Thursday, January 30, 2014

Brautigan's Birthday

Today is Richard Brautigan's birthday.
In his honor, here's a link back to
an essay I wrote about him:

new book now available!

The premiere book from my new press
is now available for purchase from

Many thanks are due to poet Larry Smith
and the great artist Michael Paulus
who also did the amazing cover for

Tuesday, January 28, 2014


I created that logo for
my press, good deed rain 
and now I see the cover
for Mr. King's next book
due this summer.
What a world...

Saturday, January 25, 2014


While the East Coast is all covered in snow
we're having a sunny day so my son 
and I set up the badminton net.
He was Zaire and I was Zamboango
and I sang him the song of old 
my grandfather taught me when
he was in the merchant marines:

"Oh the monkeys got no tails
in Zamboango
Oh the monkeys got no tails
in Zamboango
Oh the monkeys got no tails
they just ride around on whales
Oh the monkeys got no tails
in Zamboango"

Friday, January 24, 2014

old writing

I found this old book on the library shelf. 
Interesting cover. But get a load of  the 
writing under the illustration. 
It reminds me, I rediscovered an old story
of mine called THE HANGMAN CALLS 
PARIS which I wrote in 1982. It was fun 
to reread but one of my big mistakes as 
a writer then, was something that 
Stephen King also pointed out in his 
ON WRITING book. It's best to keep 
it simple and write a character 'said' or 'says.'
If you're not careful you wind up with what 
happened below:

Thursday, January 23, 2014

roots of good deed rain

The name of my new press
comes from a short story
I wrote many moons ago.
It was first published in
Tucker Katonah's  magazine THE DECLINE
on Saint John Street in Portland, Maine.
I guess that issue is from 1989 or so.


Good Deed Rain

                The richest man in Sao Paulo had a magic umbrella. 
When he opened the umbrella, an endless supply of money green 
rain would waterfall out. He would let it pile up to his knees 
then shut the black umbrella solemnly and put it back inside 
the safe, on the shelf in there.
                Nobody knew how he was getting all the money 
he was spending. Before, he had nothing, but now he was 
buying houses, land, cars, airplanes…anything that had
a pricetag he would buy. Except for an occasional loss of 
peace of mind, the money gave him whatever he wanted.
                Lately while it poured, he strangely wondered 
why he had been so lucky. It bothered him and he dreamed 
about buying the world and giving every person a 
million dollars…Sometime with the morning sun dripping
his window panes and collecting in a glass of orange juice 
on his plush carpeted floor, the richest man in the city had 
a vision of kindliness. He would pour the money out over
the slums that surrounded him and seeped through the city
of Sao Paolo like cockroach dancing.
Feeling so benevolent (he even felt above his head
for a halo) he climbed into his distinctive bright yellow chauffered helicopter with his umbrella on his lap and commanded in a Moses-voice, “Hurry! Off to the slums!”
Minutes later. Hovering over the crumbling poverty of breakfast blue smoke fires and tin rust roofs. Cardboard walls and flies crawling the faces of children who stopped fighting only to poke their hands at the sky, to where the golden helicopter buzzed in place directly overhead.                                                                        
He opened the umbrella, leaning out the door like Zeus with his thunderbolt. He smiled as money fluttered down, laughing for a moment at the thought that this act would no doubt buy him sainthood—picturing statues of himself in town squares strewn with flowers and humbling townsfolk kneeling before the altar of his image. He ordered the pilot to circle round and round while he shook the umbrella manna out of the sky. Closing his eyes he basked in the hot Osiris sun, the roar of blades overhead the roar of the faithful, and he slowly opened his eyes to see his pyramids below…
Instead, he was horrified to see spluttering hundreds of rotten yams dropping Earthwards. Screaming panic, he wrenched at the umbrella trying to close it, but the mechanics of it were jammed with foul yam slime. He shook it, rammed it against the rocking helicopter, staining its bee-yellow hide. But the umbrella wouldn’t close and continued to spray its pestilence down on the poor people of Sao Paolo.
Frenzy seized, he edged too far out the doorway and tumbled out, gripping the umbrella pole, handled like a lifeline in the palm of the sky, praying in his leg kicking dervish freefall that it could somehow parachute him safely.
But rancid yams were pouring down over him, soft thousands sticking to his sleeves, shoulders and hair. He just fell faster to the ground, with the yams flashing by, the whole world looking brown and green. Instead of hitting the ground, he hit a mountain of deep vegetable mush and sunk. Down inside that gloom he waited two days to be mined out.

was also the name of a little
short story collection I made in 1990
stapled with a glued color cover.
You can read it here on my
June 2009 blog posting:

Wednesday, January 22, 2014

Saint Lemonade

a book of two novels
(Across the Street from the Holy Saint
& Lemonade)
This is the first book presented 
by my own press

Tuesday, January 21, 2014

Saint Lemonade

The proof-copy for my new book
arrived today! Here it is, titled
it is two novels in one book.
More details on getting your own copy
will follow soon. Looks beautiful though.

Wednesday, January 15, 2014

update telegram

The proof copy of my next new book
is on the way to me. Once I make sure
it's jolly good, more details will follow

Sunday, January 12, 2014

windy weekend

the old pine tree
fell down around
the Buddha

Saturday, January 11, 2014

ringo in diner

I finished writing my Beatles short story.