The Poet Laureate of the common man. His current publications, scheduled readings, daily dalliances, links to his books and whatever seemingly clever thought Bee wants to share
Is there a character change? What is change? What things change in this story?
What do you make of all the shit references?
The number 12…what does it signify?
Did you notice the number twelve occurring in the story and what significant things can you think of that involve the number twelve? What do you think it means?
Proper noun versus pronoun, versus all other nouns?
What’s in a name? What names do we never know?
What do you think the dictionary definition stuff means?
What do the song references mean/do for you?
What do you make of the poems included in this novel?
Are you familiar with Charles Bukowski and how does he factor in?
Examples of the theme of revision, revisiting, repeating as demonstrated in the book?
The yellow car stuff?
What does Kafka bring to the mix?
What songs are repeated or referenced more than once?
Would you like to order a, WWCD bracelet?
Did you notice all the fog, miasma, and so forth references and occurrences in a systematic synonymous repetition? What do you think they mean?
Come to Latona Pub, Seattle, WA.
get book that make you laugh, cry, tingle in special spots, and feel just fine about your heightened level of depravity.
It’s a book with a soundtrack. Words with pulses, sentences with eyes, pages with lips. It breathes, drinks, fucks, and dances as it plays parlor games. It is profoundly meaningful as it is simultaneously seemingly meaningless. It is exactly like life with all the irony and significance. It proves that within fiction there exists the greatest truths.
It’s probably insensitive and offensive at times, but such is life. Why should art be expected to take a different route?
“Well these are all questions you should be ready to answer,” she says all dignified and reasonable. I hate it when a woman is reasonable, that is impossible to expect. A fastball down the middle after a lifetime of curves.
Delusive Moments book releases…
3/2/14 @ 6PM Latona Pub, Seattle, WA
3/9/14 @ 6PM Conway Muse, Conway, WA
"I’m just a hedonistic hamster when it comes down to it. But on that point, who isn’t a hedonistic hamster?"
I call it ‘dive bar’ and don’t bother with its real name because some things haven’t done anything worthwhile or deserving of a name. Some things aren’t even pronouns. They’re amateur nouns. We, he, she, they, them and us can agree, we’ve all met some amateur persons, places and things in our times. Perhaps that is why I find this watering hole so comforting; we probably have that much in common. Plus, we both enjoy the minors.
I see it more and more, more of my life slipping by.
Youth is gone and it’s not getting all black but going gray.
So many shades of gray setting and settling in, getting in the way
Of healing, dealing, being appealing. I feel the casket sealing,
As much as I know that foolish thought is stealing
What youth I might have got but that’s not the half of it.
There’s the never forgotten remorse of my foolish discourse.
Of course there are choices I made poorly and more drunkenly
Than necessary. My mind doesn’t let go but I have to go
Onward, not downward with this spiral fracture fairytale,
ah swell, more than once upon a time who cares
that only hell can tell me I am doing good, well
Shape me but don’t break me I pray to God, Jesus, life
Times I’ve told myself this, I am the redundant pundit,
Thoughts of grandeur so repugnant you just can’t fund it
And less are proud to say they understand or stand it.
That’s just fine though, in my time, I’ve long since known,
I will be taken for granted like granite is just a rock and a
Rooster is just a .
My highly anticipated novella will be available in print and on Kindle this month! Copies can be ordered from Createspace, Amazon, or purchased in the Seattle area from select vendors.
“Just as the song ends, my stupor deepens but shows signs of significance. Country music, love, and being stoned all have a way of bringing on a poignant form of melancholy. All three at once can be a little too much for some. Fortunately, I am well acquainted with these various forms of dementia.”
All my booze,
even the micro brew beer she used to swear she didn’t like,
maybe she was desperate,
She also drank my good tequila, fine bourbon
And even the vodka and gin I had hidden in the ice box
Beneath freezer burned hash browns,
I really believe she was desperate.
It is worth noting that she got into my pot—left only ashes, and
Popped or copped all of my pills I was saving for a rainy day of pain.
It’s like she took my heart, brain and courage in one sweet scourge.
Where’s the wizard behind the curtain for this one,
I’m certain this little Dorothy was desperate and probably satiated,
More than that first time we hooked up
That then worked itself into a six month siege,
Instead of the one night stand that we thought it’d be.
Now she’s out there, somewhere without me, and
I’m feeling more disparate from her and certainly
Maybe it is me that is feeling all desperate
For the usual ritual of habitual chemical supplement,
Now that my favorite sexual implement isn’t available
For a thoughtful, genital impalement,
I think I should say aloud
A, thank you,
to that her, as I lead myself to believe,
All my booze,
burned all my pot and popped all my pills,
So I wouldn’t react all delusional, and
Just move on.