” Donovan threw his sweaty towel at Rian which the key master dodged in disgust. 

“Maybe fix up an old, decrepit house in the middle of nowhere and be normal for a change?” Cayden carefully put his bass back in its case.  

“Dude, keep dreaming. We were born to be nomadic road warriors, big brother.” Kyler helped Quinn roll up some wires that weren’t needed. 

“He just wants to play house and make a hundred babies with a certain Jersey mall queen who shall remain nameless,” Quinn teased. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Suddenly feeling fatigued, Cayden hopped down off the stage and dropped himself on one of the audience seats. 

“Says the guy who was up at the ass crack of dawn this morning writing a letter to the chick.” Kyler added. 

“Do you keep track of how many times I take a dump too, little brother?” 

“Hey, all I’m saying is, we’re going to have some time off..theoretically. You, at the very least, should be going back to get her.” 

“Man, it’s not that easy. She’s just finishing high school for God sakes. And if I just show up out of the blue and tell her what the plan is, she’s going to freak. Besides, I can’t go anywhere by myself. Who else is going to see where we need to be?”  

“Ohhh, so you are admitting there is a plan, aren’t ya?” Quinn finished off his fifth Coca Cola for the day. Sometimes his bandmates thought the overload of corn syrup and caffeine dissolved his brain cells. 

“Listen,” Cayden shot up from his seat, “When I feel like the time is right to…” 

An all too familiar wave of dizziness and a shot of unbearable pain made him stumble. Cayden pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead, trying to gain some control over the worsening spasm. 

“Cayd, what’s up?” Quinn and Kyler rushed to him and grabbed his arms to keep him from dropping like a big dictionary falling onto a hard table.  

“Ahhh!” was all he could get out. The pain was intense, but not as stabbing as it could be when he battled to make out what he was supposed to see. 

“What are you seeing, big brother? Talk to us.” Kyler and Quinn were on the floor next to him. Kyler let his older brother’s head rest on his lap as his legs involuntarily flailed. 

“I don’t know….It’s a big old house..errrr!” The shortness of breath kicked in. 

“And? Who’s there?” 

“There’s a..there’s a woman..with her daughter. They’re closing…errr, their closing up. It’s one of the mansions!” 

The pain reached an intensity where he had no choice but to yell. Otherwise the words wouldn’t be able to escape his mouth. 

“Address, man. Address. Find us an address,” Quinn pleaded. 

“Robbery..ahhhhh! The girl is screaming. They got her! They’re tearing at her…” 

“Cayden! Focus on a location, come on big brother! You can do it.” 

“Rian, Don, tell Gus to start the engine,” commanded Quinn. 

“Wait, can we even go on assignment right now? What if we miss the show and raise red flags?” Rian panicked. 

“Man, the hell with it! Guys, scoop him up and let’s go!” Donovan ran towards one of the fire exits, pulling Rian with him. Kyler and Quinn picked up their ailing bassist and followed shortly after. 

“Dude, what if Rian is right? If we miss the show, we got no alibi. We never went on a mission this close to a show,” worried Kyler. 

“Well, we either get this done and get back in time or face Ethan and Corbin’s wrath.” 

Cayden couldn’t make out the rest of their conversation as they hauled him back to the bus. He kept his eyes closed and searched through the barrage of images that crossed his vision from all directions. Sometimes it felt like a Rolodex spinning forward then backward in his mind. Sometimes it looked like the snow on a television screen when the signal cuts out, except the balls of white light were bigger and moved slower. Either way, he knew his one job was to fight for at least a moment of clarity. He had to slow down the menagerie enough to be able to give his bandmates and Gus the information needed –  before it was too late. As he said to Ethan the night before, some days were better than others. 

Despite being fully immersed in the throbbing pain, the weakness, and the cyclone of visions, he could sense his body was back on one of the bus couches. After what felt like an eternity, he was able to see where they had to go. Maybe it didn’t take an eternity for him to start coming back to life, but it took longer than it needed to – and every second too late might as well be an hour. 

“Marble House,” He uttered breathlessly. “596 Bellevue Ave. And we got to hurry.”  

“Gus!” yelled Quinn. 

“Courage isn’t having the strength to go on – it’s going on when you don’t have strength. Napoleon Bonaparte.” Gus swiftly pulled out of the venue’s back parking lot before any of the employees had a chance to stop The Knights and question where they were going in such a hurry.  

“Alright boys, let’s get ready to kick some ass,” encouraged Donovan. Not sharing in his enthusiasm, Cayden knew he would need every second of driving time to step into who he needed to be next…

“Alright so what’s the game plan? Cayden said there’s at least four of them.” Donovan finished suiting up. 

“Oh no, do NOT make me the watch again, guys. It’s so boring, and a waste of my skills if you ask me.” 

“You’re the youngest. You get the shit job. We all went through it, Rian.” Quinn tightened his gloves then wolfed down the rest of his microwaved Quarter Pounder. 

“Oh man, come on. Let Cayden take a break and be the watch. I got this.” 

“When you can take out a dude that looks like Macho Man Randy Savage without breaking a sweat like Cayden can, then we’ll talk,” Kyler came to his brother’s defense. 

Quinn quickly settled in to his leadership roll once he swallowed what was left of his second lunch. “I say we go in through the back. Kyler you take the guys on the top floor…” 

“No kidding.” 

“Don, you go right for the guy whose got the girl, and I will handle whoever is left and take care of the mother.” 

Meanwhile, Cayden was in the back bedroom suiting up as quickly as he could even though he hadn’t gained all of his balance and strength back. Sometimes it irked him whenever the guys assumed he wouldn’t be able to do a job. But he knew they worried about him, about the day he may never come out of one of his throttling visions, or the day he decided to walk away for good. He pulled his mask out of his gym bag and darted towards the front of the bus before they could leave without him. 

“Cayd, you alright man? This doesn’t seem like too heavy of a job. You sure you don’t want to sit this one out?” 

“Quinn, when do I ever sit out of a battle?”

“Good point, you are a glutton for punishment, my friend.” 

“The time is now, gentleman,” Gus bellowed from the driver’s seat as he brought the bus to a stop in a hidden parking lot next to an abandoned food market.  

“Alright Knights, let’s do our job quickly, smoothly, and get out of here. If we start that show too late and raise suspicion, the masters are going to eat our balls for breakfast. Ready?” Quinn placed his hand on Kyler’s upper right arm, and Kyler’s hand clasped Quinn’s left upper arm. 

“For honor, for peace, for rightness over evil,” they said in unison. 

As he did at the start of every mission, Quinn rapidly took turns giving each of his bandmates the salute before they pulled their masks down over their faces. They raced for the woods that divided the abandoned lot and their destination – The Marble House. Cayden found every bit of power he had left to keep up with the group. Of course, no one could outrun his brother, and Rian could break the sound barrier.   

Nobody was around, but the Knights couldn’t risk being spotted. The low light of dusk started to drape over them as they ran like hell. Gus had a way of finding secluded entry points for any of their missions. It didn’t take long for the old mansion to come into view, but they stayed hidden and scoped out the surroundings a bit. The boys had a clear view of the back of the house. Through two open Venetian doors, they could hear men yelling and the women crying. Two guys were loading paintings, expensive pieces of gilded, antique furniture, and handfuls of polished silver flatware into a dilapidated green van. They waited for the two guys to go back into the house. Cayden nodded at Quinn. Donovan nodded at Kyler. Then they stealthily made their way towards the stone walls of the 19th century mansion. Rian stayed back to keep any of the thugs from escaping, but more importantly, he had to watch for the cops.

They resolved to live in a world where they would always be placed between benevolence and wickedness. 

Donavan and Kyler made their way into a concealed doorway at the side of the building, as Quinn and Cayden sneaked their way into the back doors before any of the thugs saw them. Like a rocket, Kyler leapt over the banister to the second floor. Cayden hated when his younger brother assumed he could rely solely on his superior jumping and wall climbing skills. He leapt right in to every mission, literally and figuratively, without caution and practically vomiting invincibility. The Knights live forever, but that doesn’t mean they can’t be killed. 

Donovan stealthily followed the agonizing sound of the young girl’s screams, needing only one punch to open a locked sitting room door.

As soon as Donovan entered the room he found a heavy set man in dirty, tight jeans and a grease-stained T-shirt trying to restrain a screaming young girl on a claw foot sofa. She fought like hell, and with every defensive scratch she landed on him, he would strike her back in between tearing at her satin blouse. Since he was so busy with his fight to overpower his victim, he didn’t hear the sound of the wooden door frame splinter upon Donovan’s entrance. 

“Hey! I don’t think the lady is interested in fat and gristle, you douchebag!”

“Who the fuck are you?” 

“One of the Masters of the Universe as far as you’re concerned, shitbag.” 

The man quickly pulled a pistol out of his back pocket and fired at the swift Knight who easily lunged behind a set of chairs to dodge the shots. Despite being terrified by the gun fire, the young woman managed to escape the man and hastily crawl underneath a chaise lounge to hide. 

“Ha, I got you, you short little shit.” 

Donovan had every intention of taking the guy down anyway, but whenever someone made a remark about his short stature or if someone implied he was weak, it stoked an all-consuming fire in him. From where he was crouched, he raised his hand towards the brass fire place shovel several feet away from him. The shovel lifted from its holder and started spinning rapidly like a baton. With a quick wave of his hand, Donovan flung the airborne, spinning shovel towards the perp trying to reload. The strongest Knight heard the brass clank against the metal of the gun as it knocked the weapon out of its owner’s filthy hand. 

“What the hell?” 

Before the assailant could process what happened, Donovan did the same thing with the fireplace poker. Only this time, he aimed for the perp’s head. Stunned by the cast iron poker hitting him across the face, leaving a long gash on his cheek and breaking his nose, the man fell back onto the marble floor. Without saying a word, Donovan scooped up the man’s gun and broke it in half in front of his bleeding face, as if he was breaking a stick to throw into a fire.  

“So what are you supposed to be, Batman or something?” The man tried to hide his confusion and twinge of fear. “Take that mask off! Face me like a man!” 

“You really want my face to be the last thing you see before I end your career?” answered Donovan sinisterly, still standing over the weakened criminal. 

“Fuck you, pal!” 

“No thanks, I already had your girl last night.” 

Jolted by a bolt of adrenaline, the man sat up and lunged into Donovan, both men fell back onto the floor. Donovan effortlessly hurled the man into an antique mirror on the wall, shattering it. A savage brawl ensued. Donovan used every ounce of his fighting skills to inflict as much pain and humiliation as he could on the thief and attempted rapist. The girl under the chaise lounge continued to cry in terror, unable to think rationally enough to decide who was the good guy and who was the bad guy. 

With one hand, Donovan lifted the battered perp by his shirt and hung him on a nearby coathook. The man’s harrowing yell of pain made it clear to Donovan that the hook had pierced his flesh, something the strong Knight didn’t intend to do. Quickly, Donovan hauled the man’s debilitated body back onto the floor and tied up his wrists and ankles with guitar strings. 

“Damn bro, what did you do to this dude?” Quinn came running up behind Donovan and stared down at the groaning criminal begging for mercy. 

“He was a tough one, man. I did what I had to do.” 

Quinn knelt down and poured the erasure water on the perp but paused once he spotted the stream of blood oozing from the man’s back. 

“Yo, Cayden is going to shit a brick if he sees that! Cover up that wound before you bring him down.”

“Relax, man. He’ll live.” 

“Just do it, and meet us downstairs,” Quinn threw him a stern look before leaving the room to find Kyler. Donovan made the perp sit up so he could wrap a sheer curtain tightly around the man. The barely conscious criminal let out a yell as the knot tightened. 

“You’ll live.” 

* * * 

Kyler crept like a spider into the upstairs study, making sure each of his movements against the ceiling were silent. Two men dressed in black hoodies and hunting pants rummaged through drawers and packed expensive pieces of decor and rare books in boxes. 

“Come on, hurry up, I don’t know what’s going on out there but we need to get the hell out of here.” 

“Well, don’t break any of that shit, Denny’s gonna be pissed.” 

“Don’t worry about that, dumbasses. Denny’s already pissing his pants in another room!” Kyler hung from one hand and foot and flipped off the two robbers. 

“What the hell!” The taller man pulled out his gun and instantly fired multiple rounds at Kyler, but the second youngest Knight was quick to dodge every shot. The shorter man picked up his crowbar and ran towards the dangling Kyler who continued to tease and torment the men. But before the man could get too close to him, Kyler grabbed several commemorative plates off the wall and flung them in in there direction. The force of the impromptu weapons flung the gun and the crowbar clear across the room, hitting a marble statue and shattering it to jagged pieces. 

“Ahh shit, look what you made me do.” 

Kyler took advantage of the men’s locked-in-place shock, pushing himself off of the ceiling and charging at the criminals. It took mere moments for the nimble lead singer to completely subdue them and tie them up with his brother’s extra guitar strings. 

“Ooohhh, tough break guys. Looks like you’re getting screwed out of your pay day. Might want to choose a new profession. Didn’t work out for the dudes in A Fish Called Wanda either.” 

“Please, please, don’t kill us. We’ll get outta here and we’ll never do this again if you untie us, I swear,” the shorter perp pleaded. 

“Get one thing straight now, buddy,” Kyler knelt down to their level on the floor. “We don’t kill anyone. And I already  know your dumb burglar days are going to be way behind you after tonight.” Quinn rushed in with his lavastone-infused erasure water ready to go.

“Nice work, man. Why didn’t you wait for me? Maybe I wanted a piece of them too, dipshit.” Quinn nudged Kyler in the shoulder. 

“You snooze you lose, man. You getting old on us or something?” 

“Eh, bite me.” 

Quinn poured the water on the men, instantly knocking them out. 

“They’ll be in jail, but at least they’ll wake up feeling like a million bucks.”

“Yeah, right. Don’t know if we can say the same about Don’s guy though.” Quinn slapped the top back on the bottle holding the water that was vital to the Knights’ successful missions.  

“Ah no, not again. How bad is it this time?”

“Dude might not be able to move an arm or a leg, but he’ll live.” 

Kyler shook his head. “Come on, let’s get these guys downstairs and go find Cayden.” 

* * *

Cayden entered the museum store and hid behind revolving racks of postcards and key chains. His eyes were immediately drawn to the battered woman tied up on the floor. Her exhausted cries for her daughter slightly rose above the clicking sound of the safe as the lead thug tried to crack it open. As soon as the older woman spotted the blue mask covering Cayden’s face, she stopped crying, but Cayden quickly shook his head “no” and signaled for her to stay silent. 

“Dammit woman, stop bullshiting me! You know the combination to this thing. Now talk!” The man stood over the woman and pointed a gun to her head. 

“I don’t. I swear. Only the manager knows and he’s not here,” the woman sobbed. 

“If I find out you’re lying to me,” the man went back to work on the lock, “your kid is dead, you hear me!” 

“Where’s my daughter? Please. Please just let us go. I promise you we’ll go far away, never return. We won’t go to the police. Just let us go.” 

“Forget it, lady.” 

“Please! Please! I’m begging you. There must be some mercy, some goodness left in you.” 

“Shut up woman!” The thug marched back to where the woman was lying and kicked her in the stomach. An agonizing cry escaped the woman’s lips though she tried to stifle it, hoping it would stop him from striking again. Before the perp could think about returning to his task, a sharp pain hit the back of his leg. 

“Son of a bitch!” The man looked behind him to find an ornate, souvenir letter opener lodged into his hamstring. 

“You think you’re tough shit beating on a woman, huh?” Cayden emerged from his hiding spot.    

“Who the hell are you? Don’t make me kill you!” The perp pointed his gun at Cayden but was unsteady on his feet, leaning backwards, trying to pull the letter opener from his flesh. But each attempt resulted in wail of agony. Cayden stood several feet in front of the hobbling man and didn’t budge. 

“I want you and your goons to leave the two ladies alone and bring back what you took. Then maybe we won’t embarrass you too much. But I can’t say your punishment will be less severe.” Cayden flung another letter opener into the man’s other leg. 

“That’s it,” the perp declared after a yelling a few choice words and falling back onto the floor. “Say goodnight, asshole!” From the ground, the man fired one shot at Cayden’s head which launched the Knight into a table stacked with books, splitting the redwood in half, his body pummeled and buried with hardcovers. 

“Ha ha! Not too sharp are ya? Guess your comic book hero days are over, huh?” 

The man started using a glass display counter to slowly get back on his feet. His fall backwards caused the stainless steel office supply to push deeper into his leg. After sweating, bleeding, and moaning profusely, he ended up in a standing position. But once he heard the sound of books shuffling and tapping the floor, he nearly collapsed once again.  

The eldest Knight approached the man before lifting the mask off his mouth to spit the bullet at the criminal’s face. 

“You put a hole in my favorite mask, dipshit.”  

“Look, alright, I don’t know who you are, but let’s make a deal here,” the perp pleaded after moments of stunned silence. 

“There are no deals. Leave the woman alone and come with me. Unless you want one in the balls next.” Cayden pulled a shuriken out of his leather utility belt, the shiny metal reflected the glow coming from the track lighting above him. 

“Who the hell are you?” 

“I don’t know, man. Should we tell him?” Cayden turned knowing Quinn would be there to have his back, ready with the powerful mind erasure that ensured their safety and their freedom to move on to the next mission, whatever that may be. 

“Yeah, okay. Like that would ever happen. This piece of shit isn’t even worthy of learning who pulled off the Max Headroom incident.” 

“What are you going to do to me?” The perp tried to get his legs to carry him away from the two Knights. 

“Put you where you belong, asshole.” With that, Quinn splashed the lava stone water into the perp’s face, sending him directly to the floor. 

“Let’s get these idiots pilled up, take care of the women, and get the hell out of here. The cops will be here any minute and we’ll never get back to the arena in time.” 

“Already ahead of you, brother. I got this shit stain, you get the woman. Are you okay?”  

“Yes, Quinn, you don’t have to ask after every vision and every battle.” Cayden did his best to mask his mild frustration with levity. 

“Okie doke, man. See you downstairs.” Quinn pulled the letter opener out of the criminal’s hamstring and dragged him out of the store by his feet. 

Cayden knelt down next to the woman still in an awful state of panic. She wouldn’t have trusted a puppy coming near her. 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay ma’am,” he whispered. “It’s over. They’re not going to hurt you anymore.” He reached out his hand to her to which she didn’t take right away. 

“Where’s my daughter? I just want my baby,” she could barely get the words out, holding her side like she had a cracked rib. 

“She’s fine. Come on, I’ll take you to her.” He reached his hands to her again and she accepted, moaning in pain as he lifted her. Cayden put his arm around her waist to help the weakened woman in her twilight years stay on her feet. They shuffled slowly out of the store and towards the staircase. With each step, the woman felt more comfortable leaning on Cayden as they made their way to the front of the mansion.   

“Well, I suppose if you were going to kill me you would have done it by now. So who are you, sir?” 

“No one of importance. Just a good samaritan.” 

“Wearing those clothes and that mask? Something tells me it’s not your first time coming to someone’s rescue. Wait a minute,” she paused her slow decent down the stairs with Cayden by her side, “You’re one of the men who’ve been on the news for a while now. You were spotted on camera not too long ago, stopping a pawn shop robbery I believe.” 

“That was us.” 

“So you save people in danger. Why hide behind masks? Why not work with law enforcement?” 

“We’d never truly be comrades or equals. We’re always going to be seen more as a threat,” he answered matter-of-factly. 

“Well, we owe you our -” The woman froze and gasped at the bottom of the steps when she saw her daughter sunken into an antique lounge chair, hugging her knees and watching Kyler and Quinn tie the unconscious perps to the center of a marble fountain. Donovan carried in some priceless items from the thieves’ van, and Rian was hard at work removing any trace evidence of his brothers’ presence in the mansion.

“Julie,” cried the relieved mother. 

“Mom!” The young girl ran as fast as she could to her mother’s battered but open arms.   

“Oh, thank God. Did they hurt you? Are you okay? Are you…”

“Yes, Mom, I’m fine. He didn’t get the chance to hurt me..that badly. Thanks to these guys.” 

The women held each other tightly as the Knights finished up their work. 

“Okay ladies. Now I need you to come with me to the office for a moment, please.” Quinn gestured for the mother and daughter to follow him. 

“Wait, please tell us. What can we do to repay you?” 

“There is nothing you’ll ever have to do, ma’am. All we ask is that you never doubt the good that still lives in this world.” Cayden reassured them as he and Kyler moved to stand behind them. 

“No, really. We need to know. Who are…” Before the daughter could utter another word, Quinn rapidly doused both their faces with the eraser water. They fell unconsciously into Cayden and Kyler’s arms. 

“Why do I always get the heavier one, man?” Kyler whined as he scooped the mother off her feet. 

“Quit complaining and let’s go.” Cayden effortlessly picked up the petite daughter. 

“They were a couple of chatty ones, huh?” Quinn added, “Too bad, she’s cute in a Mary Stuart Masterson, Some Kind of Wonderful kind of way.” 

“You passed out in the middle of that movie.” Kyler followed Cayden towards the office. 

“I remember the cute chicks. That’s all that matters.” 

“Guys, start heading back to the bus. We’ll be right behind you,” Cayden yelled back to his comrades before disappearing into the office with Kyler and the two unconscious women. 

“Nah, let’s just lay them on the floor, little bro,” he stopped Kyler before he could place the mother in a shiny leather lounge chair. “They could fall out of these chairs before they realize where they are.”

“That’s my big bro, always thinking ahead.” 

“I just hope they weren’t hurting for too long from these guys. I feel like we could have gotten here a lot sooner.” 

“Come on, man. Don’t start the shoulda, woulda, coulda crap. You gave us a clear vision. We got here. We saved the victims from further injury or worse, and we got the stolen goods. Mission accomplished, and always thanks to you.” Kyler patted his brother on the back. He wished Cayden wouldn’t put himself through the anguish he often did, feeling like he could have had an earlier and clearer vision, wishing he had the missing piece to the puzzle that would make him unstoppable – the greatest his army had ever known in their centuries old existence.      

“Maybe one of these days it won’t be just me.” 

“Maybe, if you get your head out of your ass, get the girl, and don’t screw up.” 

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Ky.” 

“That’s what brothers are for, Robin. Come on, let’s book before we get busted.” 

“Dude, I’m older. I’m taller. I’m Batman. Get over it.” Cayden mischievously pushed his little brother out of the office. 

The Knights did a quick scan of the property before sprinting out one of the inconspicuous side doors to The Marble House. As they powered through the dense,    pitch black woods, they heard police sirens getting louder. Quick flashes of red and blue lights hit the trees until they were far enough away from the scene. As soon as Gus spotted one of the boys, he started the engine but kept the lights off. The Knights jumped in one by one and informed Gus of their success. He hastily navigated the bus back to the quiet county route he took to get to their elusive parking spot. They had less than a half an hour to change, get back to the venue, and start the show before the staff and the fans grew restless. 

Cayden threw out the mask that was punctured with the bullet. The whole group was busy getting back into rock star mode, so there wasn’t much time for reflection. But Cayden couldn’t help thinking about Maeve – how much he wanted her there, and how much they all stood to lose. 


Our Little Angels and Demons Eating Disco Fries – book excerpt

We often don’t have a choice when it comes to being wrapped in the barbed wire of suffering and despair. There is a good reason why 1 in 4 Americans have some form of mental illness, according to the National Alliance of Mental Illness. It’s in our nature to become our own bitter enemies, far worse than any external forces. What we might be getting wrong in our society is this notion that if you’re not going to be depressed or anxious, then you should be sitting pretty on the other side of the scale – happy. 

I hate the word happy. 

It’s one of the worst dead adjectives in the English language. 

I don’t let my students get away with describing something or someone as happy in their writing. Now, before you brand me a misanthropic, pretentious C U Next Tuesday, let me explain. 

Happy is as relative as humor or food tastes. I’ve seen people go ape shit over exploring old cemeteries. I know. I’ve been one of them. Seasonal depression can be just as prominent in the spring and summer as it is in the winter months. A lot of people thrive on shorter days, oversized hoodies, and cold morning air freeze-drying a wet head. I am one of them. 

Furthermore, someone in touch with their angels and demons will acknowledge the fact that the darkest hours in life shape us into exactly who we want to be, not who we think we should be. 

Here is a list of women writers and poets who achieved unconquerable literary feats yet took their own lives. 

Ann Sexton 

Charlotte Perkins Gilman 

Virginia Woolf 

Elise Cohen

Dorothy Parker 

and my spirit animal, Sylvia Plath 

Now, before I go any further, let me make it clear that I do not condone suicide. But I strongly believe in person’s choice to live or die on their own terms. If that makes any sense. Terminally ill patients often face a suffering far worse than death. If you have nothing left to lose, and no control over what will ultimately consume your body, then you absolutely should be able to take your own life. I do not believe anyone with a mental illness dies by suicide. The illness is what kills the person. All of these incredible women, as well as brilliant men such as Robin Williams and Anthony Bordain died from depression, not suicide. Help, proper treatment, and acceptance over shame far supercede a permanent “solution” to a treatable mental illness. I have forgotten to remind myself of this several times. 

Nevertheless, these ladies’ suicides shouldn’t define who they were overall, but in a way, their deaths defined their art. None of these women would have been able to create the work they did without their inner torture. For that, ladies and gentlemen, we have to equally give thanks to the angels and demons on their shoulders and perhaps be a little grateful for our own.  

“As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.” – Ann Sexton. 

You can be a not so enthusiastic observer of art but still love watercolors. When spread out on paper, they give us a fair representation of the human condition – running unpredictably, blending and changing constantly, and weathering the storm. Watercolors can make quite a mess and they are not easy to use when painting a concrete image. Nevertheless, they are indescribably beautiful no matter how screwed up the composition may be. Yes Ms. Sexton, we all create chaos and wash off, but we are all our own masterpieces. 

“I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.” Sylvia Plath. 

Perhaps I am a little bias since this woman is my girl crush, who I’ll always refer to in the present tense, but Sylvia hits the bullseye with a thumb tack on this one. Our wants and our needs often come together for one big circle jerk. All too often, we spend a lot of time prioritizing the needs and/or completely brushing aside our wants. Going through a cycle of wants over needs and needs over wants makes life a lot harder but a hell of a lot more interesting. Perhaps our self-destruction is an art, but an Impressionist painting – hypnotic from afar and utter chaos when magnified. Maybe Dorothy Parker was on to something…

“Take care of the luxuries and the necessities will take care of themselves.” 

Bottom line, curbing the demons in favor of the angels would not have likely saved these incredible women, and bringing the devil to his knees may not have given us their phenomenal gifts. 

As an educator, I’ve sadly not had many opportunities to teach the power of writing poetry. But at the end of the day, it’s not really something that can be taught. It’s already there. In your bones, right down to the teeth and fingernails. For most, it just takes a lot of cattle prodding to start mooing that beautiful music. And poetry is, in fact, music without the notes. 

I learned this when, as a teacher, I organized and directed a Spoken Word performance with a large group of teenage students with various disabilities, namely Autism Spectrum Disorder, ADHD, Speech and Language Disabilities, and physical disabilities. For anyone who may not know, Spoken Word is basically performance poetry, recited usually from memory and with intense inflection and emotion.  

I’ve never performed Spoken Word, nor had I ever intended to. I can barely get up and read my poetry in a hole-in-the-wall hipster cafe where everyone is stoned. So the prospect of running a Spoken Word with my students was, to say the least, daunting. But there was one driving force that kept me pushing the envelope – my students’ undying enthusiasm for writing and speaking despite the hands they’ve been delt. As a special education student myself, the thought of participating in performance poetry would have been equal to preparing for a colonoscopy. I admired every second of their boldness, their love for the written word, and their ability to use their voices. They knew that in this judgemental world, not many would listen, but they still spoke. I hope poetry will continue its upswing and keep fanning the flames. 

Sure, a lot of the material my students wrote for Spoken Word fell into the category of angsty, teenage melodrama. However, a great deal of the writing brimmed with philosophical wisdom well beyond their years and their supposed disabilities.   

Student 1 – “…If I could go back 

and find you right away, 

our loving duet, 

I’d move faster for you…”

Okay, so that one is a pretty much adolescent emo, but well done for a child nonetheless. Now take in the next two pieces generated from old book pages I handed them while they were sprawled out on the stage during preparations and rehearsals. 

Student 2 – The works are in themselves 

found curiosity poetry.

Drama, poetical and sentimental romance   

in every country, 

in every language. 

Immortal halos around 

men and women

divided into classes. 

Student 3 – Her face is pleasing 

her body is soft 

her skin is fine, tender, and fair. 

Her eyes are bright and beautiful. 

She is lovely. 

Her love is perfumed like the lily 

that has newly burst. 

She is respectful and religious. 

She is the gods. 

This process is called blackout poetry. I call this the poetry method for anyone who’s convinced they are poetically challenged. You take an old book page, either real or photocopied depending on your stance on dismantling old books, and you circle the best words and phrases that can come together to make a sensical or ambiguous poem. Then you break out a black Sharpie and draw lines through all the words you don’t want seen. This can be done simply with black ink or if you’re feeling bold, you can sketch, paint, or collage the spaces you want blanked out. Here are some of mine. 

Blackout poems can be a versatile, cathartic, and freeing process, but it can also be challenging, especially for children who have enough of a hard time putting their thoughts on paper. But these guys embraced every second of this scribbling madness and knocked it out of the park. I didn’t think I could get a bunch of special education students to use unconventional ways to create poetry, but I still fall into the trap of questioning my kids’ abilities. Every time I do, I’m the one that comes out looking like the dumbass. As a special education student myself, growing up in cesspools filled with  people who doubted my abilities, which then kept my self-image in the shitter, I can understand where my own strained confidence comes from. 

For weeks, I rehearsed my kids to death – pushing as much eye contact with the audience as possible, reminding them to stand straight and tall and face the audience. I repeated the word “enunciate” excessively, and I threw little tantrums like my old drama teacher from high school, Mr. L –  the only teacher who could make me feel like I was ready to stand up in the world and be seen, heard, and remembered. I can’t say I was looking to match that kind of leadership. You either have it or you don’t. As a teacher or parent, you can always make an impact, but there’s a vast difference between educators and teachers. Educators instill knowledge and skill sets. A teacher’s job is to lay the bricks needed for students to value what they’ll experience as well as prepare them for the wrecking balls they have to dodge as they build. And perhaps…just perhaps, we also have to encourage our youth to experience and accept failure and approach it with an open mind. 

The day of the performance was phenomenal. Aside from one student who was overcome with crippling anxiety and had to leave the stage, every kid moved and felt their words and did their damndest to make sure the audience felt those punches. Not many powerful and joyous moments bring me to tears. I can’t say I’ve had enough of them to truly know the difference between my cool tears and my hot ones. But I ended the show, as the host, barely able to verbalize the unbridled pride I felt for my brilliant but underestimated wordsmiths. Based on their words, they know there is good in the world that will embrace their abilities and disregard their disabilities. But they also know as well as I do, this world dissolves what doesn’t fit into a typical mold. This duality is not easy for our kids to remember because all we seem to do is teach our kids how to avoid their external and internal demons. In general, we dwell too much on how to be happy, and we don’t focus enough on how to be productively despondent.