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

 'Twas the Fourth of July when the thunder rolled in,  Not from heaven above but from bombers and men. The flags still hung proudly from porches and rails, But the smoke hid the sun and the screams drowned the bells. The papers all told us there'd be nothing to fear, That the gunfire was distant, not something we'd hear. But the rent had come due on the farms and the towns, And the men who had sold us had skipped out of town. Oh the mountains they trembled, And the rivers ran red, While the ghosts of old soldiers Turned uneasy in death. For the country they'd fought for Wasn't dying in war It had been sold out for profit Less than two years before. Well the leader appeared on the television screen, With his practiced cold smile and his old face scrubbed clean. He said, "It's a hoax," and he boarded his plane, But a bullet soon settled what remained of his reign. Then the columns came marching through valley and field, With their rifles held high and no...

I was recently asked to consider giving a talk about writing. For the time-being, I’ve declined. My reasoning is simple: I don’t think I’ve done anything to warrant boring people with my opinion on the subject, especially not in the format suggested to me. As with any public performance, I asked why I should be interested. I was given no valid reason to leave the house. That said, I’m surprised I was asked. Yes, I write. I enjoy writing. I always have. It’s only in the past 18 or so months that I’ve really put any effort into it. Sure, I’ve written poetry, prose, lyrics, music, liner notes, reviews, and my own column - but I don’t think any of that was any good, nor does it validate any opinions I have. I’m NOT an expert. I do, however, think I write some interesting stories. Fiction has never been a big part of my world. My reading habits lean more towards biographies, history, and essays. I love reading theology texts too. As far as fiction goes, I’ve read all of Conan Doyle’s w...

 In his native America, he'd always had a shady reputation. As a young man, he worked as muscle for hire, worked as a bouncer in gambling houses and brothels, and always had a side hustle moving drugs or weapons. He could always be counted on to find a buyer for stolen goods, too. He was smart enough to see the cracks forming in the government long before most. Within days of the First Attack, he'd made plans to leave the country. Some of his cohorts with Sicilian lineage helped him get to Europe. From there he was on his own. He managed to bring along a tidy sum in cash and jewels. This gave him the advantage of time to form new contacts. He was told time and time again that the capital of Bulgaria - Sofia - would be a good place to set himself up. There were gangs there who could make use of his skills, and provided he kept out of trouble and his name out of the local gossip, he would do fine.  And he did. He pretty much became, as he liked to call himself, a consultant. He ...

He gathered up his books then set them all on fire.  Leather bindings curled like dying hands. Gold-lettered promises blackened and split. The words of prophets, kings, apostles, and madmen rose together in the smoke as though heaven itself had finally exhaled. He burned every righteous word in one last righteous twist of fate. Had the words lost their meaning? Or had mankind simply outgrown the burden of truth? Truth had become unfashionable. An antique thing. A cracked photograph in a junk drawer. It had been traded away for bumper sticker theology, for slogans screamed through flickering screens, for easy little lies soft enough to swallow whole. No one wanted weight anymore. No one wanted consequence. Every phrase was disposable. Every conviction rented by the hour like a whore in a motel room on a forgotten highway. The world no longer spoke of commandments. It communicated in advertisements. He stood silent as Zechariah while each syllable ignited. Paper peeled inward like sk...

It's finally happening. My first book!  BODIES OK, I did an audiobook once - but that was years ago, and I did it (mostly) for a friend of mine. She was moving from one part of Australia to another, and wanted something to listen to on the plane. If you've been playing along on the home version, you know what life has been like for me the past few years. 2021 = 2 strokes. Lost my job, income, had to relearn how to play guitar, etc. Blah, blah, blah, wah, wah, wah. Life is rarely how we expect it.  Years back, I was inspired by the words of a Holocaust survivor, Alice Herz-Sommer. A hundred and some years old, and ridiculously positive. Still played piano every day. After all of the evil shit life had thrown at her, she managed to get out of bed every day and not be mean. Her philosophy was simple.  Everything is a gift. While a lot of life is unpleasant, that doesn't mean we can't learn something from it and come out better for it. At least that's what I learned. S...

Contrary to popular belief, he wasn't born in the mountains. Nor had he been raised in a cave. His appearance, though, often led people to think otherwise. A barber's chair was as likely a place for him to visit as the moon. I don't believe he had ever shaved. His hair, long and unkempt, looked even longer thanks to his seemingly endless beard, which was braided and knotted at the bottom. If unfurled, it probably would have dipped well below his waist.  His mannerisms and manner, while peculiar, were so only in that he was almost religiously polite. What at first glance might appear stand-offish was nothing more than his attempts at being inobtrusive. He was almost like some Appalachian monk, raised by a society trapped in the past, who occasionally ventured into town. He was extremely well-read and more tech savvy than most teenagers. Utmost, he maintained his privacy. No one knew just where he lived. He came and went at his own leisure, unnoticed by the world until he mad...