World Coming Down. . .

but I'll rebound like the million times before.

Meeting Expectations

11 More Wins. . .

It is sort of sad to think that expectations for one's team can be so low, but finishing with fewer than 100 losses is about all you can hope for when it comes to Kansas City.


If they can just spoil one team (please, be the Tigers! please, be the Tigers!) down the stretch, it would be like the chocolate icing on top of the bowl of extra-chocolaty chocolate icing or some such and such.



Big Boy approves, but thinks maybe celebration should wait until they actually achieve 82 wins again.

*Ya know, the thing that actually makes a team a "winner."



photo courtesy of yahoosports.com

Two Poems

"Counterpoint" and "She Will Know the Name of God" appear in the current (August 2007) issue of Red River Review. Very good journal; check them out.

Three Poems

"Nocturnal Undertaker," "Our Friend, The Chosen," and "To Get Her" appeared in the July 2007 edition of Static Movement. Chris Bartholomew is a wonderful editor to work with.

She talked to the dead,

and two replied in kind:

the first answering her questions,

a second speaking hushed abstractions

letting her mind build its

hell.

. . . . .

Two Poems

"The Golden Years" and "The Lack of Worry is the End of Living" appeared in the 13th issue of Tiger's Eye: A Journal of Poetry. Very nice journal. Look into them.

Three Poems

"Out of Natural," "Psychic Pains," and "What They Never Tell You," appeared in the 10th anniversary edition (issue 40) of Black Petals Magazine. They have a new editor starting with the next issue.

Three

"Three," my first full-length short story published, appeared in the January 2007 edition of Word Riot. Jackie Corley is the editor of this awesome online journal. Check them out.



from Three:

. . . .

I stared at the scraggly boy with so much to say in return that it got me thinking about me when I was his age. A hotheaded terror of a son of a gun all the same, I kind of knew just about where he was coming from. The army straightened me out pretty good, though I didn't think it was right for him. Oh, I could have said a boot-ful of stuff standing there and towering over him, but thinking about my youth made me think about my daddy and the three rules he lived by.


The first one he told me during a whippin' I received for calling my mama a name I've never uttered toward another woman in my life. "Sometimes," he said, bringing another blow down on my eight-year-old bare behind in front of the butcher at Eddie's Supermarket, "no matter how much you think they need it, or how much the urge is on your tongue; sometimes you just need to save ass and change the subject."

. . . .

Read the rest.

Needless is a content warning if you read even this small sample.

Slipping Guilt

"Slipping Guilt" appeared in the Winter 2006 issue of the Loch Raven Review. Check them out.


. . . . .

She was wearing a lemonade dress,
standing in the spot we'd chosen together.


. . . . . .

34-Counter

"34-Counter" appeared in the October 2006 Issue of Valparaiso Poetry Review. Very good writing in this journal. Check them out.


There is something in the silence
between huddle and the line.

Big Boy Hears A Tiny Hoo!

Sysco Quartermain

"Sysco Quartermain" appeared at Southern Gothic Online in the Summer 2006. Unfortunately, they've stopped publishing poetry, but check them out for some excellent Southern fiction with a Gothic touch.



. . . Sysco Quartermain
wasn't afraid of some Judas on the take scoundrel; he
Psalm-23'd nineteen straight like they were a sermon

on Christmas morning. . . .

.

A Connecticut Yankee in Kit Carson Court

"A Connecticut Yankee in Kit Carson Court" was published in the May 2006 issue of Muscadine Lines: A Southern Journal. This is a very nice Southern journal edited by Kathy Rhodes. Check it out. This was my first published story.

I was too tired to think and asked the only thing that had come to my mind. "You mean we ain't gonna put in the shitter?"

"Butterface" and "Home Opener"

"Butterface" and "Home Opener" were published in the twelfth issue of Perigee: Publication for the arts. This is a very good journal with very fine writing. Check them out.


"Butterface" was nominated for a Pushcart in the fall of 2006.

She crosses the street with stilettos
staccato on the wet asphalt, . . .



"Home Opener"

The Henderson couple is known to make a scene;
heck, they even pass out a flyer to new homeowners
about them, but nothing can prepare a person for it.

Fat Joe and the Sunday Morning Moon

"Fat Joe" appeared in the January 2006 edition of Underground Voices and was reprinted that following November in their annual anthology. Good stuff comes through there often. Check them out.

Neighbor’s a sorry sucker, been missing
for a week now. His little wife’s at church as
a steamer mounds on the sweaty, unkempt blades.

Four Poems

Four poems (Three apparently) appeared sometime after Katrina in Maverick Magazine. Not sure the actual date. Just stumbled upon it after the fact. Possibly late-December 2005.

. . .

A wet cross in black soil
wrapped round and wound by weeds,
a ways away from the fallen tree,
the rabbits three begin to flee,
from behind the house of lore.

--from Behind the House of Lore

I Want You to Love Me like the Angels, Eagles, Falcons, Freaks, and Philanthropists Do

"I Want You to Love Me like the Angels, Eagles, Falcons, Freaks, and Philanthropists Do" was published in identity theory. Charles Johnson is the poetry editor of this fine publication of the arts and culture.

Her request in Braille,
dots raised like the goose-pimples
on her arms when I touch her.

Enter Stage Now

"Enter Stage Now" appeared in the Summer 2005 issue of the online magazine JMWW. Jenny Sadre-Orafai was great to work with and made starting out on this trek very welcoming.

Her flushed face shines out among the plodding herd
of iron-on t-shirts and keepsake hats,. . .

Coaching Inspiration

This poem originally appeared online in May 2005 at Opium Magazine. Since then it's gone through some "minor" structural changes. The archive is down at the moment, but this is the poem below. Very good journal/site. Very nice group of folks. Check them out.


"Coaching Inspiration"

It’s the early morning hours before the end of the convention,
and I’m rocking anxious about our final presentation.
Fifteen hundred firms competing for fifteen thousand dollars,
a crystal cup, and a contract to shovel shit in Shelby County.

Down to six of us. We’re more nervous now; my legs
took to shaking in the terminal at RDU three days ago.
Bob, in logistics, thinks we can lowball the other finalists—
he’s in his single room across the hall—he thinks it’s cheaper that way.

Michele and Suzy, next door, got trashed and are taking turns
rehearsing before the porcelain lectern. Each gurgle and gag
slices through the drywall like a dependable spade.
Dan’s in the bed across the room. Talking in his sleep again.

Asks questions to the darkness—only light from my laptop.
Lesbian pornography reflecting in my glasses.
It’s at times like these I’d like to have something to say to them.
Something with zest and promise.

Something witty and memorable like the old ball coaches used to say.
Words that stretched boundaries. Like Lombardi’s “If you aren't fired
with enthusiasm, you will be fired with enthusiasm” or
Leo Derocher saying, “If you don't win, you're going to be fired.
If you do win, you've only put off the day you're going to be fired.”

They knew the value of words, of pep, of wit.
They could stab enough fear or grace into a man
that he’d gladly cut off his nuts and go bobbing.
“Show class, have pride, and display character,”
Bear Bryant once said. “If you do, winning takes care of itself.”
I could pull that off. Pump them up and take that crystal cup.

Old sun snuggles up against the window as I’m still at the computer
fighting over the words. My heartbeats tickle my throat in little licks.
Face numb and heavy. Our presentation is in three hours.
Three hours then sleep. For some reason, I’m stuck

on Derocher’s “Some guys are admired for coming to play. . .
I prefer those who come to kill.” Don’t know what it says about me.
Tired, I guess. Feel like crap. Proposal can only be revised
and practiced so much, but I still feel sick about it.

“The only place success comes before work is in the dictionary,”
Lombardi proclaimed. All I can hope is that all this work
is worth its weight. Just hope today doesn’t end in us reflecting
on Wooden’s “Don't measure yourself by what you have accomplished,
but by what you should have accomplished with your ability.”
That would suck more shit than a B-Series pump from Agpro, Incorporated.

Our green room’s labeled The National Association for Agriculture
and Fertilizer Producers with our company’s name
in lowercase lettering underneath. The four of them huddle
around the portfolio and printed copies of the PowerPoint.
They look beaten. They stink of pessimism. I slam the door

and steal their attention—make them face me
like I’m Bobby Knight or worse.
They expect something from me.
Stares trowel into me from eight brown eyes.
Air feels clammy like an old locker room.

I put my briefcase on the table
and kick the closest folding chair into the wall.
“‘I’m sick and fucking tired of an 8-10 record,’” I shout.
My face, beets. I grab another gulp of dank air.
“‘I’m fucking tired of losing to Purdue!’”
They look at me how the lesbians in the porno do. Never understanding.

Wedded to the Word

This is an interview with William Hoffman I did for the debut electronic offering of The Dos Passos Review. Mary Carroll-Hackett is the editor-at-large and a wonderful writer/mentor/friend. The work is here. The main site is here.