Everyone knows that a dog is man's best friend. But what if that "man" is actually the head of the limp-dick Ratzi regime? That's right, I'm talking about Shitler.
As you may have noticed, the site has a brand new logo! What else, you ask? You can now wear my fiction, or slap it on whatever Redbubble lets you! All thanks to my great friend, Robert Paul Nixon!
How many bad ideas have started with “just trust me, okay?”? Felix is about to find out as he follows his crush, Heather, and her friends through a Gravenfrost cemetery during a full moon. This special Small Bastard Story is hauntingly joined by breathtaking art by Justin Weingartner!
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