His writing takes me hostage.
Wonder what he really thinks of Norman Mailer.
I imagine him hunched over the keys like Mitchum in Out of the Past when nothing was sacred and black and white was the color of all of our ancient lives.
We’re all just ghosts hitchhiking on a highway of blood diamonds toward either Graceland or the gallows.
The way he writes about vinyl records like past lovers he still cannot get a proper grasp of leaves me in stitches on this unrepentant killing floor.
If he were a country and western song I wonder which one he’d be. As tortured writers go I cannot wait till he breaks from his Houdini chains and sets us all free.
He and his wife Elaine are really the only thing that makes FB worth checking because they invite you into their lives while holding no punches as they say Geronimo.
I am sick and tired of the glossy sheen of another actress’s selfie or the bad jokes unclever comedians crack at the expense of no one, but their own pathetic selves.
Our world is quite literally in a tangle as we fight against a new normal of alt. facts and Jim Crow diplomacy.
His writing born in a darkened room out of desperation and clemency for a sense of decency doing no one any good.
When revisiting with a Tambourine Man he uncovers self-evident truths best left locked away in a vaudevillian’s steamer trunk.
I imagine his favorite steed tied up to a post out front as he saunters into the coffee shop like a space-cowboy-freedom-fighter whose best days are still right there in front of him.