Big Boy Died Last Night

He was buried this morning.




I don't know when it's really gonna hit, but I was just getting something from the kitchen and after a minute I started waiting for him to approach from his little box and meow at me.



There was silence.


He would have been 17 this fall.





Life stinks sometimes, but I guess it is for the best. Something inside him was killing him (loss of hair, massive weight loss, etc.). I just hope the very end was painless.





He was a good friend, a good son, a great cat.




Sleep well, my cheeto-loving friend.

Spring Cleaning

Been working on a few things. Fatman O'Toole related. <-- The original poem is due sometime around September in issue #4 of motel58. --> Maybe a chapbook thing.

Been thinking about the collection and actually, seriously, truthfully, looking into piecing it together.

Already got two bites out of this latest batch in about a week. Thieves Jargon--one of my favorite poems will be there shortly along with another that I heavily revised this time (and made much better). The other at a place called Breadcrumb Scabs (yeah, so the name kinda sold me on submitting--).

My sister's dog isn't feeling well (and on my sister's birthday, too). It stinks.



Happy Birthday, Sis.


Big Boy's been struggling with what looks like diabetes and I hate seeing him that way.


It sucks.


Brighter side?


It's BASEBALL SEASON! Woohoo!




Royals will finish 79-83 and second in the division. It's easy to see parity where there is an abundance of mediocrity. That is the AL Central code. So, Go Royals!



So, anyway. Been thinking about checking in more often.


Maybe doing little capsule reviews.



One hundred words and a handful of pics* of the leading, supporting, cameo, ladies.


It's what they want.
It's what google takes away.


Inside snark? Ya betcha!






* Note: I have this post tagged under Foto, but obviously they are not all mine. For instance, I would have been like three years old when Brett and the lady with the fine ass exchanged pleasantries. I do not own a signed Billy Butler card (thought it'd be cool) (and so did not take that picture either). Jennifer Tilly and Milla Jovovich are pretty, but I do not know them personally (thus...dur) These Photos Are NOT MINE; they are only used to demonstrate the eloquence of the world and to enhance culture as a whole.

My pictures are:
1) The sketch of Fatman O'Toole/Me.
2) Picture of my sister's dog, Ne-Hi.
3) Picture of Big Boy (which may already be on the blog...)
4) The Baseball.

The others are not.

Submissions Update.

51.

Would have been 52,
but I didn't like the direction
of one of the journals
and didn't think my poetry
fit quite right there.

Taking a break for just a minute.

Preposthumous series will return on the 15th
as warned.

Until then, how about cat pictures?

click to en-biggen
Big Boy In His Prime.

NP: The Sound of a Fan In The Other Room

Submissions are about wrapped up.

52 sit in my e-mail ready to march off.
The other nine will go through another route.
Soon they will be in the hands of editors.
Soon they may all come back into mine.



I need to go, before I bungle my words about this little blog.

Big Boy, say something.

When Big Boy Sleeps, Does He Dream Of Electric Cheetos?

A Thousand Yard Stare

Big Boy, No Lulzcat.

NP: Vicious Crusade - Capriccio in G-moll per violin

This song makes me see men in coats and ties,
shotguns up and out with gray breaths
hard into the November night.

Good band from Belarus.
Would love to buy something of theirs, but alas.


Still, pretty good stuff.
Just wish they had a distributer here in the states.
(Century Media? Anyone?)

Anyway, not much to say here for today.


Some poets are in town this week.
I guess that's something.

There's more wood out back to cut up for the winter.
I guess that's something, too.



The Dolphins are in trouble.
Major trouble.
Lots of folks deserve blame.
Ricky Williams and his happy camp and weed
can go rot in hell.

But they will be back within three years.
Three years.
But there ain't any guaranteeing that with pics of sexy cheerleaders.


Big Boy, Though?






It cannot hurt.




.

Clay's B-Day

It's my little bud's birthday today (5, I think).
Hell, I don't keep up with my age anymore, but at any rate, yeah, stuff.

So, I'm just going to blog the hell out of it today.

Maybe I'll get my contributer copies for another publication in the mail today.

Maybe it won't immediately embarrass me.


I can't remember who said it, or exactly how he or she said it, but it is 100% truth:

"As soon as you publish a piece, forget about it. Because as soon as you start looking back at it, the more you start to doubt it."

--Some Dude (paraphrased)

Mary loves the quotes, reminders of the craft spattered about her door.
Glue stains about Ms. O'Connor and David Lee Roth,
where the eyes and the ears and the heart fold palms and adjure
to learn of the shape and the scope of the days and days to come.


Hell, it's probably on her old oak door as I type this.


Then again:
Maybe I made up having read it/seen it/remembering it/recalling it/and trying
to write it out above..
I can't remember.

I have early Alzheimer's.
Or something.
I think I've bled too much in my youth to sustain this.
I'm rambling again.
Google's giving me nothing on the quote.
But damn it, I think I read it somewhere.
Kooser's Book, perhaps?
I read a bit at work, when the books're used,
and no one's gonna jump my shit.
I didn't care $15 bucks worth for what I read.
Amazon's probably got it for like seven-plus-tax.
uhhh. . . .yep.
But I'm poor.
I'm cheap.
It's in the queue as I'm in the queue.

Devour.





Big Boy is closer to 15--a year or two this way or that.
He, like I, cannot remember as well as we used to.

Big Boy Hears A Tiny Hoo!

Big Boy Ate The Cheeto

This is Big Boy.

Big Boy Ate The Cheeto.