It's #SpokenSunday time. This is a piece that was inspired one cold afternoon last December. That said, "Bums Celebrate Christmas" can be found HERE.As always, follow the #SpokenSunday fun on Twitter.
NEW FICTION: Bourbon & Blondes has arrived!
From the bus stations of Rt. 66 to the smoky, neon-tinged jazz dives of the big cities, these wanton tales of longing introduce us to vixens on the fringe and those shifty men that drove them there.
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Watch: The 'Bourbon & Blondes' Book Trailer
Get your shot glass ready because you're about to enter a retro world of showgirls, drifters, barmaids and thieves.
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Watch: The 'Front Page Palooka' Book Trailer
Read the pulp novella that one reviewer called 'A potboiler in the style of old school writers like Mickey Spillane, Dashiell Hammett or Raymond Chandler...'
Showing posts with label #spokensunday. Show all posts
Showing posts with label #spokensunday. Show all posts
Monday, September 13, 2010
BUMS CELEBRATE CHRISTMAS (#spokensunday)
It's #SpokenSunday time. This is a piece that was inspired one cold afternoon last December. That said, "Bums Celebrate Christmas" can be found HERE.As always, follow the #SpokenSunday fun on Twitter.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Monday, August 9, 2010
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Thursday, April 29, 2010
TWO GUYS AND A FLASK (poem & podcast)
Please click play to enjoy an audio reading
TWO GUYS AND A FLASK
Inside a rundown trailer somewhere within
the steel-framed heartland, they drank
in the dark, these two guys and a flask.
Percy was sprawled on the stained couch,
while Hank sat slouched on the floor near
its torn arm. They both basked in the warm
comfort of their friendship and conversation.
In between long and peacefull lulls,
they chatted about their life, recalling
old girlfriends and cars and the
money and effort spent on each.
they sipped ...
and shared ...
and shared ...
and sipped...
these two guys and their flask.
A frigid breeze snuck in from under
the trailer door and Percy felt it.
The space heater, now in the corner,
was busted to shit after he kicked
it the other night after he found out
that she left him for good this time.
It's just as well, Percy told Hank.
She hated the trailer, their life
and just about everything in it.
While Percy missed her, he knew
it was right but it still made him feel
like a loser. He didn't have the guts
to tell Hank that he was scared
of being alone. All alone.
Who would want him now?
...so they sipped
and shared ...
and shared ...
and sipped some more...
The full moon barelled through an
uncovered window and it's gloom
captured Percy's old trophies.
Once majestic, they were now just
dusty figmants, clinging to life on
on the stage of a crickety shelf.
They were mostly old accolades
for fishing and football. Percy asked
Hank about one of those old high
school games and the two chatted
about cheerleaders and coaches and
how both made them feel so inadequate.
They shared and sipped again.
Hank, then, suddenly got quiet and
thought of his wife Nancy.
He told Percy that she was
a bitch. Always was.
He said that they were on the
verge of divorce and explained
how she hijacked his spirit and life
and that their love was really nothing
more than a deeply-infected wound.
When Percy asked what happened,
Hank explained that they each sold
the other a bill of goods that
simply wasn't delivered.
The two friends stared at the muted TV.
sipping and sharing,
sunken and drunken,
they went on all like this
all night...
These two guys and their flask.
"Two Guys and a Flask" by Anthony Venutolo is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License. Hosted by The Internet Archive, download MP3 here. Music by Val Blurock "Bluesy V" and provided by Jemendo. Wednesday, April 7, 2010
SUITCASES (poem & podcast)
Please click play to enjoy an audio reading
SUITCASES
I got the suitcases out
of the garage. I just
need the big black one.
Packing.
Gotta love it.
This is an important
trip. Lots riding on it.
I never quite got used to
the concept of flying.
I mean, I’m an old pro
by this point, but
it still fills me with
dread every time I see
those terminal signs pepper the
highway on my approach.
All sorts of fucked up shit
goes through my brain.
Is the pilot drunk?
How’s the weather?
Any engine troubles?
Five minutes before, we
board I pop open the
valium and - out like a light.
Almost four hours later, I’m
strapped into an excuse
of a seat with
the turbulence
taunting everyone.
Obviously, I’m a wreck.
My secret is to watch the
stewardesses. If
they look worried, I’m
fucked. We’re all fucked.
They’re the fail-safe.
Cutie-pies in the sky serving
coffee and a smile.
But soon, we land. And I
relax. Another notch.
We taxi in.
But then, I have to
find my suitcase.
And it begins
all over again.
of the garage. I just
need the big black one.
Packing.
Gotta love it.
This is an important
trip. Lots riding on it.
I never quite got used to
the concept of flying.
I mean, I’m an old pro
by this point, but
it still fills me with
dread every time I see
those terminal signs pepper the
highway on my approach.
All sorts of fucked up shit
goes through my brain.
Is the pilot drunk?
How’s the weather?
Any engine troubles?
Five minutes before, we
board I pop open the
valium and - out like a light.
Almost four hours later, I’m
strapped into an excuse
of a seat with
the turbulence
taunting everyone.
Obviously, I’m a wreck.
My secret is to watch the
stewardesses. If
they look worried, I’m
fucked. We’re all fucked.
They’re the fail-safe.
Cutie-pies in the sky serving
coffee and a smile.
But soon, we land. And I
relax. Another notch.
We taxi in.
But then, I have to
find my suitcase.
And it begins
all over again.
"Suitcases" by Anthony Venutolo is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License. Hosted by The Internet Archive, download MP3 here. Music by Distmia, track No. 5 "Cita Fallida" from the disc "Cuando la Ciudad Duerme," and provided by Jamendo. Sound effect "ArrivalAnnounced" provided by "acclivity" at the Freesound Project.Tuesday, December 1, 2009
I WEAR HIS JACKET (poem & podcast)
Please click play to enjoy an audio reading
I WEAR HIS JACKET
The military jacket was crumpled
in a sloppy ball on the floor of the
antique show that some chickadee
dragged me to.
After hours and hours and rows
upon rows of beat-to-shit furniture,
hat pins and jewelry boxes, I saw it,
this gorgeously authentic army jacket.
Laying there, musty and crinkled, I
tried it on and it was a perfect fit.
This was the real deal, not some
knockoff shit direct from Abercrombie
but a coat that evoked history.
From the tattered interior stitching
I'm guessing the coat was issued
during Korea or maybe even Vietnam.
The patch had the name 'HALL'
and I started to think about him.
Wearing it, not a day goes by where
I don't have questions like how many
offensives had he seen? Was he scared?
I think of the mud he crawled through.
I think of the horrendous rain this
coat must have endured and the
cigarettes he must have smoked during
those uncertain night patrols.
I wear his jacket and I think of the
dog he missed and that perfume
she used to wear on their dates
at the drive in that drove him crazy.
I think about his mom's reaction when
he told her that he enlisted and how
proud his dad secretly was that his boy
would finally be made a man by Uncle Sam.
I think of 'HALL' as I drive to work
and I do the math. He must have kids
around my age if he were still here.
I wonder if they think their dad was a hero?
I wear his jacket quite frequently now
and every time I get a compliment
for it, I think that yes, I wear 'Hall's'
jacket, but I could never fill his shoes.
"I Wear His Jacket" by Anthony Venutolo is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License. Hosted by The Internet Archive, download MP3 here. Music by Rhonda Lorence, track No. 11 "Trail of Tears" on the album "Movements in the Moment," and provided by Magnatune.
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