I am posting notice that effective this past Sunday afternoon we have ended our run as the Shame of the Cul-de-Sac. Thank you for your patience, dear and not-so-dear neighbors.
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June 27, 2013
Fresh rain pours into the face of the fishermen on the concrete dock dock beneath the great black sky of Wednesday here at the center of everything and nothing. It is one of those nights of storming from the West.
June 16, 2013
He keeps trying to negotiate with Fate, but she won’t return his calls. Does he even believe in her besides? Karma, more like it, which is, you know, something else entirely. He thinks, as he swirls the just-delivered cucumber-tequila, red salt-encrusted margarita, in a glass the shape of the letter ‘Y’.
June 9, 2013
The grass needs cutting, it’s that damn season when the grass always needs cutting. Not to mention the spidery brown corpses of last year’s porch-side plants I still haven’t ripped out yet.
May 29, 2013
The city lulls. A woman sings passionately on the restaurant stereo, her voice an open faucet of sound above the bar, unintelligible except for this or that word you recall from Spanish high school class, which I nearly failed in college.
May 22, 2013
The well-heeled partners cruise by the brewpub window in their dark-blue sharkskin suits, or at least, suits I cannot afford. I’ve long admired their well-oiled hairdos. They must cost $500 an hour, these guys, what do I know. What do I cost?
May 15, 2013
I read the national award-winning poet to juice my cadences. Maybe to steal his stately, nutritious, languorous lines. For it has been months since a pen, a real ink pen, touched down upon the snowy lined plains of my journal.
April 9, 2013
We moved onward, into the hills. There are very many hills in West Virginia and within their folds are secrets. And horses. And horsedogs.
February 26, 2013
Actor, musician and West Virginia native Lou Myers died Feb. 19 at the age of 76 . A 2011 Gazette profile captures some of the wide range of a man who was much more than just Vernon Gaines on “A Different World.”
February 20, 2013
It is hazardous to write poetry when you are tired, horny, disgruntled, lonely, in need of a lover’s ministrations or even just a session of kisses. This may be, of course, the only time, even the best, to write poetry.
February 19, 2013
It was his fourth fourth death. Not that he was counting. But he thought about it later. ‘Keep yourself in the room,’ some oracle of wise practice — was it the Zen Hospice Project? — had said. How did you do that?
January 5, 2013
Fragments stop me in my tracks — Charles Wright, Taiga’s Zen, T.S Elliot. Wait, one more check, there is the number (2) atop my Facebook page. One more fragment of attention before bed.
January 1, 2013
I think if I did not have the woods to get off to I might be a madman. I know that sounds an exaggeration. But there comes a time when nothing else will do and if nothing else would do, could I do without?
December 30, 2012
In the first part of a series of reprinted articles from 2012, a profile of Trappist monk Thomas Merton, on the occasion of the founding of a Merton study group in Charleston, West Virginia.
December 2, 2012
So, you’ve taken part in National Write Like a Son of a B*tch Month this past Novermber. Now what! Set down to your pencils! It’s time to Mail & Deliver.
November 13, 2012
Please note these important addendums to National Write Like a Son of a B*tch Month in order to further your success and rescue your so-called self-esteem as a writer who, like, actually writes.
October 31, 2012
Writers need deadlines. Writers need motivation. Writers need a sharp kick in the keister to get up from the sofa where you’ve been hypnotized by a “Big Bang Theory” marathon. Hence, the need for ‘Write Like a Son of a Bitch Month’ Join today.
October 28, 2012
What happens when you find the monk’s old outhouse has not been used for years in the West Virginia woods? A new chapter of ‘Monastery Nights.’
October 21, 2012
It serves no fruitful purpose to wax melancholic in your late middle years as rust-colored leaves drop, one by one by one by one, from the sycamores, the oaks and maples, and whatnot trees on this cold October morning.