I’ve changed my mind.

Rather bang rocks together, pucker my lips and make spittle than work on a writer’s page, even though I heard “that’s what you have to do these days.” I’d rather make soup from my underwear and slurp it. My phishing scheme (which amounts to holding up a plate of my own dingleberries and expecting applause) would be weak regardless. Whittling and being despised is preferable. I’d be able to continue taking the piss without selfie pressure and getting the sole of my sneaker smeared with dilutional mediocrity you see piles of on the sidewalk thee days. So back to the roots: Scrawling on the walls of rest rooms with magic marker.

I feel better already.


What I smelled was what you stepped in before getting in the reception line. Thanks for coming, thanks for coming, shit on your shoe, Charlie, thanks for coming, Tracked it all the way to the coffin, before taking the pint of Old Crow out of your back pocket and laying it on his chest. You knew it was half empty, right? Would have said nice touch if we hadn't been friends for so long.


The egg yolk broke when he cracked it on the side of the frying pan. Little piece of shell landed in the white. Whole thing sizzled. Cook flipped it with his spatula, shoveled it onto the toast and tapped the bell.
Woman looked down and yelled, Need more goddamn home fries over here, George. Short changed me, you asshole.
No, she yelled it. They knew her, I guess.
Then she had a hard time with the ketchup bottle. Turned the bottle over, pounded the base. Ended up raking around inside with a knife until it all fell out at once, like after birth. Swirled her potatoes through it all then closed her mouth around the sandwich. Orange yolk ran down her chin, in and around her whiskers, onto her green Packers jersey right when the waitress slid the second plate of home fries all cozy beside the first.



Hidden in the Mountains of East Tennessee, eleven-year-old Rodney goes about the business of being a boy during the summer of 1970. In the playground of his grandmother’s overgrown garden, he bears silent witness to the relentless cruelty of a teenage psychopath.


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It's 1982. Rodney Pepper, a socially inept college drop-out, heads to New Orleans seeking to engulf himself in despair and abject misery in the belief this will lead him to Wisdom. . . As he looks for work and moves between dilapidated downtown rooming houses, he is preyed upon by agents of the city’s underworld and bears witness to ancient buccaneering atrocity. 

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Doctor Stories

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Stories of Mayhem

Collage Fiction

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Bringing to the public annotated editions of the most brilliant books of the past.

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