i was drunk and no one could tell me otherwise and i played catch with myself and my rawlings glove

97 days until pitchers and catchers


the unknown truth about us and paul simon

three guys sat at a bar
and talked about how they were the coolest hipsters on the scene
they were unknown writers, knew their shit
and could converse with anyone about lou gehrig to the string theory

the bartender came by and asked them what they were talking about
"just how we are the coolest hipsters on the scene," one said
"i can see you brought your fan club," the bartender replied
as he looked around and saw no one around them
"see she doesn't even know!" he said

"exactly, how many people would play diamonds on the soles of her shoes
by paul simon in an irish pub besides us?" i replied


you can bring me flowers

just because your beautiful doesn't make you interesting
inhale the atmosphere of people being different
figure out there is no connection
no truth and meaning to life

just take in the simplicities
read a book
go to a baseball game and eat a hot dog and stand
and stretch during the seventh inning stretch
lay in the grass in a park on your vacation
a piece of key lime pie

or learn how to play the kuzoo


the weekly shower


this afternoon i was showering with my old lady
she looked at me and laughed and said
"baby you can't be as old as you are."
"why," i replied
"because you're such a kid." she said
and i drifted off to trading baseball cards again
riding my bike down to woodards pond,
comic books, passing notes to girls in class,
rollerskating on saturday night
and riding in the backseat of mom's brown chevrolet
and dad turning up the radio to an old buddy holly tune

i laughed and lathered up


if i'd have worn a different shirt i'd have been in the picture

light the candles and flash the camera
flip over the matchbook and jot a number down
rumage into your front left pocket of your off plaid pearl snap shirt
and dig out your lucky strikes
you'll have a vodka cranberry as dinner

with this you're just out of the frame


a novel sitting on the nightstand

pierced and tattooed
bare feet in blue jeans with sliver polished toes
she reads a worn down paperback novel in bed
and drinking something out of a straw

she keeps peering over her book at me
then back to her book
the perfect arch conforming gently against the arm of the couch
she keeps staring at me over the worn down paperback novel

not being able to focus on my short stories by paul bowles
asking if she's read any of his other novels
one thing leads to another
falling back after relieving the stress in both of us
i start to drift off

still seeing those sliver toes propped over my shoulders
and that tom robbins novel sitting on the nightstand


smoking procedures

there are 73 of us that work in the bookstore
31 of us smoke
24 of us don't
and 18 of us smoke on occasion generally after we've been drinking

the 31 that smoke must go outside
for there is no smoking in the bookstore
somedays its cold and the smokers must put on a coat
and scarf and brave the cold

the 24 of us that don't smoke tell
the 18 of us that smoke on occasion
when their walking past the window
that they must be thinking to themselves

i'm glad i haven't had a few drinks


i thought only mighty mouse could save the day

a man in maine was returning home from the store at dusk
when two men armed with knives approached him
and demanded his wallet
he refused and one of the men jabbed a pocket knive at his smomach

the man being assalted used a milk jug as a shield
the knife pierced the plastic milk jug
and the assailant retreated
the man then whacked him on the head with the quickly emptying jug

the two men fled the scene in a car
and the man walked peacefully home
thinking of mighty mouse
and how a gallon of milk saved his life

he laughed out loud and said
"i guess milk does do the body good"


if a few words would have been different

for as long as he could remember he'd been writing his whole life for this chance
from the months leading up to the judges letting the rest of the literary world
know the three finalists and the moment the winner was announced, victor tremont
did more than write his way into history.

junius worth, one of three finalists,
suffered a set back known by many literary figures before him.
for victor tremont, then a 32-year-old author, writing "jesus rides beside me but
doesn't buy any smokes," meant winning the pulitzer prize for fiction in 1997. but for junius worth, his book "all i gots two fives," about a bartenders exploits of banging waitresses in public restrooms--left him an entirely different legacy.

those who knew him say he never recovered from missing the pulitzer that fateful year because he was never nominated again. mr. worth was a "wordsmith, his prose was only matched by hemingway in this century,: said mr. dillard, a literary critic for over 35 years. " but
that particular year he, along with the other finalists were over shadowed by mr. tremonts book. which happens to be the best novel in the last 15 years."

his wife, abbey, attributes not winning that year "an accident of timing, a twist of fate," he always said. he had been writing his whole life for that moment. "it was my best work. but i didn't get it."

he was a perfectionist, enslaved to details and committed to writing several hours a day.
he often told his wife, "life is all about timing." through the years he wrote several great short story books and did win the flannery o'conner award for short fiction in 1993 with a book titled
"wait just a second i've got correct change and other stories." but like many writers winning
the pulitzer would valadate his career.

his publisher remembers that, right after reading the book, he said, "this is the one that could take the pulitzer," and it was and still is a great book.

but from that moment on, mr. worth "was never quite the same, and never has as much confidence in himself," says his wife, who descibes him as "feeling let down. by fate. timing, i guess. after losing he felt like, why have i woked and struggled so hard to finally get the book written and then not get it?"

his editor remembers mr. worth as being "bitterly disappointed...that he didn't get more recognition. but mr. tremont's book is clearly the better book. things like that happen in this business, but he just couldn't deal with it." mr. tremont says, he wrote the "perfect" book, "and you have to give him credit for that."

obviously, mr. tremont's is judged to be better by all standards, and that's a shame because mr. worths book was and is great.

john mcknight agrees. he had been a pulitzer juror before, "if i would have been judging that year i would have been tempted to give a double award,: he says.
"both once in a lifetime books."

but mr. worth never felt redeemed. he died with a depression that went untreated. and wht? was he depressed? his wife claims, "it was mostly due to not winning the award that year."

the once-eager writer became a man with "no drive," she says. instead of writing being the passion it always was, it quickly became "just a job." a tendency toward being insane grew worse and worse by the year. "junius somehow felt god cheated him," she says.

whatever the cause, in the years after finding out he didn't win. he alwaysw had a complex. he drank harder, and chain smoked. mr. tremonts book was sought after from all over the world. and published in fourteen languages. and he made a lot of money. junius just had to sit back and take it, never fully compreding, i suppose, that it was merely timing, and there was nothing he could do about it. mr. worth was this great prose writer who took writing seroiusly. this was his way of life. he truly was a great writier.

mr. tremont has gotten to revel in his newfound celebrity. but after his book won, he found each book being judged by a harsher standard. every book he wrote was measured against fictions ultimate award and his first book. he estimates he has made tens of thousands of dollars off the book and was optioned for a movie. and he signed a new three book deal.

just a few months have passed since the mentally depressed junius worth "completely lost it" and shot himself with a rifle just as, hemingway, the man they compared his prose to did in 1961.