Fiction Fragment from a Novel I'm Writing

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We could of all been mean and selfish about this wild fire of law enforcement that put all of us together in a syphlitic make-do world in rural West Virginia. The 1980s did us all in, and in the late 90s we wound up living all close together on the same dirt road. But we're not too down about it.


Sharing music among friends is redeeming. No matter where you sing. Some nights Rosie takes out her violin and lays down a clutch of partitas by Bach. She's no slouch about the things for which she keeps the passion, and some of her perfomances put the shadow of J.S. Bach in Rosie and my living room, listening proudly with his feet comfy in the chicken shit and straw.

Clyde Smith was pretty sharp on our spinnet piano, sort of a jazz standard machine from the cold war era, and when Bonnie sang along, it was hard to fathom that trained and lovely voice coming from a woman who might resemble Joe Stalin if she grew a mustache. You can see how any place can seem like middle America when music is part of the daily routine. It says everything about the natural goodness in people.

Appealing and Squealing

In the world of fund raising, an appeal is performed after someone gives money to the organization. It is a second request, for more money, because though that which was already given was received like people being pleasured, a circumstance arose requiring that more dough is requested. This post is different. It is a appeal to people who haven't ponied up squat, and I know you didn't, because it's just me at this little round up here. You haven't bought my book, "An O.K. Corral of Poems," and you should. Just hit the button to your left and play ball.

Last week there were two local news articles, at least, in which the hurd of nonprofit cultural oganizations got their chance to bemoan the recession of 2009.
I've been making a shit storm about independent artists, we who don't get tax incentives, you can't write little me off on your income tax forms, oh, no, any financial support you waft my was is simple free enterprise, my book of poems for your greenbacks by wire. Why the lowest earning, dirt poorest men (some of us) have been cut out of public funded programs! Squeek!