My Correspondence With Angels And Demons

I drowned once, you know?

I was a sandy blond child in the muddy waters of Georgia

The tobacco cut knife had been put down for the day

Sticky with nicotine sap coating its curved blade

The men and women had come in from the fields

In from the sea of green leaves roasting in the southern sun

The workers gathered their families

Around the irrigation pit 

To relax

To swim

Somehow

Someway

I found myself falling in

My seven years of living did not include learning how to swim  

Not even tread water

So

Down, down, down, I went

Like a coin tossed in a wishing well

But this was no wish of mine

As much as it was a bad dream I was stuck in

I stood on the clay colored bottom

Looking up

Through the twenty feet of water

My skin growing cold and clammy

Dull deadness

I was becoming

For I was watching my own death

Living through it

On my way to not living at all

I was acting out my end without an applause

For the angels and demons

Fighting over who would get my soul

Were too busy to clap

My mother screamed from the other side of the pit

Trying desperately to save the life of her youngest son

But her voice was no contest for the irrigation pump

Then as I was fading away

While the muddy water filled my lungs

The two arms of my uncle wrapped around me

Pulled me out of the dark depths of death drowning below

He had seen my mother’s panic and did not need to hear her cries

To know her child was below

So, the angels and demons would have to wait a little longer

Before my soul was ready to take

This poem is from the book : Petals Falling

The Writerly Blog Tour : Jason E. Hodges

The Writerly Blog Tour has come my way thanks to Liz Worth. She is not only a writer I greatly admire but a friend who has helped me from coming unraveled in some of the worst times.

What I’m working on.

 

I’m working on a new paranormal book that was actually a short story I wrote about ten years ago. It was never sent away to a contest or submitted to a publisher. I was three chapters into a different book I was writing and had to put it aside. The time just wasn’t right to finish it. If your heart isn’t into a project don’t do it. Put it aside until it is, burn it, or throw it away.

I also just finished a knife I started making years ago. I’d heated an old metal file in a fire and hammered it out into a blade. It’s funny how some projects need to be set aside until the time is right to do them. You may wonder why blacksmithing is relevant to my writing. The backstory in the paranormal book I’m working on reverts back to the 1692 Salem Witch Trials. As a writer you should be able to pull the reader into a world where they hear the blacksmith’s hammer zing each time it strikes the anvil. They should be able to see the glowing crimson-colored steel take shape from the blacksmith pounding it. Watch the molten metal twist and bend like clay in the fingertips of an artist. Writing from what you know or have done firsthand makes your writing rich and original. A time existed before everybody knew everything about anything by clicking “search” on their computers. When writers wrote from their experiences or their imagination. I still prefer to write this way.     

 

How does my work differ from others in the genre?

 

I’m not sure I fit into a specific genre. I’ve had Sci-fi, Fiction, Poetry, Southern Gothic, and Horror accepted and published by different publishers over the years. I do believe folks that have read my work before would pick up on certain themes I tend to move around in. A sometimes dark truth that makes the reader uncomfortable to a point, but a truth that they can’t easily turn away from. That’s probably the best way to describe what I write.

How does my writing process work?

Lots of coffee to begin with. I prefer to write from about 4 am to 6 am. Not much is going on at this time. The phone’s not ringing, no one is knocking on my door, and for me it’s the perfect time to think. The rest of the day I carry a small notebook and jot ideas down as they pop into my head. If I don’t have my notebook close by, I use the original Palm Pilot, my hand. Some days I come home looking like I was attacked a Henna Tattooer turned poet.      

Why do I write what I do?

In the beginning I was inspired heavily by William S. Burroughs, Jack Kerouac, The Beats, and others I found in the world of books. There was no internet in 1989. There were typewriters and whiteout. I was inspired by these writers and wanted to write about the place somewhere between my daydreams and the world I walked around in each day.

All of the writers I looked up to when I started out are gone now. I think the question I find myself asking these days is, “What makes me keep going?” Truthfully it’s hard to keep going. My sister Laura has always said to me, you have to first write for the love of writing. Her words have become an absolute truth as the years have passed by.

I think I get most of my inspiration from what I see others doing these days. The things Liz Worth, Lisa de Nikolits, Kateri Lanthier, Jacqueline Valencia, Robin Richardson, and many more are doing in the Toronto Scene are truly inspiring. There’s something very special going on in Toronto in the world of writing, poetry, and art. I see it daily in the words, photos, and drawings pouring out of that city. My bet is, it will one day go down in the history books as the place where it all went down. If you’re a writer or poet and don’t have your eye on Toronto, you should do so.       

I also like what Brandon Graham is putting down in Chicago. He’s kept me motivated over the last few years. His writing is strong and truthful.

Elizabeth Woodham in the UK is another I’m inspired by. She has real beauty in her work and is able to stir every emotion buried deep within the reader’s mind. I also dig Narcisse Navarre. She’s so full of life and is a real joy to run across on the web.

All of these folks have kept me going along with the hope that one day my work will find a large enough audience that it will live on long after I’m gone. Like footprints for others in the future to stumble across and get a glimpse into the world I was a part of. But who can ever be sure of what the future holds? We never know when we’ll be dealt, Aces and Eights, roll Snake eyes, or walk off into the wild like Everett Ruess and disappear into the pages of time. As writers we can only be certain of what we have just written down. 

 

 

Petals Falling : A Book Of Poems By Jason E. Hodges

How can one describe a book of poetry? It’s art! It may be one of the most subjective forms of writing someone can do. I could say something like, “See what Hodges sees when he writes while looking out into a skyline bleeding pink and red from the last rays of a crimson winter sunset,” but would this convince you that this book would be worth reading? I could say, “He’s influenced by, Poe, Plath, Sexton, Nin, and Bukowski,” but would this convince you he is a poet worth reading? So the best way to describe this book, if you’re not familiar with Hodges’s work, is to simply say to you, read it! Take a chance for 99 cents and read a poet that pours his heart out onto every page. Feel the vulnerability in his words as he questions his struggles, his friendships, love, loss, and at times, it seems, even his on sanity. Along with haunting memories that will pull you into his nightmares, Hodges’ imagination will bring you into a whirlwind world of poetry you soon will not forget.

Show more

Show less

http://www.amazon.com/Petals-Falling-Jason-E-Hodges-ebook/dp/B00M32MUXI/ref=sr_1_1/176-6373827-2553731?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1406271257&sr=1-1

Poem : Foul Hooked

Sometimes in life

We can become

Foul hooked

On the line

So they say

When you’re fishing

And realize the barb

Has disappeared

Deep into your flesh

You don’t want to believe

What your eyes are seeing

Then

You feel it!

What’s left of the rancid bait

That once coated the hook’s exterior

Is now

Starting to slough off into your bloodstream

Like a poison dart

Like venom

From a pit viper’s hollow fangs 

At this point

The only thing to do

Is to push it through the other side

It’s more painful to pull back

Yet

All instincts say to do this very thing

So you push as sweat gathers

In little beads on your forehead

Your fingers

Turn white gripping the hook

As you watch your skin rise like a tent

Pushing upwards until the point pops out

Followed by a slow trickle of blood   

The same methods can be used

When you’re foul hooked by life

Yet

Again

You first think

How can I push deeper into the problem?

You want to go back

But you know

You have to push through

Whatever has hooked you

The bottle

The bills

The liars

The needle

The saints selling salvation

For their own mansion in the sky

Like Odysseus

You have to keep moving forward

Push through the flesh of the problem

Poke these points of pain to the surface

Until you’re no longer foul hooked 

Brandon Graham : Good For Nothing

Larry Brown once said, “You take what you're given, whether it's the cornfields of the Midwest or the coal mines of West Virginia, and you make your fiction out of it. It's all you have. And somehow, wherever you are, it always seems to be enough.”

Brandon Graham’s book, Good For Nothing, is an incredible read. Like Brown, he has an uncanny ability to sculpt his writing from the world he sees every day. His words are strong and drowning in truth.

Book Description from Amazon: “In Flip Mellis's recent past he had, by his own assessment, his feet planted squarely on terra firma. As a husband and father he was a consistent breadwinner. As a business professional, he was a go-getter. For twenty years he did all that was expected of him, if not much more. But a job loss in his middle years, in the midst of a national economic crisis, knocked Flip squarely on his big, soft ass where he has been wallowing for nearly a year. Over the course of one hectic week, replete with a cast of colourful characters, Flip is forced by circumstances of his own invention to finally get his life headed in the right direction. Like a pudgy, irritable toddler he carefully tests his balance and lurches forward, stumbling around absurd obstacles and grasping for any solid purchase. Good For Nothing is told with dark and sometimes macbre tone that is lifted by its fast pace and quick verbal wit. Ultimately a spark of human resilience locked deep within the core of this deeply flawed protagonist begins to spread. The question becomes: will Flip's best efforts be enough to lead him safely to redemption or will they merely lead to a futile, purely graceless and quixotic crash.”

Before we get into my review of his book we have to go back to the beginning. The reasons I bought his book in the first place and believe in Brandon as a writer. For me, everything starts a few years before Good For Nothing ever existed.

I got an email from Brandon introducing himself as a fellow writer. He had run across my bio on the web and read I had once interviewed Harry Crews. Brandon, being a fan of Crews, was intrigued by this and reached out to me. We exchanged a few emails back and forth over the next few days talking about Crews and other writers that had inspired us along the way. At some point I mentioned how I had first wanted to become a writer after discovering William S. Burroughs in the late nineteen eighties. He wrote back saying he once sat beside Burroughs in a Kansas City diner. A place where hardcore drinkers, homeless men, and drag queens have a big cheap short order breakfast. Brandon was there drinking loads of coffee around five thirty a.m. when Burroughs walked in and sat beside him. He would go on to say he had a second encounter with Burroughs. One of Brandon’s friends told him that during the first week of each month Burroughs would show up to a local convenience store where his friend worked and buy the newest issue of Guns and Ammo and Soldier of Fortune. Two months later Brandon took a chance and hung out with his friend at work. The second day, Burroughs came in, went to the Magazine rack and bought the titles his friend had described. Brandon walked over, told Burroughs he was a fan and that they had sat together at the Kansas City Dinner sometime earlier.

After looking over his bio, I knew Brandon had attended Columbia and was an educated man. Don’t get me wrong. An education is always a good thing for an author to have, but life experiences are equally important. After reading these stories about Brandon’s interaction with Burroughs, I was more than intrigued by the possibilities of what he might write. I knew if he was hanging out in a diner that Burroughs would frequent along with drag queens and homeless folks, Brandon would have plenty of interesting subject matter to work with. He would learn things about human behavior, things you just can’t be taught in school. Material that later in his book would become descriptive jewels that would outshine a lot of the literature printed today. 

I’ve always felt any good storyteller pulls from his or her own experiences to paint their picture. What they’ve lived through and been a part of. Like Larry Brown, Brandon is one of these storytellers. When you read his work you feel his words are heavy with life’s hard lessons. Yet, there’s another side to his characters that are so lifelike and caring, you have to remind yourself you are still reading fiction.

In Good For Nothing, Brandon’s character Dean was so wise and so hauntingly real I felt Brandon had more than likely written, and rewritten himself into exhaustion to bring him to life. He didn’t miss a beat with his descriptions of Dean. Not one thing was out of place. The main character, Flip was also spot on with his depression, his fears, his doubts, his addictions, and all of his self-loathing. Along with a cast of well thought out everyday folks swimming in a world hammered by a downturned economy, this book is truly a work of art.

Brandon spared no expense when it came to pouring himself into writing this book. Good For Nothing is a well written piece of literature.

It’s a must read that will have you yearning for what will come next. Well worth every cent and then some. Get a copy today.

 

Poem : Tongueless Lions

Walking today

I passed by

Two lions with no tongues

Their mouths gaped open

Showing their dagger-like teeth

Made of stone

They stood watch

At the mouth of Matanzas Bay

Watching the tourists pass by

With their flip-flops

Greeting each step they took

With a light thud to their heel

Oversized visors adorn their heads

Like crowns

They are worn

By the rulers of the child army

That follow behind them

Little Tommy

Little John

Fight with plastic swords

While

Little Jane rolls her eyes

At their behavior

I’m guessing this isn’t the last time

I will see them today

They’ll probably

Be picking away at the fort

In a few hours

For four hundred and forty one years

It’s never been taken in battle

Yet

The tourists

Have almost laid siege to her structure

Wearing her down

One chip at a time

The Castillo’s ghosts

Are probably chewing Valerian Root

By the mouthful

Just to get through their day

Yes

Ghost hunting has become big business

In the oldest city in America

Groups of hunters passing one another

On winding brick streets

Washed with moonlight

Looking with wide stretched eyes

To see, if they see, what might be seen

Paying money to

Walk about in a world

Like the pages 

Of a Dickens’s novel

All while

The tongueless lions gaze at them

With marble eyes  

Poem : The Shadow Of Bela Lugosi

The bells

Of the church tower

Ring out

Across the town’s square

Echoing down dead-end alleyways

And the overhangs of stone buildings

The morning fog is disappearing

Evaporating before my eyes

From the reflective rays of ocean sunlight

As I walk

I see a homeless man lying on a bench

Lighting one cigarette off another

Yet

The one he is lighting isn’t much longer

Than the one he’s discarding

Freebees off the ground I suppose

Then a man calls out to me

“You’re too young to be walking with a cane.”

I smiled and said, “I have bad hips.”

That it hurts to walk sometimes

So my cane was a necessity

He then offered me a ride in his bike taxi

I guess

I looked

Like the perfect demographic for his business

I declined and kept

Walking and seeing

Seeing and walking

Pigeons flock on St. George Street

Waiting for the next breadcrumb to fall

While

Squirrels feast on an old ice-cream cone

Sitting on a wrought iron trashcan

Their bellies stretched wide from good living 

Finally

I stop and take refuge from the sun

From the crowds

In an Old Spanish Military Hospital

Built over a cemetery

Inside

I snap a photo of a hand carved crucifix

Six-foot tall

Hanging over a bed

Made for the ones who had Yellow Fever   

Christ’s shadow

From the open doorway of the room

Looked like Bela Lugosi

At least this is what the tour guide pointed out

I had to agree

As I sat down to rest my bones

In a place where they once took care of the living

While walking over the dead