activism addiction Americana analysis art behavior Uncategorized

posthumous letter mailed to the marvelous hunter s. thompson at his trashy extended stay suite nestled on the briny shores of hell’s lake of fire



hey louisville,

long time no hear from, don juan try hump fat

i’m about to get waynesburg on your stubborn ass

and i want you to know for years

i forgave you for blowing your head off,


i applauded your ballsy choice

you were nothing if not consistent

you were proof the most intelligent and keen amongst us

are prone to depression, suicide, and addiction,

because we understand how fucked up the world can be

and simply can’t bear the soul sucking siege and insult of it

no one should be made to suffer,

but you should be alive now

we need your voice now

more than ever,

gonzo journalist,

who thought the best was behind you

and it had only just begun

n’ don’t you tell me all the best kentuckians die young and grandly

you’re dead as a damned door nail

you can’t talk back

and  aye, that’s the rub,  old friend

i’m so mad at you for going away

if you weren’t already dead

i’d shoot you again myself


love you, fucker


Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends writing

take another little piece

mr. bush’s war
killed the last living piece
of hunter s. thompson

i’ve learned those who give a damn
die faster
giving a damn is more deadly
than any religion, weapon, or dope

if what happens in vegas stays in vegas
then why is their only export cold sores

the other thing i know is
you have to get out of kentucky
for being from kentucky to matter

life is killing me
the ohio river is killing me
pop music is killing me
wild turkey is killing me
ignorance is killing me
the congress is killing me
capitalism is killing me

this poem is my only hope

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends writing

love is hunter s. thompson wearing a “polite as fuck” t-shirt

Fucking labels
taped over my mouth.
Three years ago they called me sentimental,
then punk thereafter,
now i’m accused of being transgressive…

You know what i am?
A poet in love
whilst simultaneously horrified
with the times in which I live.
What are we?
Stunned. That’s what the hell we are.
The world as we know it, post 9/11.

The evening news is pornography.
Journalism is an old whore
leaning against a statue
of Edward R. Murrow.

How could any thinking, feeling human
with a modicum of awareness
not feel a bit disgusted or depressed?
We must be the agents of our own happiness,
twas always thus.
The older I get, the less tolerance I have for horse shit.
I’m simply documenting the beauty observed along the ride,
and that I mostly want to kick
human civilization’s lingering ass.

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

fifteen words on louisville honesty and hunter’s glasses

yellow lenses for accuracy
red clay
wet with wild turkey
fully aware