I scored a new placement for my books.
Both of them. I’m
rather excited about this,
I’m telling you about it.
and you read.
and you listen.
and you sing to me.
you eventually show me
in words, songs, and body language
what I need to
And if in case you hadn’t heard, I live in Houston, Texas. Moved here in January of the year of our Monkey 2017. So it ain’t been that long since I’ve been here. This cool little book & record store on Dunlavy and Westheimer in the heart of Montrose decided that both BEER SONGS FOR THE LONELY and GOOD FEELING SEVEN SHORT STORIES should live within their walls.
That makes me happy.
Please read my books.
Please tell me what you think.
Even if it’s something close to: Fuck you Asshole for writing this fucking Shit and bothering to get it printed on perfectly good paper that could have been used for something useful!
Though obviously, I would rather you tell me I’m a genius 🙂
WIRED UP has very few books on their shelves, and they decided to carry my books. That’s really cool, and it makes me very happy… feeling funny inside like I’ve just eaten a huge breakfast and I now get to hang out on a park bench on a sunny day.
I bought a copy of ROMMEL DRIVES ON DEEP INTO EGYPT (Heartworm Press 2016), by Richard Brautigan, at the book store in question while I was filling out the consignment paperwork. This collection by Brautigan was out of print for years. I found out about it a couple of weeks ago when I first visited Wired Up, and I’ve been thinking about it since. So now I own it.
Life is really cool sometimes.
Here’s the first poem in the book:
ROMMEL DRIVES ON DEEP INTO EGYPT
—San Francisco Chronicle Headline
June 26, 1942
Rommel is dead.
His army has joined the quicksand legions
of history where battle is always
a metal echo saluting a rusty shadow.
His tanks are gone.
How’s your ass?
WIRED UP doesn’t really have a digital address, so you’ll have to travel to the Montrose neighborhood in Houston, Texas to visit them. They’re on Facebook, I was told, however I deactivated my account the other day, so you’ll have to find them on your own. I kind of like them a lot. They’re my kind of place. They’re my kind of people. I feel good there. It’s like, when I’m inside that bookstore, I don’t want to blow my brains. That’s a good feeling.
In the mean time, here are three REALLY BAD poems I just wrote while sipping on some martinis down the street from my studio:
THERE’S MORE TO IT
It’s been a rough few weeks.
Heck, make that a rough few months,
you know what I mean?
These are my years spilling down the pipes.
And what I need is a gin martini.
Two olives, please. And please,
please, stir that motherfucker
because shaking ain’t the way it’s done.
And, yes, yes, bartender,
I want vermouth and two olives.
What was I saying?
I don’t know what I was saying.
People using words at random almost,
pulling shit out of their noses
And that’s the reason, at least today,
that it feels like
I’ve got my panties on backwards.
AT THE BAR DOWN THE STREET
All these other people
they know how to talk
to each other. Shit.
I’ve never figured that out.
What do they talk about?
Oranges, apples, hand-jobs
and quantum physics?
butterflies fluttering up their own assholes
digging toward China with shovels and pickaxes,
farting out the weather
discussing parallel universes
and space travel
through worm holes
as well as the start of the next World War?
I don’t know.
I don’t get it.
Can you just hold my hand, please?
And shut the hell up?
While I close my eyes and dream
of butterflies making love in Mandarin?
In the early evening
I think about
taking a shit.
I’m a romantic at heart.
PEACE AND LOVE,