Wednesday, September 30, 2009

something to read...

The Mailbox

“I don’t believe in writer’s block,” he told her.

They were sitting at the table in their kitchen. Sunshine slipped thru the barely parted curtains and climbed across the empty breakfast plates. He looked at her when she didn’t say anything.

“I know you think I have it, but I don’t.”

She was picking at a crust of toast drying on a napkin.

“I never said anything like that and you know it.”

“Yeah, but you don’t have to say it. It’s all over your face.” He scratched his nose. “I can finish that fucking book.”

“I know you can.”

“Bullshit. You lost faith in me a long time ago.”

“No, you lost faith in you.”

He bristled.

“What do you know about it?”

“I watch you, I listen to you, I remember how you used to be.” She stood up and carried her plate and empty glass to the sink. Dropped them in. Ran some water. “You used to smile. Now you don’t.”

He picked up her napkin and the crusts and the crumbs and the rest of it. She stepped out of the way. He finished clearing the table as she watched him.

“Well, so what? Who cares if I smile or not?”

“It’s symbolic.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? You think ‘smiling’ is my problem?”


“Well, what the fuck are you talking about then?”

“People who are happy smile. You don’t.”

“Bullshit, I smile. Watch.”

His twisted his lips into an echo of a smile. His cheeks wrinkled with effort. He showed her his teeth.

“Wow. That was terrible.”

He made a sound almost like a laugh.

“You used to really laugh,” she said. “There was a light.”

He scowled. Light, he thought. How ridiculous. He didn’t remember any light.

“Whatever. I’m going to take a shower and get dressed. We got some shit to take care of, you know.”

“I know.”

He headed down the hallway to the bathroom. She heard the door close and water pour into the tub. She parted the curtains and stared out into the yard. She listened to the sounds coming from the shower. She could hear the pattern of drops change as he moved around. She thought about the day ahead, how it was just exactly like so many other days.

After a while, the water stopped. In the silence, she could hear birds calling outside. She walked over to the front door and looked out the screen. Out by the mailbox she could see a murder of crows digging in the grass and hanging from the trees like dark jewels. They shined in the morning sun, barking at each other as they worked.

Then, one by one, they flew away.


I don't know if you people have good breweries in your town or what kinds of beer they brew, but even if you do, the Iron Rail IPA from Wedge Brewing here in Asheville kicks its ass.

it is the best beer I've had in a long, long time, citrus and pine and caramel and deep orange/rust color with a long lingering aftertaste of deliciousness, dry hopped and barely bitter...oh mama.

shame you can't get any. I'll drink one of these beauties for you, loser.

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

down this crooked road...

is now available. Bill Taylor, Jr. chose the work for this anthology, and it's a fine bit of gathering indeed.

you can pick up your copy (and read a few sample poems) H E R E.

Wednesday, September 09, 2009

lit shiz...

my new chap Death Is My Subject, the next Pocket Protector book from Propaganda Press is almost ready to roll. it will be available in a "Deluxe" edition, as well as the regular chap, and it will feature the PP chap with its black cardstock cover and black lettering, a bonus 1/8 size chap with poems not in the regular edition, a color broadside on cardstock, signed by yours truly, and a limited edition laminated bookmark with black tassel and bead, all wrapped in black paper and bound with a black ribbon. I think the "Deluxe" edition runs around six bucks and the regular is around three (plus shipping). I'll post an exact link when the book is finished. thanks much to Leah for such a stunning job on a great little book.

still don't know enough about Hosh and I? still haven't read Sunlight at Midnight, Darkness at Noon? then head over to PoetHound and check out a new interview: H E R E.

also, I am a Hunter S. Thompson ripoff, not Bukowski, just FYI, Paul. I can't say who Hosh is ripping off.

outside the last grasses of the summer are being slaughtered by suburban madmen and the whine of their gas powered killing machines smokes thru the early afternoon air. dogs howl. the sun bakes. thank god winter lurks somewhere over the sweating horizon. we can hold out until sundown, I think. then there will be some manner of reckoning...