Sunday, March 26, 2017
Sunday, March 19, 2017
I must sit down at my desk again, with surface of particle board,
And all I ask is a working Mac with power strip and cord,
And pencil drawer and file drawer with drafts aligned and waiting,
And a picture, you see, of my wife and me, both smiling, neither faking.
I must sit down at my desk again, and scribble, feeling swell,
Waxing bold, if it must be told, because of the new desk smell,
And all I ask is a cup of joe and a YouTube playlist long,
And a run of words, no culls or turds; woven prose like merry song,
I must sit down at my desk again, to a solitary author's life,
To pages of mold, soon to be gold, once slashed with my editor's knife,
And all I ask is a sale or two, upon my journey's end,
And as I wait, in financial straits, I'll start to write again.
(With apologies to John Masefield.)
Yes, I do have a new desk.
Saturday, March 11, 2017
|(Where the psychopaths grow.)|
Under the Florida sun, Barbara Goodheart taps out her eclectic writing, penning thrillers such as The Wild Place, as well as medical books—co-authored with her scientist husband—dealing with diabetes control.
And now Barbara opines most delightfully on my Lovecraftian horror novel, Hallow Mass:
"Devotees of this type of book will . . . find . . . wonderful writing you
don't typically [see] in this genre.
'. . . unkempt children who watch you like coyotes from trash-littered yards . . . '
'. . . the campus dozed like a drunk in a hammock . . . '
'As the stars rose above, a young prisoner kneeling between Frye and Hutchins commenced to shake like a dog passing a coconut.'
And many other examples of great writing that are too long to include in a brief review . . . "
|In softcover and durable ebook.|
It's Saturday. Indulge.
Thursday, March 09, 2017
Shut up on this good night,
Pearl Jam thunders into day,
Raves with strangers liquored-up tight.
Balcony pot smoke dims sight.
Your duh-huh laugh is pretty gay,
Please take Ambien this good night.
Requests for quiet—go fly a kite,
Cops summoned June to May,
Feckless mother flounces away on another flight.
Ah, but you're young and light,
A teenage dunce with brains of hay,
Cotton in my ears at the coming of the night.
(Apologies to Dylan Thomas.)