Rest Easy, Pete.

The death of Pete, the more gentle and calm half of the the well known Greensboro panhandling duo, “Pete & Ricky”, has hit me harder than I would have ever anticipated.  I jotted down this little song while blubbering snot and tears….I’ll miss you, Pete.
It should be noted that Pete, though he had been homeless when I met him 16 years ago, had found housing for the last several years with his partner, Ricky and was thankfully able to maintain it as aluminum can collecting and pan handling remained a source of income.  So when I say I “cried hard for a homeless man”, it is not entirely correct as he was in fact “formerly homeless”.  Just wanna set the record straight.
I cried hard for a homeless man when I found out that he’d died.
He’d touched my heart
in ways
I never thought to realize.
He’ll never ask for a quarter again,
two quarters of my day I been thinking bout him
My cheeks are red.
and I ain’t got no dry eye.
Pete, you had a hard road that crossed many
that crossed mine.
You were bright,
you lived with love, there was an easiness in your smile.
Sir, you charmed the hearts
of some good boys and girls in this town
We’re better to’ve known you and we’ll look out for Ricky noooooooooooow.
Oh rest easy Pete
I hope you’re looking down
To see the love that’s pouring out for you
And you don’t have to ask for it now.
Yeah I can spare a quarter. Yeah I can spare a dime.
Pete, when you get to heaven can you look out for me and mine?
I cried hard for you, Pete, when I found out you had died. You touched my heart in ways I never to thought to realize.
Rest easy. I hope you rest easier now.
Rest easy, i hope it’s easier now.


You blink.

Look up. 

And they’re gone. 

It’s bananas how swiftly smiles can switch from sweet to spoiled. 

Trust peeled and tossed away for you to slip and break your mind on. 

A mushy mash 

An unwanted fruit. 


Then brown. 

Bunches of memories 

grown close together 


For Myself.

For the past year and a half I have been inundated with the glitzy and fleeting feelings of attraction, hope, love, and ultimately, despair with two different dudes.  Coupled with the death of my father three years ago, I am having a hard time maintaining focus on being happy.  I just want to be happy.  Without the help of pharmaceuticals.

Today I start a 20 week vice-free journey of diet and excercise.  My goal is to lose 30-40 pounds, and generally just change my daily habits.  My FitBit and my legs are to be my new best friends.  Along with lettuce. And some sort of easily prepaired protein. Maybe eggs.  I expect my boob size to decrease dramatically and my face to be more sculpted and my upper arms to be less grapefruit sized. We shall see.

Perhaps, I’ll keep myself in check with this blog, perhaps I won’t.  We’ll see.  Anyways.

Dear David: Letter One.

Dear David,

If I were honest with you, I’d tell you that I have a passion for your words and your attention, they garner mine and I want to give them back to you. I want to touch you to make them more real; anticipate the quickening.  I want to look in your kindred eyes.

But you are so far away. Even within distance, out of reach.

And I don’t know how drunk you are in your robe on your leather couch with your eyes lit by email, your pocket buzzed with texts, as you tell me all the lovely things.  I don’t know if you’re drunk all the time. I have a constant drunk wanting of you here that I can’t seem to sober from.  Especially when sober.

Yesterday I told you not to contact me again.

I can’t stand the hurt of wanting you and not being able to see you, the crush of not being able to capitalize on the attraction that magnetized instantly between us. I’ve wanted you again for months now.  You won’t make it work. I can’t want you anymore. It’s a weight.

I cried in the shed around 4 o’clock hiding from the kids. Cried thinking there’s always something I’ll want to say to you, cried knowing I gotta stop.  I have to get you off of my mind.

If I were younger I would’ve given you years to lord over my imagination.

Now here I am, my own eyes lit. Glad I didn’t tell you about this long dormant blog I got, babe.  If I get the itch, if I’m thinking about you, if I wanna break the silence, which I don’t wanna do, but I do, I got an outlet.

I’ll just tell the whole world how I feel instead, yeah? Great idea.  Maybe word will get round to you.  Riiiiight.

I hope you’ll miss me like you proper well should. Thanks for all the smiles.

Sometimes when you know you just know,


P.S.- Remember that song you wrote about the girl that you could love a lifetime and her kiss? Remember I told you I wrote a response song, but I told you I didn’t wanna share it with you yet?  Well, this is it:  Stale Kiss.


Refugees; ‘Murican Lord.

I was a refuge in my mind

cross invisible lines

everywhere I went people said

we don’t want you here,

go back there.

They said “You don’t look like me,

and you don’t talk like us,

you don’t belong here,

you gonna blow us up.”

They said,

“This is my country, this ain’t your town.”


No ones asked me what I’ve seen or

who I’ve lost that I’ve loved and

no ones asked me


I’m still running.

I seen my father shot ‘tween his eyes,

they took my baby, took my wife.

Why am I still here?

My path is one of sorrow.

I’m just looking for a place to rest

I’m trying to do my best.

Under heaven

I am weary, I am cold, I am lost

and you don’t know what I’m coming from

or the love of the Holy Ghost

when you say

“Go away, go away.”

Go away, Go away.


I was a refugee in my mind,

heart lead, eyes red

from all

the tears

I’ve cried.

No one’s asked me of my pain,

no one’s asked me how I’ve changed,

no one’s asked me



They just say “go away, go away.”

Go away, go away.


I was a refugee in my mind

wandering miles

looking for

a light

in your eyes.

You can’t

see mine,

you’re American Lord blind.

Heart dead, long time,

so’s your mind.

When you say “go away, go away.”


They said, “You don’t look like me,

you don’t talk like us,

you don’t belong here,

you gonna blow us up.”

They said, ” This is my country, this ain’t your town.”

This ain’t God’s country, it’s just your town.


For Cutler.

I remember him, and his voice. His smile and little teeth as he stood in his hand me down clothes beside the cedar bush, in the driveway at his grandmother’s house. I remember how his hair shone like a golden whisp in contrast to his two older brothers darker locks. He was knobby kneed and pink lipped and the visit his family paid to the brown house across the street was always a welcomed and anticipated time.

Cutler & his Mama.

Cutler & his Mama.

His Grandfather was the only grandfather I ever knew. I don’t know if he knows this of me. Mr. Kornegay, Cutler’s (and Corey’s & Chance’s) Grandaddy, would walk with me across the footbridge to the other side of the creek, through the bamboo forest, to look at the town water plant and all the empty wooden electric spools and unused cement drain ditch tubes. I could wear his fedora, walk with his cane, and appreciated his slow pace, as I was never one to rush to get to anywhere.

Mr. Kornegay would leave the garage door up in the back of his house and I’d wander in, spin the potter’s wheel, enjoy the cool of the shadows out of the sweaty summer sun. There was the swing by the garage, hung under the balcony, that all the neighborhood children were welcome to swing on.

I swang on that swing many a time with Mr. Kornegay and his grandson’s Cutler, Cory, and Chance. He told me I was always welcome. I played in his yard perhaps more than I even played in my own. He had rocks and moss and a creek, and a kind way with a little girl who’d known no grandfather of her own.

I was in second grade when he died. I remember my Mama sitting me on the bed in my room and breaking the news. The welling pain I can recall as vividly as I can recall his loving brown eyes, and wrinkled face. At 8, Mr. Kornegay’s death was my first bout with heartbreak. I’ve always loved him, I’ve never forgotten the love he showed me.

I’ve never forgotten the importance of his family in my childhood, either. The widowed Mrs. Kornegay, who’d always been grandmotherly to me, still kept the garage door open for me and still let me play in the creek behind her house. The Kornegay grandsons and I played, and grew up together. I was sandwiched in age by Cory who is one year older, and Chance, who is one year younger. I’d ride with them out to their house in the country every now and again, even through high school, and even after. But I remember most fondly our younger years, spent swinging on that porch swing under the balcony any time they came to visit their Gramma. Those Kornegay boys grew from great boys into great men.

Their Uncle Holt lives in the great brown house across the street from my childhood home now. I talk to him whenever I go see my Mama…Mrs. Kornegay must have died about 8 years back. I don’t see Cutler and Cory or Chance much anymore. The modern closeness of the internet keeps a line of memory open; an alley to peek into, to linger upon.

Cory lives in the mountains and wrestles wood into beautiful staircases, mantles and porches for a living. Chance seems happily married, liberal, living in the town of his alma mater, loving life.

Cutler, the youngest, the small boy who I remember looking up at me with his bright blond hair and sparkling blue eyes…the boy whose four year old grin I remember so well…the boy whose name was always so fun to say, is a father of two in his early 30’s and, well. He’s dying.

The unfortunate prognosis has set me back, and the raw feelings I felt that sad day in second grade, upon learning my sweet neighbor Grandaddy had passed away, those feelings returned full circle.

There’s nothing more the doctors can do is what i’ve read. Brain tumors.

Cutler will be taken away from the lucky ones who knew him. Who’ve known him. Who know him still. Who love him.

Cutler, I’m crying. I haven’t seen you in many years, but I’m crying. For you. For your brothers. Your Mama and Daddy. Your wife, your poor children. In anguish, crying for the love of your family, and for the memories I have of you all. I’ve followed your journey, and have wept, hoping for your life to be spared, hoping for your wonderful family, whom I love, to not be dealt this hard hand.

I wish you all the bravery in the universe, dear Cutler. I pray peace over the aching your family must endure when your spirit lifts from this earth. I wish you weren’t going. And I still hope you won’t.

If you do have to go soon, though, please give my regards to your Granddaddy. Thank him for me? And tell my Daddy up there I love him, too, and I miss him so bad.

Tears for you all.


Wind of Wails

All the crying, all the crying.
All the settling of scores.
The door slams of injustice, tears stirring dust out the door.
All the sorrows of tomorrow catching a western wind of wails.
All the crying, all the crying
All the world feels the hell.
All the world feels the hell.

All the praying, all the praying.
What you praying for?
In Jesus name you bless a heart, in the same breath wage a war.
All the sorrows of the sortid unheard
Money is the Lord
All the praying, all the praying.
What you praying for?

All the lying, all the lying.
All the ignorance deplored.
Spirits of the people lost in spite of a Jesus that they claim to adore.
All the sorrows of the foreign catching a western wind of wails.
All the crying, all the crying
All the world feels the hell.