Death is always there: Death is knocking back drinks with Hemingway lurking around shiny switchblade corners slippery jackknife turns rotting on the side of the road stalking like a jilted lover...
Rise! is a poem I had written back in 2012, but I feel the message is still valid. I'm a card-carrying procrastinator and self saboteur, and I can't help but feel stupid about it. The world gives us enough obstacles, why do we create even more? If we could just focus all that energy/time/thought into doing what we want to do instead of on all the bullshit reasons we can't/shouldn't/couldn't, then, my friend, we'd be so much closer to becoming our true selves. Enough preaching. Onto the poem that's mostly preaching. By the way, I hope it helps you if you need it, or entertains you if you don't.
Hellmo: a Small Bastard Story. Eternal damnation takes many forms. But in the case of Mr. Strudel, it's in the shape of a bright red, furry adversary, who brings him nothing but terror and humiliation.
I just saw the notification that the YouTube Channel Pages And Polish has posted an episode about my books! The host, Shannon Cox, is one of the people responsible (read as "to blame") for my getting into writing fiction. Check it out! https://youtu.be/aX1Jr-OoHqo
An old Poem of mine: Mouth like Bukowski The sun crept up behind the tree line we rose like zombies from the grave cotton mouthed and disappointed just another day of errant madness slaving to make filthy men rich instead of rich men filthy
I used to write poetry. That was my thing. It started with lyrics back in my rock n roll days [insert uncomfortable "really?" chuckle here], then when that turned into a flaming wheelbarrow full of turds and blame, I changed gears...
“You catch the finale of The Baritones last night?” Ed asks, up-ending a bag of chip crumbs into his mouth. “Nah, I was at my kid's recital,” I say with a shrug. I like Ed. Of all the guys here, I think he and I are the most on the same page. He's a family … Continue reading Hench
The first thing William Travis Morrison thinks of as he shakes Darla Miller's hand is how amazing her skin feels, and how much he'd like to wear it. He notes her milky-pink complexion, and subtle notes of coconut lotion. “You're prettier than your picture,” he says, then motions to the booth he was sitting in. … Continue reading The Date
“Yew must think ye'r so damn smart,” the felon known as Crimson Clay said, then spat a thin stream of blood to the dirt. He glared at the burly U.S Marshal who sat on the other side of a modest campfire, stirring a pot of beans. “Reckon I must.” The Marshal stated over the sound … Continue reading A Kindness
Edwin Quay, AKA “Deadwin,” has never felt so good. He hasn't smiled this wide and pure in all his long and sordid years. Pure might be a stretch—let's say manic. He screams a meaty, wet scream and feverishly slaps the steering wheel of the 1970 Cadillac Hearse (that he stole fair and square) to the … Continue reading Out with a Fang (a Small Bastard Story)