Our rapid fire expose of outsider writer talent! A rapidly rotating lit-zeen of poetry, prose and more! For general questions, queries etc, contact our Little John of the lit world , Pat King.
David F. Hoenigman is the author of the experimental novel, Burn Your Belongings.
Hoenigman's novel is placed in a nameless city, but if you were trying to guess it, you might have a go at Tokyo, where David read and performed this past month. David shared this excerpt for our readers:
He questioned me. an obvious outsider. violently onto the floor. cut the palm of his hand. to pride oneself on anything. the stupidity. words clumsily in the air. we’re rotting here. I hardly recognize him. I stuff a handful into my mouth. I’ve made a nuisance of myself. I hope to be wrongly identified. returned. my case is one of the mildest. spun from boredom. ineffectiveness. any foray into this kind of complacency. I stood before it and pondered what it might bring. gentle and soothing. into her dingy surroundings. I feel like I’ve been away for months. what I throw away. what can be salvaged. my things just where I’d left them. what she calls dry spells. always pictured in that doorway.
Everybody thinks they're a goddamned poet. So whatta you write?
Bits and pieces of my life, I said.
Haikus? he belched , swirling the wine in his glass.
Yeah, sometimes, I said
Get off that shit, real poets don't write that crap. Hell, Kerouac couldn't even pull it off.
He gave the high sign to the bartender.
Set the kid up too, he said
From the book jackets I'd seen, he looked like Chinaski. Same slicked back hair. Same pock marked face. He toasted, clicking his glass to mine, downing it like a shot, then nodding to the bartender for another. We stared straight ahead at the rows of liquor bottles, repeating this ritual through the remainder of the Frolic Room's happy hour. Fuck a haiku, he said, suddenly breaking his silence. You know, every time some sonofabitch writes a poem about me, I end up in a bar. Hell, I didn't drink in bars—too damned expensive. Tell them to leave me the fuck alone. I'm worn out bar hoppin'—fuckin' poets
He spun around on his stool, stood up, cigarette hanging from his lip, adjusted himself and walked out into the Hollywood night.
The bartender, walked over from the other end of the room , placed the tab beside my glass and said,
Hey bud, that'll be $ 83.50
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Scot Young hides out in the Ozark hills when he has a chance.He works in education, puts bread on the table and has written poetry since he discovered Brautigan in the 70s.He is been published both online and in print, both in the US and the UK.He can be found at Be Not Inhospitable to Strangers.
In this house, everything ends abruptly. EVERYTHING. From the moment you walk in, your welcome is cut short and you are ordered to leave. But this you will find will also end very shortly. The stairs also end abruptly in this house. Half of the way up, if you are not sharp, you will plummet for a short while, until your fall is ended harshly by a mat.
Click below to learn more about OW's first book and the winner of the Jack Micheline Memorial Award.
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