Last Bender

I’ve been writing poetry again. it’s difficult to overcome my disgust with poetry, but really, my disgust is for the business, not the art; for the theory, not the practice. every time I pick up a book of new poetry, I read three lines and feel a deadness overcome me, a numb depression and boredom [...]

CHAPTER FOURTEEN             At 9:15 Stronghole kicked the door in. That made it 100%, cause everything else was fucked up too. His shoulders were so big, he had to turn sideways to get in through the door. For two seconds we stared each other down, eye to eye, until he smiled. I didn’t move. [...]

CHAPTER THIRTEEN                 Bunuel may have been gone, but the giant hole he left behind was slow to close. Laraby would be pissed all right that he couldn’t be bought. I could hear it in my head. Standing up behind that desk turning purple. Asking, “Name me the cop who can’t be bought.”   [...]

bad times an email from a dying friend sydney bechet ‘summertime’ and a fried transaxle two thousand bucks but it beats the 10% the doctor gives to Tim not just the toilet paper poet no but the man who sold pine trees, dogs and kept a herd of horses in the catskills who once tried [...]