Thursday, June 28, 2018

Gray Cat, Purple Rug @ Hobart Published June 11, 2018


Saturday, October 22, 2016

R.I.P. Short Story Writer Thom Jones

Short story writer Thom Jones passed away from complications of diabetes last Friday. He published three books of the most remarkable stories you will ever read. If Hemingway and Bukowski had a baby -- it was Thom Jones.

He was a huge influence on me. His stories are brutally honest masterworks about the many hardships of life. But don't get me wrong, for they are also beautiful stories - beautiful stories about real humans fighting like the boxers, warriors, soldiers they really are.

Thank you Thom Jones for every word you wrote. I hope you're sparring with Hem right now in the great boxing ring in the sky.

Saturday, September 10, 2016


$160 for six lap dances, two Jack and Cokes, and an Amstel light.

$75.42 at Borders going out of business sale: Four Bolanos, a Denis Johnson, a Bukowski, an old French novel, Catch 22, a cook book, and two children's books for my nephews.

$60 for a night at Bongos and then another strip club.

A $3 something Big Mac on the way home.

The loneliness: priceless

Saturday, July 2, 2016

A Man In His Life by Yehuda Amichai

A man doesn't have time in his life
to have time for everything.
He doesn't have seasons enough to have
a season for every purpose. Ecclesiastes
Was wrong about that.

A man needs to love and to hate at the same moment,
to laugh and cry with the same eyes,
with the same hands to throw stones and to gather them,
to make love in war and war in love.
And to hate and forgive and remember and forget,
to arrange and confuse, to eat and to digest
what history
takes years and years to do.

A man doesn't have time.
When he loses he seeks, when he finds
he forgets, when he forgets he loves, when he loves
he begins to forget.

And his soul is seasoned, his soul
is very professional.
Only his body remains forever
an amateur. It tries and it misses,
gets muddled, doesn't learn a thing,
drunk and blind in its pleasures
and its pains.

He will die as figs die in autumn,
Shriveled and full of himself and sweet,
the leaves growing dry on the ground,
the bare branches pointing to the place
where there's time for everything.