F a t h e r L u k e ’s dot Blawg

July 31, 1975
Jimmy Hoffa disappears.

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Okay,
Father Luke

Thanks, Susan.

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Okay,
Father Luke

Ernest Hemingway liked to think that he wrote very little about writing, and actually he did write very little about writing. Hardly anything at all.

I did read something he wrote that helps me when I need a gentle shove to continue:

Write one thing about everything you know.

Something like that.

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Okay,
Father Luke

http://www.onesentence.org/

Why didn’t you tell me?

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Okay,
Father Luke

Happy Birthday Papa.

Ernest Miller Hemingway was born on
July 21, 1899, in Oak Park, Illinois

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Okay,
Father Luke

Found this on the web:
(click for bigger picture)

Steven paid me the greatest compliment a writer may receive. He read me.

Go read him: http://www.flahute.com/2008/07/18/poetry-friday-80/

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Okay,
Father Luke

I WILL FIGHT NO MORE FOREVER

I am tired of fighting.
Our chiefs are killed.
Looking Glass is dead.
Toohulhulsote is dead.
The old men are all dead.

It is the young men who say no and yes.
He who led the young men is dead.

It is cold and we have no blankets.
The little children are freezing to death.

My people, some of them,
Have run away to the hills
And have no blankets, no food.

No one knows where they are.
Perhaps they are freezing to death.

I want to have time to look for my children
And see how many of them I can find.
Maybe I shall find them among the dead.

Hear me, my Chiefs, I am tired.
My heart is sad and sick.

From where the sun now stands
I will fight no more forever.

by Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce

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Okay,
Father Luke

Support the Small Press.

I do.

nibble - a poetry magazine
oh, what a tangled website we weave…

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Okay,
Father Luke

I used to tell the story about when I moved
from Ray and Gloria’s into The Pigeon Coop.

The story went that everyplace I had lived in previously the landlord had said one of two things:

Stay right were you are, I’m calling the cops.

or. . .

Get the hell out of here before I call the cops.

Funny about my writing. For years I’ve written. It was another way of not being involved when my Dad was beating my Mother. I read Robert Frost, and I didn’t need to listen to my mother screaming as my Father beat her, and raped her. I read Woody Allen and suddenly I couldn’t hear my Mother crying as my Father hit her in the face. I read Jack London, and I didn’t see my Father walking naked through the house dragging my mother by the hair as she struggled to free herself. I read, and I began writing when I ran out of things to read. When I was writing I didn’t see my Father dump a pot of boiling spaghetti on my Mother. The world was gone.

I have written all my life. My family all saw that before I did. How is the writing going? They would continually ask me. All I knew was one more hobo job; one more thieving employer taking my life minute by minute.

Recently I had a man write to me and tell me that he wanted me to stop posting my poems on the internet. Instead I was to send them to him. He would decide which poems I could have.

Ludicrous, right?

I heard from him again recently. He told me I was making a big mistake not sending my poems to him. He wanted to give me reasons why I was wrong in not sending my writing to him. That was the last I spoke to him.

Tonight, as the screams from my Mother fill my ears from echoes ringing to me from eternity, I will look to this man for solace. I imagine he would be shocked to have me screaming in his face. So I’ll write instead. And I’ll put what I have written up on my website for the free and the fun of it.

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Okay,
Father Luke

Either this makes sense to you or it doesn’t.
Maybe it’s funny even if it doesn’t.

A tech guy’s typical afternoon moment:

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Okay,
Father Luke