Monday Morning Minutes, of a damn writer

With much hesitation I wake up and start another week on my book. It’s proving very difficult to get motivated right now as I’ve hit that wall so to speak. Thousands of hours and I don’t want to do it anymore. I want to be normal or something, whatever that means. A normal life, how absurd. I just feel old and alone even though I’m not. But these are young man concerns and this damn operation has been my decision and nobody held a gun to me and said write write write. Nobody said you have to be a writer, they actually pleaded with me to stop.

It’s a life, and it’s a book, and I guess that’s what writing a book is like. A book is life and life isn’t easy and when you come to the end of one you’re tired like you’re an old fisherman that nobody listens to, and you just want to forget about all the time you put into something that’s not really real and focus on real life. But then again, the book is real, isn’t it? It’s a picture with words of what I saw even if it wasn’t there, and it’s what I did with myself and what I chose to do. It’s what I saw and made up and it’s a little bit of every one of you who have ever read this blog.The book matters, and soon I leave that up to the world. Small sentences have to be fixed and the final draft should be relatively simple, like a small check up, a post surgical examination if you will.

I took it easy and got a real good sleep. I’m still tired and my back hurts, old man problems and even my fingers are strained as well as my right eye which seems to be getting a bit lazy these days because of the size of my monitor and perhaps the wrong prescription of the lenses in my glasses. That reminds me, I need get a small computer in the future. This computer is designed for entertainment and I don’t see the computer as entertainment anymore, it’s my canvas and my work station and I don’t even like being in the same room as it anymore when I’m not working on whatever my book is on. That’s just me.

Warming up my fingers with this and cutting my nails taking a shower being alone in the dark and I think, I think too damn much about words I don’t even know yet. This book is a burden and I am a burden. I don’t know really but I’m going to finish it soon and then I’ll go back and focus on life and think about where to go next. I have this book and then a flask of gin and a town of a lake. Maybe what I’ve done is prepared to grow up and move back to more focused adult stories that are minimal on the personal level but not as far out there as the fear and the going. I created one strange story, and I tried to make it fun and weird for the reader, a challenge for everyone, and sometimes I tried too much to do something with so little. I like the minimal and long sentences and figuring out who the hell I am in this world that seems so strange, but the world… I don’t know what the world wants ha. I know that I’m not very happy right now but I’m a writer and a writer has to finish his books before he can start living again. I cant wait to start living and feeling young again. Right now I feel like the cold front that has circled in the Midwest. Hopefully like the summer, the spirit that never leaves me and pushes me until the end will come back. Hopefully I’ll be allowed a damn vacation soon. Ha.

So with that said here’s to another week. I’ll drink a swell of my coffee to all the writers and books sellers and artists of the written word, for how strange of a badly defeated war we continue to fight, but well, at least it can be damn funny at times.



Saturday night/sunday morning notes/July Draft Pages 2 of 2


Last night I had some fun and I woke up not feeling so good. The best way to get rid of a long island iced T hangover if you can is to sleep fifteen plus hours. When you wake up you’re like a bear and just hungry. Think I’m taking this round and week off from fun and writing and working unless I get the urge for a last call kinda stroll. This feels like a good night for writing for some reason so tap tap tap…


It’s a break time and so I’m drinking coffee smoking a smoke looking at stars and working and finishing up one of my books. I’m thinking about good things and bad things and the fall, because it’s one of those lonely nights that you need every once in a while. These are the strange times that are made and perfect for being a writer. This is what it’s all about, and I don’t have time to explain that right now but it probably doesn’t matter either way. As most things in life go, everything is based on been there done that and that’s what my words try to give people usually, the experience that is the same in retrospect of being there without being there. I don’t know but who really does, and as they say, you’ll probably only know what I mean if you know what I mean…


the going


‘I’m With Them’

This is a draft page from my collection that will be out in the fall. I did a video recording of it on the streets of Chicago but I had to sell my mobile device so I only have this audio recording. As it’s, well now yesterday, the birthday of Hunter S. Thompson, this is read in his name for all he stood against in the name of decency. Below the audio recording you will find the text. It is a draft. Thank you.

kid kid


Another name. Another word. Another tenor warms those two cold lips, places them to the metal duck piece, as the drum beat slowly rips apart the ears without regret.

And…just…great, and this is the greatest of all great lost generations, because they’re lost in front of everyone who cares to pay attention to that which is not, themselves.

Another night. Who knows what word I should use, because really it doesn’t matter. The whole house is shaking, and you can hear it all the way up here, three stories up.

Windows rattle and nails much too long bitten like a mouse eating crackers in cupboard, and damn, how can you get any work done? And silence? Never.

Awoken by an entire band playing, from the foes that push you to the breaking point and ask why, why, how come, you and you, and what, only silence, from you, not them; the voices always ask you why, as oh what’s the use I said as I pretend to be helpless with shrugged shoulders and more yelling and snap; how dare you speak up for yourself?

How dare they, ask me these questions that are none of their business. A fire in my eyes and waiting for me to fall into their grasp, and I want to fall, but love keeps me in-line… for a while…until… that is, I can no longer feel the aimless shame of their clumsy hell.

And I wake up, finally I’m here, silence, and it’s three a.m., and I feel this burden of art, because spring is coming and the old work must be done.

Work until sunrise and go to bed for a few and I know that I’m going to have to leave soon. Pressure seeping through my veins like maple syrup collected into buckets to serve for tasty treats, and only another rare form of entertainment. Only an overdose of sugar so stamina is stored for the trap to be built for me to fall into when they want to catch a lion, again.

Fuzzy hands and fuzzy mind, and it took all day to be able to get myself to do this, and the vocal chords shout on the same cliff where Jesus tempted the Devil. Just like our history, everything has always been mixed up. Nobody knows what happened to whom anymore. Well, not really anyway.

Days and the organization of my failed dreams all damn day. Sweeping and returning and swearing as I hit toes on corners of wood doors that plotted my stubbing before I was even born. Ha. They’ve been waiting…

And I was looking at piles of neatly stacked papers and folders full of editing proofs. My office is as neat as a rose garden, and now it’s once again the night and the box-score keepers have all went to bed, and so none of it matters for a while, at least while, they sleep.

The light and the full moon of dark eyes, the athleticism of the spectator with this onslaught of sports, the of this versus, the of that, and this lame circular argument that speculates and constantly worries about who’s winning? And well, who is winning? Do you know Andrew the kid said after he walked in my house yelling that he was going to kill him some cops because they arrested his girlfriend for being a spoiled child.

He asked me the score of us vs. society. I said, I’m not us, and that, I don’t care. I’m not keeping score, and can you hear that? No, there’s nothing, and at last… thank goodness, and I say that stuttered sigh of relief because finally the Greek legends and the Roman Empire, this hip fucking counter culture and the self-proclaimed delusion of this art renaissance; oh man at last they have all grown tired and fallen…dead weights…always, but now, they don’t speak.

All the conditions of what I have never been and will always be not that… On and on and the conversation gets too boring for me to even feel the need to argue against or for, myself or you, neither the left nor, the wrong.

All of these screeching slow tires and slow record players over and over playing forever all of these buzz words; an infinite loop of reverberating mix downs of hot sheets of useless excuses for the terminology of what people do when they are waiting for their lunch break. All of this chit-chat and this, is, what you are. The talking about fringe mathematicians and the supposed dilemma of the cursed writer, or so says David Foster Wallace, that the shame of looking naïve in a knowledge based world is just too much for the wordsmith to handle, therefore bypassing the search for forgiveness altogether in exchange for having sex, and on, and on and on oh let Christ down from heaven already, because so there you go, there’s the score. Class is dismissed. You can pick up the degree of your choosing by the garbage dump, and please remember, to pay the bank teller, she’s a real slut.

BELL-BELL, and like I said, try to remember to keep calm, because of course I’m only joking Mr. President. I’m Only talkin’ bout’ my generation, about my children’s generation, one in the same and just more of the same, more simulations and small town freaks, the class of what you would call, the students of the savage and doomed. The spread is infinite, the losers don’t have a chance, and I got straight As when it comes to the understanding of this: You know, that I’m fucked for life. Oh well, and so CLAP-CLAP; I might as well get this show on the road, because as some have said, and so it goes, and what is that, this thing that goes? It’s this constant fight with death, in a postmodern world. And huh, yeah, and well this is what He said. I can only say, I guess, because I’m with them, the doomed.

Bed night and death time, well who knows and Yawn…and I don’t have time to argue against the dead, because the ones that are living are waiting for me to speak up and go, go, go, to go and to do, everything that is, new.

One day before I die I was told that I will say that I was the author who wrote the new book of glamour for the postmodern darlings. The ghosts of the modern, the pre-modern and the barbaric with a smidgen of wine from the region of champagne with a side of drenched dying flowers in oil and vinaigrette eaten around folks with such great importance and class speaking such fine echoes of a lost tribe, and one belonging to an era long dead that was said to be so-so-fucking romantic and beat maybe even dare we say, existential.

The book is burned before the end appears, and wishing upon a star and born from the platonic European now writing in the Midwest and skimmed by the sons and daughters of computer game winners; all of these books heralded as classics that will be read in universities and are said to hold the truth of my future dreams that are falling back down to earth and read as far away as who has the time to figure any of this out?

Being read for free and for what this is worth my words have begun to spread all the way towards the bottom of the oceans where the web of digital insomniacs can be heard screaming out loud, but in silence nobody hears the hatred of such absurdly placed telephone wires. Who’s winning? I don’t know. The game? Who knows? But were just about all out of time.

Can you hear that? No? It’s the sound of such delightful sounds—-and without warning, the curtain closes.

You hear that? Nothing. The young philosophers and the wives of future doctors and lawyers have fallen asleep.

Ha, and he was yelling at me; told me that he was going to kill him some cops.

I said bullshit, because it was bullshit. Kid aint going to kill any cops. Kid aint going to do anything about anything. He’s with me, and I’m with…remember? Yeah, the doomed.


(From Books That I purchased at one of my favorite places in reality called Myopic Books.  This is a WordED MIX TAPE. As always, click on picture for larger )



Critics and literary historians who predicted a fresh impulse to come from the generation returning in 1945 from the Second World War were therefore disappointed. Their error lay in the shortsighted notion that as the first war had produced a lost generation and a literary revival, a second war would repeat and produce another. Sober second thought brought the realization that the generation of the fifties was, in training and temperament, almost the reverse of that of the twenties. It had nothing to revolt against except revolt. Born into a world which apparently was already falling apart, it was not interested in destructive attacks upon any rigid systems of value or forms of expression. The revolt of the lost generation had been all too successful. Mere survival now dictated constructive effort or resignation to fate. To accentuate this trend toward conservatism, many of the older critics and writers were teaching the arts of poetry, drama, and fiction in the universities, and others were held up as models for imitation. Henry James, Hemingway, and Faulkner supplied the standards for fiction, Eliot for poetry, O’Neill for drama. A feeling had grown up that there are right ways and wrong ways of shaping style and structure and fixed standards and methods by which a work of art might be examined and judged. Summer conferences spread from coast to coast, giving employment and a fee to critics and writers and providing them with a forum and a following. At the same time professionalism was once more taking over popular literature as mass production in radio, television, movies, and paper-back books enormously increased the available public for literature but discouraged careful and thoughtful reading. Thus, as popular taste tended to become standardized on one level, cultism and retreat into esoteric forms and modes tended to standardize cultivated taste on another. Writers who attempted to strike out in their own directions were pulled toward one of these norms or the other. The split be- tween the “High-brow” and the “Low-brow” that Van Wyck Brooks had deplored in the late nineteenth century writers seemed to be opening once more. F. O. Matthiessen wrote just before his death in 1950, “American poetry in these years furnished the most serious evidence of cleavage between what we have learned to call mass civilization and minority culture.” To a somewhat lesser degree the same thing might be said of fiction and drama. Conformity had seized the mass; convention had taken a firmer hold on the culture. 


“Each moment is the fruit of forty thousand years. The minute-winning days, like flies, buzz home to death, and every moment is a window on all time.” 

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