Excerpt from Unnamed Work in Progress...

“You need to get laid, my friend.”

Peter had had enough of my wistful staring. He was not buying me drinks to have me sit out the game.

“You offerin’?”

“Shit, I would if I thought it would help.”

“Sorry, Just thinky.”

“Let me guess: art stuff, right? Man, why can’t you just worry about the same stuff the rest of us do? You don’t say a word when you’re selling CDs for gas money, but heaven forbid we get a new Poet Laurette you don’t like, and you’re depressed for a fucking week.”

 “Laureate.”

 “What?”

 “It’s Poet Laureate.”

 “See, who cares? I think you’re an alien from the planet Photon or something. That would explain it, except you never have goodies like lasers or anything. What good is an alien with nothing to offer the good people of earth?”

The best question I’d heard in a while. It’s not just the culture of this country, but the race of beings currently at the helm at the rock as a whole. Product is everything. Screw creation in the shadows, and forget the future. It’s production logged and measured in units available to the public. It’s black and white, over the tender shoulder head shots on double-glossy business cards. Bob Rauch – Novelist. Roberto Mist, Esq. – Poet. The thought made me queasy and the truth of it made me head for the men’s. I passed under the neon that buzzed the same whether the evening was shaping up to be a win or loss for the nighthawks at the diner, the same it had since that night Spider John got crazy after his set and nailed it with a lowball glass. He doesn’t play her anymore. Maybe he got queasy, too, fed up with the kids talking over his songs and not listening to anything an alien like him might have to offer. Maybe he’s been hiding out here in the stall. Maybe its his spaceship. No, not tonight. Nothing but errant piss and toilet tags. Post-modern literature as deemed by the Council on Reversed Baseball Caps. I find myself searching it for real bits of wisdom underneath the bogroll, like looking in the mirror for signs of a hand well played. But until they show up, I'll wait. I'm patient. Aliens are patient. I'll keep looking. And one day I'll show up and I'll have it tucked in the palm of my hand. I'll wait until the band takes a break, because aliens are considerate, then I'll buy the bar a round. Peter'll set in, and that's when I'll whip it out. He'll think it's a joke, try to knock it away, but I will hold it up and he will see it is for the good people of earth and it will be shiny and the future and I'll make sure everyone sees the look on his face. I'll make sure everyone sees the look on his face when he notices it's set to kill.

Robots of Hamm

Robots enter and exit the bar across the street. Their Cylon sunglasses make them invincible. As they approach, the bored servers seem surprised at the business. They say nothing but do not like that they are not human.

Teenagers gather in the center of the plaza. They are tight and lanky and they smoke and glance to ensure they are doing it correctly. They sway from side to side as if it warms them, as if a rhythmic movement will attract something for them, anything at all that will justify their collective unconscious.


A hiker zigzags slowly through the courtyard. He has climbed mountains you and I don't like to think about. Has cooked vicious meals by yon river. Ashcan to ashcan with a walking stick, looking for something important we idiots have left behind.

He Wasn't a Man

He wasn't a man

if he didn't smoke in front of her.

Ike Reality Blues

a spontaneous poem. Enjoy

Ike Reality Blues

I like Ike Reilly really
but I can't imagine his eggs
scrambled at noon, that gaunt Irish mouth
screaming all broken teeth
and car bombs. His love of pop tarts
going down with his toast


I know he belongs to the sweltering evening
and his hollowpoint eyes are hungry
for the moment the moment
will fill him just one more time
with enough to make it to the finish line


first Vica and plastic and hip hop thighs
shot up through the alleys
of veins each one searching the puddles of scum
for the fountain of youth
something you can drink while your on your knees
that doesn't taste like it was 62


But he keeps running off sleep
like it's the devil or a god you trick
skating through discretion
and salesmen and jokes
and racists calling the shots you have to down
for street cred cum the morning burn


I've wanted Ike's cool wanted it for years
I thought I'd get some one night at the Ave
But he just kept pissing
and reading the walls
acknowledging that he was
completely alone

Tennessee Memory

When I visited my folks in TN this past March, I spent time on the porch with my Dad. He has emphysema, weighs about 130 pounds and still smokes Marlboros and drinks Diet Pepsi. He wanders the empty farm looking for projects to remind him he’s a man but that aren’t too strenuous for him. A few times he'd start something like fix a fence or clean the barn before exhaustion drove him back in the house to take a nap. 

One night we sat on the porch and we talked about his younger days. He was a wild child motorcycle cop in El Paso, Texas who used to drag race with his partner while on duty with my mom on the back. He picked up Little Richard one night for vagrancy. He took no shit from anyone, wonders why I would. I watched him wince for minutes on end at his hands, clenching and unclenching them like pliers. He confessed he doesn’t miss much about his youth. He’d had a pretty good one compared to many. I told him I bet it he missed dancing with the women at the bar. It was nice to see him smile.

I wish I had written this for my father. I think he wishes he’d written it for his.

Whiskeytown beat us to it.

New Piece over at Berg-Gasse 19

"Overtime."
A minimalist vignette.
Rejected as a bad poem at one journal.
Understood and published at this one.

http://berg-gasse19.com/2011/04/14/overtime/

A Question for You

You could see it as a debilitating sickness. Or. You could see it as an opportunity to slow down and organize. This last week I contracted a bad cold or some such which has slowed my thinking and moving to a crawl. Very frustrating to someone who tends to ride the carousel of his artistic ADD like a manic 6-year old nature spirit. Part of this time has been spent looking at how I spend my time creating, the directions in which I expend this energy, and the deep, real reasons I create and share.

This is where you come in...

I have had this blog for some time. Initially it was used as an immediate venue for creative writing, not having the patience to submit, wait, file the rejection slip, and start over. I wanted to create and share, then move on to the next thing. As time has progressed, I am submitting more and getting published more, which has forced me to rethink the role of this blog.

So, I have decided to do what I haven't seen other bloggers do: Ask you, followers of this blog what YOU want to see. What would keep you coming back? In short, what would be worth your time to visit and read?

• More introspection on the world around us?
• Reviews of local lit, readings, publications, websites?
• My own works, for critique before submitting them for publication?
• Something completely different?

Post your suggestions as comments to this post, or feel free to email me at michael at thedayonfire dot com.

 I will take your suggestions seriously and hopefully start soon with a new focus for this online journal of thoughts. I thank you for being interested in what I have to say, and appreciate your input on how it should look moving forward.

Cheers, Michael