Monday, April 26, 2021

Backyard haiku

Mating rituals

Dead leaves chase each other in the wind

Like two horny moths


Boom, boom, doom and gloom

boot heels scraping out divots

turf torn up by Goths


Alone, a boy cries

ice cream bakes on the blacktop

where bullies gloat


Where the water drains

things wriggle in putrid pools

a stick is a boat


It’s time for nighthawks

crepuscular insect clouds

and barbecue smoke


Spinning soccer ball

Dad spanks his daughter’s ass then

gives his son a poke


Brown lizards skitter

into cracked bricks’ crevices

swallowing their catch




My neighbor’s dog bark

insanely whimpering when

I unhook the latch


Gray hair and limp gait

little dog pulls them forward

but stops when they kiss


Boom stereo thud

“Check me out, motherfucker!”

shatters quiet bliss 

Thursday, April 22, 2021

I'm too old for angst, y'know?

 I hate my job.

Let me qualify that--the job is OK and, in this economy, I should be grateful to have steady employment. TBH, the work isn't demanding but stultifyingly dull. At the end of the (work) day, I have plenty of intellectual and creative capital to sit down and write. Or query agents/editors/publishers, a labor that has resulted in numerous rejections. My day job doesn't interfere with my unpaid second job, so that's cool.

It's the soulless corporation I work for that I hate. "Office Space" writ large and most of you know the lament--incompetence at the top rewarded while front-line workers bear the brunt of that fuckery--so it seems pointless to indulge that trope. But the struggle of signing onto work every morning, to seethe at the masturbatory emails polluting my inbox, is daily degradation.

Query and wait. It will be so satisfying when that offer comes and I can walk away from serving self-aggrandizing dipshits. 

My novel is written, a beast at 194,000 words. To market it, I split it into two parts. I'm still line editing and workshopping but it's a complete manuscript.