WHAT’S IT ABOUT?

Rebels of the 512 is the best novel about pirates, ninjas and evil politicians in Austin, Texas you’ll ever read. Now, some will argue this is because it’s the ONLY novel about pirates, ninjas and evil politicians in Austin, Texas you’ll ever read, but that’s beside the point.

The point is: I wrote this novel in just three days, it’s got a gang of surly, blood-thirsty ninjas against a grog-drunken crew of pirates and a Texas governor with really good hair. And it’s FREE, by god. So why not take a chance?

A PROMISE

If all else fails, I can promise you this: If you hate Rick Perry, you will love this novel.

Snag your copy today by using coupon code AS49Y. (Valid through Sunday, Feb. 12, only on Smashwords.)

And don’t forget to leave a review!

I use the theater
as a place to duck away
when I’m lost or high
or too drunk to drive
or otherwise can’t go home.
Doesn’t matter what’s showing
or what the weather is like
or what time of day.
I float on into the dark
amniotic dreamhouse
with its carpeted walls
and sticky cement floors
and plush rocking movie chairs
and settle into the shadows…
sometimes I see something good,
sometimes I pass right out,
sink through the floor,
gone, and later rise up
to re-enter the world…

"Allegory of the Cave" (photo by Flickr user Digit ● AL)

The Eye Opens

When you’re on a three-day bender
there inevitably comes
a moment when you slip,
when the chemical levels dip,
and you catch a glimpse of yourself,
usually in some underground bar
bathroom with green tile
and overflowing trash
and the darkest rank odor
of cloacal human existence,
and there in the mottled mirror
you see not what you would recognize
as yourself but an amplified lizard
with eyes like two dull pennies
embedded in wet cement,
and the urge to look further is
only overridden by
the necessity of vomiting,
and then you’re on your way
believing it was all a dream.

"Beware / Little Five Points" (photo by Flickr user Milena Mihail)

Five Points Bar and Grille

somewhere downtown,
with a sign over the door saying
We Cheat Tourists-N-Drunks Since 1929,
a poor woman out front
leaning down unraveling
bandages from her swollen legs,
and a tour bus comes cruising by
with windows full of gawking faces
staring at the people standing
in line outside the foodbank,
or just sitting around on iron grates,
nowhere to go on a Sunday afternoon,
streets mostly empty under cloud cover,
cars moving slow and dark,
and police arrive and hassle some kid
who’s obviously down on his luck,
and isn’t that the way it goes?
When you’re down,
gravity just seems to hit harder.
This is not a world for the weak.
We’ve written a script without much sympathy.
At least that’s how I feel today.
And I know those tour bus people
with their cameras and their pursed
judgmental looks are thinking,
well you got what you deserved,
you’ve got your just reward,
even with their own stories of abuse,
sleeping around and lying about it,
keeping money found in a wallet,
drinking to the brink of oblivion or over.
Some people get away with it.
That’s all. That’s how it goes.
The public bus just arrived—
as long as we stay in the city,
we ride for free.

–

Douglas Cole has had work published in The Connecticut River Review, Louisiana Literature, Cumberland Poetry Review, and Midwest Quarterly. He also has work online in The Adirondack Review, Salt River Review, and Avatar Review, among others. He recorded a story for Bound Off, and has work forthcoming in the Red Rock Review. He has won the Leslie Hunt Memorial Prize in Poetry for a selection of work called, “The Open Ward.” He lives in Seattle, Washington and teaches writing and literature at Seattle Central College, where he is also the advisor for the literary journal, Corridors.

“I can’t stand being here.”

“I can’t stand being.”

"Facebook Friend" (photo by Flickr user Andrew Sorensen)

False Truths and Fake Promises

She glances at my bandaged wrists, then looks away.

“You could’ve talked to me,” she whispers.

I glare. “Get out.”

–

The Silent Treatment

“Why?” her tears scream, and for the first time, I don’t know how to answer.

–

Carter Meyer is a poet, short fiction writer, and occasional singer from Orange, New Jersey, and can be found on most days reading a volume of poetry or humming under her breath. She is the editor-in-chief of Seamless Magazine (which is currently on hiatus) and lives in Maine.

The group’s February book is Jeffrey Eugenides’ The Marriage Plot, which I added to my “to read” list back in 2011, but only added to my library hold list recently, leaving me in 193rd place to borrow a copy of the book. For some reason there are no e-copies available at the Austin Public Library (despite my urging them, on Twitter, to acquire a couple), so I’m stuck with the “real” queue, which is horribly long.

I may just have to break down and buy an e-copy for $12.99. At least I can write it off on my taxes next year, right?

Speaking of taxes, I filed mine early again this year, despite my tax software attempting to cut my return in half after accidentally clicking a button that I could not, for the life of me, undo. Damn you, tax software! (Anyone else find these claims that e-filing is “free” to be more than a little bit of flagrantly false advertising?)

But back to my original point, which was READING BOOKS. I highly encourage you to join the WBN book club and follow along for February’s pick. If you’re not feeling up to it, however, here are my Top 5 Books You Should Read This Week or Die Trying:

1. We the Animals by Justin Torres — Short and sweet for those who can’t concentrate on reading, and action-packed enough to keep you turning the pages. I look forward to reading lots more from this first-time author.
2. Rum Socialism by Kris Romaniuk — It’s only 99 effin’ cents, and if you can’t handle the typos, then get the hell outta the ebook kitchen, you lazy foodie wannabes. In case you missed it, we featured an excerpt for free on our site a few weeks back. Click here to read it. You’re welcome.
3. Naked Montreal – Part I by Laura Roberts — Yes, that’s me. Yes, this excerpt is 100% free. Yes, it’s part of my forthcoming novel, and yes you will have to wait for it to be finished to read the rest. Deal with it. Download it. Review it. It’s FREE, you cheap mofos! (And if you join my Twitter Give-Away Contest, you can read MORE of my ebooks for free!)
4. Memories of a Mombasa Gigolo by Krishna Washburn — Normally, I’m not all that jazzed about POD books, for the obvious (typo-laden, rushed-to-print) reasons. This one is a definite exception. Read my review of it over at the U.S. Review of Books if you don’t believe me. I dig it, and I recommend it to anyone who likes sex, love, dirty stories and historical tales of pre-WWI gigolos.
5. The Big Over Easy: A Nursery Crime by Jasper Fforde — Best known for his Thursday Next books, Jasper Fforde’s nursery crimes division is far more dark, bizarre, and unpredictable than his previous books, plus it incorporates some good old-fashioned mystery and suspense for good measure. Not quite noir, but certainly a unique take on the cozy mystery and the little old ladies who love (and write) them.

Got a suggestion for the book lovers amongst us? Give us a shout, and tell us what YOU’RE reading this week!

Tonight
it seems
that I just cannot find
two words
that
rhyme

Damned Erato, fickle bitch
I’ll show you what is which

Out with you like worn-out shoes
I’ve found myself another muse

One who likes me and comes when I call
This one’s not like you at all

No, not like you at all, at all
My new muse is called alcohol

Now I compose with simple pleasure
Memorable verses in perfect measure

Malt inspires by the  deciliter
So now I write in any meter

Sonnets, cinquains, and all the rest
Scotch inspires me quite the best

Damned Erato, untrustworthy muse
Single malt now my verse imbues

With towering lyrical flourishes
While my brain it steadily nourishes

Damned Erato, just for you
I’ll pen a scathing clerihew

Damned Erato, you dreadful old hag
Inspiration, damn you, not nag nag nag

Coleridge flew on the wings of his opium
While I pull the cart of your opprobrium

Damned Erato, while that thought lingers
I’ll pour myself another two fingers

And should I happen to drink enough
Of this wonderfully inspiring stuff

Then perhaps Calliope will come to call
She’ll bring me verses that amaze and enthrall

My lyrics infused with meaning so deep
I really need to get some sleep

But memory of Erato is not without sorrow
And I do hope I remember this shit tomorrow

"Erato, la musa che provoca desiderio #2" (photo by Flickr user Flavio Leone)

Reflection on Reality

Dropped like a brass plummet into this mood
Of dark melancholious lassitude
How came I lately there to be pursued?
By this constant, chafing, dare I say rude?
Demand for dull verisimilitude
From that clam’ring odious multitude
Of decorous morons who call me “dude”
I revile them all in terms purple hued:
Reality’s for those who should be zoo’d
Or ark’d if gladly they in pairs be queued
Confined to mirror gazing servitude
That I would most enjoyably elude
Beyond the glass their rules may be eschewed
And the red queen’s minions happily viewed

"Reality in a bottle" (photo by Flickr user Stefan Thiesen)

Lymphoma Blues

I been to the doctor jes’yest’day.
So what’d he tell you?  What’d he say?

Say he give me an em-phatic answer.
Hell no, fool, you got lymphatic cancer.

Don’t understan’ you, cain’t follow yo’ gist.
They’s jes’ the words of yo’ on-col-o-gist.

Well, I don’t heed no clinical minion.
Maybe you needs a second opinion.

Got no truck wi’ them medical highers.
Cain’t all of ‘em be scoundrels ‘n’ liars.

Hell, I’m jes’ a young man, too young to die.
They done crossed yo’ t ‘n’ dotted yo’ i.

They don’t know nothin’, I say hell wi’ them.
Mavis can sing you a nice requiem.

Bastards won’t get me, I’ll stay on my feet.
Orv does a drum roll with a nice slow beat.

Comes to dyin’, I jes’ know that I cain’t.
Preacher’ll say you was almost a saint.

Jes’ turn away now ‘n’ don’t watch me cry.
It’s O.K., son.  Hell, we all got to die.

–

William Dexter Wade is the nom de plume of a de-frocked priest who makes his living by translating ancient, possibly apocryphal, Hittite erotica. A mahjong grand master despite his absinthe addiction, he shares a room with as many as thirteen creative derelicts at the St. Christina the Astonishing Shelter for the Homeless in Istanbul.