“Your mother sucks cocks in Hell, Karras, you faithless slime.”

Possessed gals say the sweetest things…

Happy Halloween, folks.

(more…)

Some lives need editing. I was 20 when it started and almost 22 when it ended. My Old Gringos lasted just long enough, worn through to where I would quite literally toe the line. It was about zipping through the days at lightning speed, plugging in, flushing out and firing the feed. That old dilemma, responsibility, was about to begin, and I had no Mrs. Robinson (yet). Dawn until dusk was spent in Faulkner, Friction and Fiction. The twilight was for far away girls and Memphis nights. I was cocky for lack of a better attitude; I paraded like a peacock with a small handheld tape deck, a personal mix turning the spools. But a nice morning in the library was never far off. It all may have made more sense if Keith Richards’s autobiography was on the shelves then; perhaps I would’ve switched my major to something more “practical” (no offense). I wasn’t thinking much of Jane Austen then, but these days I apply her proofreading skills to my reels. After all, who doesn’t want more editing? Ben Greenman is ready to talk about the job. Jonny Franzen had a “delightful” meeting with President Obama (note how Franzen is listed under “Celebrities”), but check out Sarfraz Manzoor’s interview with JF on, among other issues, liberal America.

Would my editor fire me for voicing opinions like his? WorldHum remembers the first travelogue, The Odyssey. God is dead brain matter: here’s a review of my book club’s next assignment, and don’t worry, Jay-Z won’t step into the mothership. Rip these joints.

Just to let you know
I finally got the window open,
now all these screams come in,
++and red air
bearing dragonflies

when I said before, “It ain’t summer
if you can’t lie awake at night
with the windows open,”
I must’ve been living in a cold climate

you’d think I had icebergs in my veins

now I’m pretty melted—
it’s all solar tears
shining from my eyes,
a blinding white wall,

the longer time goes on
stranger the memories become,
a cat waking from a dream
++in a darkened room

one has me on Banba’s shore
inside a drizzly pub,
a small hit of hash
through a clay pipe

the rough coast

an empty apartment
viewed through a partly opened door,

you know, I can’t help thinking
it’s like it all never existed,
and now you’re getting translucent—
will you too really fade?

++++++++++++Love,

_______________________________

Michael S. Begnal is the author of three poetry collections: Ancestor Worship (Salmon Poetry, 2007), Mercury, the Dime (Six Gallery Press, 2005), and The Lakes of Coma (Six Gallery Press, 2003). Recent work has appeared in journals such as Notre Dame Review, Poetry Ireland Review, Natural Bridge, Free Verse, and BlazeVOX. His blog is: www.mikebegnal.blogspot.com

Another video from Mr. Bosworth. In today’s installment, Mel reads from Christy Crutchfield’s “The Benefits of Deer Hunting.”