The Real Memphis Mike (don't settle for imitations)

A busted-up wheelchair  on cracked concrete. Just another day waiting for a call from St. Pete. Pants soiled. Eyes open. God won't take my calls. No coffee, no cigarettes. Just wondering where it all went wrong. A life of memories and too many regrets. I fought your damned war  along with all the other vets. The doctor told me I need pills but never said who'd pay the bill. Told I gotta work  by a guy in a suit who doesn't know the meaning of the word. Demons in my head. The Devil on my mind. Social media says AI will end mankind. What's left to lose? My eyes? My sight? My ears are ringing and have been all night. You gaze right past me. Just walk on by. Never a kind word. No Hello. No good-bye. The temperature is falling just not fast enough. The sun refuses  to let me give up. I push myself further my legs a mere joke. A mile in a day. I heard the Lord spoke - to dozens or hundreds or thousands or more. Yet no one was listening. They all locked their doors. Nothing...

I was watching a video posted by an online acquaintance from Siberia, and it brought back a memory that I find amusing.  My first wife was Russian. I don't mean her ancestors were from Russia. She was. Born and raised. To make matters more interesting, she grew up in the old Soviet Union. We had a lot of cultural differences to contend with, at every level. Those who might have been around us then will probably remember that she and I did not get along at all when we first met. In fact, within minutes of meeting each other, we got into a shouting match. It wasn't the last.  One day I saw her waiting for a bus as I drove by, going in the opposite direction. I honked and waved, trying to be polite and friendly. Later, she gave me hell for not turning around to offer her a ride. It wasn't like I might have had something more important to do - like work.  One night I ran into her at a party. Her presence made an already unbearable social situation worse, so I started making p...

It wasn't the first time he'd passed out in the old blue Adirondack chair in his yard. Over the years, his habit of drinking alone until the wee hours had grown from occasionally to usually . He'd reached the point in life when most of his friends were married, had families and lives, and heavy drinking just wasn't part of their world anymore. Being a bachelor and a man of singular habits, he'd merely accepted it. What woke him was the sensation of something cold and wet nuzzling his inner arm, followed by what felt like a surprisingly large tongue licking his hand. This was different. Without any great response, he looked down to see a bear cub licking his hand. He didn't move. He knew better than to scare a wild animal. He looked around and saw another cub rooting through a now presumably empty bag of Doritos.  His yard was lit only by the light above his garage and the dying embers of the fire pit. He noticed empty beer cans on the old picnic table. From the ...

 Had a brief chat with my old buddy Dave yesterday. At one point I mentioned his song "Jubilee Train." Excuse me while I ramble on about the song and its personal importance. - MCM I've been a lifelong fan of a band called The Blasters. Fair to say I think they're one of the most important musical acts in my life, and I think it's safe to say the feeling is shared by many. Not familiar with them? Go look them up. In the meantime... Teenage me was, like many others of the time, a mess. Early 1980s. A world of angry young Americans being bombarded with Reaganistic bullshit. It still hasn't trickled down yet, has it? What's the hold-up? Musically, my world was punk rock, old blues, The Beatles, and anything that caught my ear. Enter The Blasters. My cousin and I were helping set up his neighbor's place for a wedding reception. Lots of tables, folding chairs, tablecloths, etc. By no means back-breaking work for a couple of young lads, but it paid a couple ...

 I won't lie. I sorta kinda need this post for my LinkTree thing. 😂 But since you're here, I'll guess you have some curiosity about my books. Here ya go! Just click on the cover and it should take you to the Barnes & Noble site (if you're so inclined). Thanks! - MM This is pretty much where it started. A collection of short stories. I've been pleasantly surprised at how well-received it's been. There are moments when something changes. Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just enough to notice. A conversation that feels slightly off. A familiar place that no longer feels quite the same. A small event that lingers longer than it should. In BODIES, Michael C. Metzger explores those quiet turning points where ordinary lives brush against the strange, the unsettling, and the unexpected. These eighteen stories are rooted in familiar ground: small towns, aging neighborhoods, workplaces, relationships, late-night conversations, and everyday routines. Beneath the sur...

If you know me, you know I'm a musician. Damned near 50 years treading the boards making noise.  Just like any other commercial venture, there are certain sales and marketing strategies involved with being a musician. One of the most basic and necessary being the demo tape. Back in my youth, the demo tape was usually a cassette; often recorded live. It gave the prospective purchaser (usually some guy at a bar who really didn't give a shit) an idea of how an act sounded, and what they could expect should they choose to hire ya.  Over the years, the demo tape itself became more polished. Some used it as a tool to garner interest from managers, publicists, producers and record execs. The issue I always had with these was that they were inherently dishonest. Rather than displaying how an artist actually sounded, it instead put forth an idea of what they could sound like - given perfect circumstances. Such conditions rarely exist.  By the late 80s, some of us used a VHS tape o...