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Ought to have my ass kicked for tripping over some kick drum on a sunny and semi-spring Friday afternoon; right here in the Windy City. Trouble.

Truth be told…used to write to techno while sippin’ that Johnny Walker Black/Blue for hours. Occasionally for days. And I fess up to bruising both the booze and my blood flow, but I’m sure ya’ll know how that can go.

Which brings me to jumping on that no poetry wagon. Not true. I’m still, and will always be a rhymer. But the new bottom line is, I’m done posting new ones, initial, in the wild and on the Web.

In growing old. I’m growing full of myself, and think a few pieces of said poesy deserve to rest on a printed page.

Not to mention that SNZ is now in a rage about my failing to keep my promise to ISBN a collection of said eye rhymes..damn…a decade or more ago.

So there you go, and now you know.

And this site ain’t going anywhere…at least until the mid-terms are over, and relatively deep into the winter holidays. And I won’t revisit my other site options until after the aforementioned vote tally. Vote early and often.


Here’s some…old flash fiction…that, unlike the poesy, will most like come to rest in some digital paupers grave.

Three Flash Fictions

Team Noble

When the underdogs won the Iditarod, “Twin Peaks Priscilla,” an over the hill working girl from Nome, returned home with an avalanche of cash, two Husky puppies, and in lieu of slicing an old timer’s grubstake too thin, the deed to a played out goldmine.

Which upon further inspection promised to unearth vast quantities of another precious metal, which is why, a decade later, polite and gilded San Francisco High Society whispered, reverently, about “Platinum Priscilla.”

Lake Effect Snow Suite For Ukulele

Her “Lake Effect Snow Suite For Ukulele” sold well enough…for science fiction. At lunch her agent suggested a course correction. She agreed, calling back their waitperson, swapping and just on time, her Amish chicken for a polish sausage with Amber Ale Honey Mustard.

Three hours of lampshade and shoe shopping later she was having some serious sausage regrets. Leaving Lake Shore Drive, she turned onto Montrose, pulled into a strip mall, and parked in front of a convenience store hoping for quick over the counter relief. She walked into a robbery in progress and was killed unaware. She was the first of nineteen people to die during the incident.

Some suggested she was the catalyst. Her agent did. Her agent’s chronicle of the robbery-hostage situation-turned massacre, won a Pulitzer, had Hollywood producers bidding, and led to a long and lucrative “True Crime” career.

The agent and that lampshade…both shameless.

our thoughts go out to

The ad guy didn’t have a good year. His wife divorced him. His mistress dismissed him, and his only child returned from “The Front” in parts.

Unable to compose a pithy prayer or suicide note, and unable to laugh or get liquored up, he informed his clients that he was closing his agency.

He designs and writes sympathy cards now. The more maudlin, the merrier. He makes good money. He lives and drinks alone, excepting every Saturday night when the service sends over a woman. And they share snort after snort, and hoot after holler, as she sits bare-assed naked, riotously reading the very best of his past week’s work.

More Relaxing Than You Think


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