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Hola mis amigos de España.

7 Apr

¿Comó estan?  Veo que unos sitios estan vinculando a mi sitio web.  Bienvenidos, y si estén buscando por unos poemas, aquí pueden encontrarlos.

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Tilting at Windmills…

3 Apr

After a few months of negotiations, hemming and hawing, and drinking enough gin to float Winston Churchill, Thomas Weyland and I have decided to start a literary journal.

The decision came down to our desire to build a journal with a greater focus on reviews and criticism.  There is a universe of questionable literary journals, most of them screaming in the depths of data-centers hidden in parts unknown.  We want to do something a little bit different.  We want to do for reviews, especially reviews of small press and self-published literary fiction, what those little magazines do for poetry and short fiction.

Sanity not Guaranteed will be the product of this union.  Consider yourselves forewarned.

The Recluse Speaks

19 Mar

I obviously don’t update as often as I should, but I did just add some new links to recently published poems in the poetry section up above.  It’s better than getting your eyes gouged out with nail file.  Probably.

A Year is a Long Time

14 Aug

Time waits until you come to.

Obviously, I haven’t posted anything here in a long time.  Life, the bitch god, reared its ugly head and demanded of me more than I had for well over a year.  Or perhaps she was merely testing me.  Either way, I’m still here, miraculously, and I’m still writing.  Which is good, because there is work to be done.

I’m looking forward to it.

Not the bar, man.

6 Nov

I am
displeased.

Not because I lost $150 this week, though there is that.  Not because Community sucked this week.  It did.  I’ll harp on the 55-inch digital boob tube later though.  Today I am displeased for a reason that is far more Old World than any of that (do they even have elections back there?  I doubt it, lucky bastards).  I am displeased because the City Council has decided to close my bar.

I have had the misfortune to be geographically stationary (more or less) for the last two years.  In that two years there has been one great shining light in this pastel hell: my bar.  My bar stood as a monument to something greater than over-watered lawns and HOA approved hedges.  My bar has stood as a bulwark against the forces of nine to five button and tie, six to ten dinner and kids, with a pity screw from the wife who doesn’t want to but can’t be arsed to fight you off.  My bar has been a place of freedom.

An assault on my bar is an assault on me.  It doesn’t matter which bar is my bar; an assault on my bar is an assault on your bar (where do you think I’ll be going to drink now?).  An assault on your bar is an assault on you.  We are all in this together.

This Blag Thing

23 Oct

I write, therefore I am.  And fuck Descartes.  I never liked him.  He always welches on sports bets–a crime worthy of capital punishment in most corner bars in America.

Back on point–I write.  Fiction mostly, drunken rants occasionally, but the line between the two is blurry, and I’m likely to switch over at any given moment without warning.  I’m told that in order to be successful as a writer today, I must have a website.  I must have a blog.  I must promote myself and engage with the wild masses in some sort of bohemian spiritual communion of words, liberi libri or something.  So here I am.

What now?  Where do we go from here?  Are you willing to go down the rabbit hole with me, into the maddening landscape that is this godforsaken world we have the misfortune to inhabit?  No, I’m not a cynic, I’m a romantic.  I’m just not a liar; well, mostly.