It's quite a juggling act lately between work, writing and I am sure there should be a third thing here since I have never seen anyone juggle two things, but I am not recalling it at this moment. Give me a sentence or two and something should come to mind.

I have been trying to take some time to read what I consider classics.. which consists of anything by Vonnegut or Bukowski and now I find myself with one more ball in the circus act, Hunter Thompson. I am reading a collection of letters, Fear and Loathing in America, right now, and I must say that I feel a bit of a voyeur. Oh well, nothing I can do about it right now. It may be that mutated American inbreeding that makes me want to subscribe to the National Enquirer and follow ambulances to car wrecks on 435 that keeps me reading these letters. Hey! There's my third ball!

So I plug away on this writing gig thing that ensures that I am still in need of a day job. I have actually been writing with pen and paper and will eventually type it out. There is a method to my madness in this, meaning: In typing my written words I am able to edit on the fly. I have eliminated one of very few, if any, edits in hopes of actually having a finished product ready for self publication, or dare I say, an offer of money, a personal jet, assault weapon and microwave popcorn.---I will supply the microwave---

So off I go, for now, to eat, drink a bit of Jamesons, read and write. I will also do whatever menial task my lovely wife asks of me...

It's quite a juggling act lately between work, writing and I am sure there should be a third thing here since I have never seen anyone juggle two things, but I am not recalling it at this moment. Give me a sentence or two and something should come to mind.

I have been trying to take some time to read what I consider classics.. which consists of anything by Vonnegut or Bukowski and now I find myself with one more ball in the circus act, Hunter Thompson. I am reading a collection of letters, Fear and Loathing in America, right now, and I must say that I feel a bit of a voyeur. Oh well, nothing I can do about it right now. It may be that mutated American inbreeding that makes me want to subscribe to the National Enquirer and follow ambulances to car wrecks on 435 that keeps me reading these letters. Hey! There's my third ball!

So I plug away on this writing gig thing that ensures that I am still in need of a day job. I have actually been writing with pen and paper and will eventually type it out. There is a method to my madness in this, meaning: In typing my written words I am able to edit on the fly. I have eliminated one of very few, if any, edits in hopes of actually having a finished product ready for self publication, or dare I say, an offer of money, a personal jet, assault weapon and microwave popcorn.---I will supply the microwave---

So off I go, for now, to eat, drink a bit of Jamesons, read and write. I will also do whatever menial task my lovely wife asks of me...

Parent of the Year

(or, making beer money with dad)

CRACK!

I never saw the old man

move that fast.

I mean, one minute he's 

holding a cue, the next

he's hitting this poor mark
with 18 oz of wood
on the side of the head.

That poor guy didn't see

it coming.

Hell, I didn't see it

coming.

"C'mon, we gotta go,"

I tell my dad as he is grabbing the guys money

off the table.

I pull dad along as stunned,

angry,

rednecks 

start to head our way.

Okay, let me tell you, 

I thought I was dead, 

or at best 

left in a coma

if we didn't leave. 

If he weren't my dad

I would have left him.

I  know any other

hustling,

drunk,

septuagenarian

would have died that night.

I pushed the old man

into the Cordoba,

prayed it would 

start. (it did)

We peeled away, 

no headlights in the 

rear view.

"How much did we make?"

I asked.

"$40.00."

The rest of the ride home

was silent.

All I could think was,

"What kind of parent 

hustles pool with his 

kid?"

Parent of the Year

(or, making beer money with dad)

CRACK!

I never saw the old man

move that fast.

I mean, one minute he's 

holding a cue, the next

he's hitting this poor mark
with 18 oz of wood
on the side of the head.

That poor guy didn't see

it coming.

Hell, I didn't see it

coming.

"C'mon, we gotta go,"

I tell my dad as he is grabbing the guys money

off the table.

I pull dad along as stunned,

angry,

rednecks 

start to head our way.

Okay, let me tell you, 

I thought I was dead, 

or at best 

left in a coma

if we didn't leave. 

If he weren't my dad

I would have left him.

I  know any other

hustling,

drunk,

septuagenarian

would have died that night.

I pushed the old man

into the Cordoba,

prayed it would 

start. (it did)

We peeled away, 

no headlights in the 

rear view.

"How much did we make?"

I asked.

"$40.00."

The rest of the ride home

was silent.

All I could think was,

"What kind of parent 

hustles pool with his 

kid?"

Death of Radio

Flipping through the stations

like a radio telescope 

looking for some distant

alien 

noise.

The alien noise is here!

Wrapped in Taylor Swift,

Mouseketeer teen angst, 

or the next American Idol.

Gone are the days

of walking this way,

slow rides in Kashmir

all the while getting

no satisfaction.

Feeling pretty vacant

I look for a free ride

while everyday 

I write the book.

Oh well, 

Pandora it is....

Death of Radio

Flipping through the stations

like a radio telescope 

looking for some distant

alien 

noise.

The alien noise is here!

Wrapped in Taylor Swift,

Mouseketeer teen angst, 

or the next American Idol.

Gone are the days

of walking this way,

slow rides in Kashmir

all the while getting

no satisfaction.

Feeling pretty vacant

I look for a free ride

while everyday 

I write the book.

Oh well, 

Pandora it is....

Round 2

Round 2

has me stuck in memory, 

re-living, past forgotten,

some sort of

psycho analysis,

repressed memory 

therapy.

All these memories,

living just under the surface, 

little friends,

little demons,

little tormentors

scratching under 

the icy surface

of my frozen soul

that is thawing, 

exposing

what I thought drowned.

Danger Thin Ice!

Poetic self help

of a prophecy 

yet unfulfilled. 

Open wounds of

old

scar 

tissue

never healed,

a plastic surgery, 

a Botox injection

to give, once again

an expressionless face 

to pain re-lived,

"Confront your demons!"

I tell myself

while hoping to 

push aside

and get on with it.

Pain never leaves us,

just goes into hiding

until the day we die.

Round 2

Round 2

has me stuck in memory, 

re-living, past forgotten,

some sort of

psycho analysis,

repressed memory 

therapy.

All these memories,

living just under the surface, 

little friends,

little demons,

little tormentors

scratching under 

the icy surface

of my frozen soul

that is thawing, 

exposing

what I thought drowned.

Danger Thin Ice!

Poetic self help

of a prophecy 

yet unfulfilled. 

Open wounds of

old

scar 

tissue

never healed,

a plastic surgery, 

a Botox injection

to give, once again

an expressionless face 

to pain re-lived,

"Confront your demons!"

I tell myself

while hoping to 

push aside

and get on with it.

Pain never leaves us,

just goes into hiding

until the day we die.

Changing the Theme of This

Hi, I am Chuck.

Hi Chuck.

I am a writer, and blogger. I have been very neglectful in my efforts. I have made some changes. I am going to post more, eat less and focus on literary ambitions that have been long dormant.

Welcome to my mind on code.

I leave you with a poem.

Evening in the Hood

Yelling and screaming
from the house
next door.

Ghetto Bird
flying over,
one eye moving
back and forth,
looking for
a thieving rodent,
no doubt.

Turn up the volume,
close the blinds
and pretend
I am
Somewhere else.

Changing the Theme of This

Hi, I am Chuck.

Hi Chuck.

I am a writer, and blogger. I have been very neglectful in my efforts. I have made some changes. I am going to post more, eat less and focus on literary ambitions that have been long dormant.

Welcome to my mind on code.

I leave you with a poem.

Evening in the Hood

Yelling and screaming
from the house
next door.

Ghetto Bird
flying over,
one eye moving
back and forth,
looking for
a thieving rodent,
no doubt.

Turn up the volume,
close the blinds
and pretend
I am
Somewhere else.