On boots and bars and motorbikes...

This next poem made several rounds through the submissions process before someone finally picked it up. It was written on Sept. 2, 2016, as part of a poetry writing workshop I took as part of creative writing class in my MFA program. I was beginning to think it would never get published. As far as poetic works went, I always thought it one of my better offerings. But what did I know? I believe I said already that I didn't consider myself much of a poet. This once was proof positive I didn't have a clue, on many fronts, I suppose. If nothing else, it was definitely the most personal for me, at very least. I wrote about what I was experiencing at that very moment, which, in fact, was said birthday. I had no place to even leave a message, considering how everything worked out at the time.  I'm glad it finally found a home... And now, a few words on fatherhood in a modern age: MY LITTLE GIRL by Bobby Horecka © May 3, 2018 my little girl turned 21

This poem actually broke the drought for me, publication-wise, the thing that got me beyond a big pile of rejections and officially back into print for the first time in nearly a decade. It still shocks me that the first thing that gets me in print was a poem. I'm hardly a poet. I don't think so, anyway. I honestly don't get it most days, to tell the truth. I like poetry, but if I listen to a bunch of poets sit around discussing what they like about a poem or collection, it bears no resemblance whatsoever as to why I liked it. I wrote this after being up way too long during one of my book writing sessions earlier this year, and finding myself totally incapable of spelling what should have been a simple word, I thought--discombobulated--I apparently missed it so bad, spell check couldn't even lend a hand, which got me right irate. I hopped on Google and searched "words that start with dis." How many could there possibly be, right? Answer: Based o

Bluestem Literary Magazine, May 2018 is now live, Complete and UNCUT !!!!   You can even hear audio by Outlaw Extraordinaire Bobby Horecka . Mr. Man Candy by BOBBY HORECKA I always take him with a few grains of salt.  Not too much.  I mean, dude’s always been on the rotund side, and he’s got a heart condition, for Christ’s sake.  But don’t take everything he tells you at face value.  You just can’t.  Don’t get me wrong: I love Bubba to death.  Known him for almost ten years now.  Together, we’ve caught rivers of fish, travelled the world, and even started our own construction business.  He’s the type of dude you don’t mind loaning money, the sort of fellow you toss your housekeys and ask to feed your dog while you’re away, and he’s absolutely the type of dude you want at your back in a barfight.  Still, when he called me one day and said he spent the afternoon on his front porch with a Playboy Bunny, I said the first thing that came to mind. “Bullshit,” with th

Your favorite outlaw and UHV President Vic Morgan on Friday, April 27. Sometimes you can just look at a dude and tell by the pale pitiful sight of him, he needs a lot more handlebar time than he's been putting in. This picture is proof positive for not just one fellow, but two... And sadly, the elder will probably beat the younger to the punch... UHV president and fellow biker Vic Morgan shook a lot of hands Friday night at the university's ring ceremony event held Friday, April 27, one of many such long, drawn-out events I'm sure he's looking forward to NOT having to do any more once he retires this year. And if the pale, pallid complexions on these two is any indicator, it is none too soon. A few hours of watching life go by on two wheels needs to be in the game plan for both of them. And soon. Something a lot of folks my not know about Dr. Morgan is that in addition to captaining the UHV ship through unprecedented expansions in student numbers and facilitie

I don't even want to admit to how many rejections I'd accrued since mid-February when I started hearing back from the various submissions I'd sent along to various literary magazines, journals and contests all over the globe. I was actually getting as many as seven and eight nos each day.  So when the letter finally came late this evening saying one of the pieces I submitted was actually going to print, I was even sure what to do next. I'd gotten so accustomed to the Dear BoB letters, we're so happy you chose us to send your work, but what the hell were you on when you wrote this. We sure as hell ain't printing, but we thank you for giving as good laugh, just the same... What? Isn't that form letter they send everyone? No actually, most have very nice in telling your work is going to live its life on your hard drive. You'd be damned impressed just how many different ways somebody can tell you your stuff sucks, and never once say as much.

As promised some time ago, I finally got around to this part: Outlaw Authorz began in a summer writer's workshop in 2017, when Ol' Burnin' Beard there nearly got a whole group of writers kicked out of the library during his reading. I know, I know... That's some outlaw shit there, huh? But you would've thought I got caught molesting kittens or something, as much as one of my compatriots gave me grief at the end of it all. She happened to be the same one who suggested we all read our pieces, and no one really wanting to seem obtuse, we read our work and offered up our critiques. Not that some of us hadn't stayed up late, writing carefully phrased, three-page critiques for everyone there a couple of nights before so everyone there could have a chance to look them over before they showed up. Some of us even brought all new material to place before the pack--I had two, in fact, one I just finished minutes before I showed up there--rather than the exact

A flashback in time, if ever there was: My grandpa, cap backwards, as always, one of his many dogs always nearby (that one's Major), and a little light-haired boy, who, as regular as the dogs and the cap, were just part of who he was.  And Part III: Just to make sure we’re all still on the same page, we’re all following what's happened so far: Mom’s driving at warp speed (or twenty, it’s kind of hard to tell with it being bumpy as hell), and Grandpa just hollered up some new directions to her i a language I don't know. So, we're rolling along at a mighty good clip, and I’ve finally spotted what Grandpa's so all-fired excited about. It's barely a speck in the sky, and despite us now it trailing it at bone-rattling speeds in an old truck across cattle, that speck in the sky seems to be leaving us behind. Last but not least, Grandpa had me move from near the tailgate, where moments ago I was pitching hay to cows, to right beside him near the cab, which I h

Photo retrieved via Bing Images and credited to The Audubon Society. After a slight diversion yesterday--sorry, a lot of things all came together all at once that needed dealing with--we're back, as promised, to one of the stories from my book: Chicken Hawk Down (Part 2) If you remember from our last segment, Grandpa grabbed this old gun and hollered something at Mom that made her kick that old truck into gears not typically seen blazing across a gopher hole riddled cattle pasture. I missed all the details of what got said exactly, not because I wasn't paying attention, but because it got spoken in a language no one wanted me learning back then. Being from my part of Texas--namely South Texas--most people generally assume that such conversations would only involve one language, the one spoken a few miles south in Mexico. But, as you'll read today, that's not always the case. Not in an immigrant family like mine, anyway. In fact, there were probably lo

Junot Diaz suffered for years after being raped by a trusted adult at age 8. via Junot Diaz on The Legacy of Childhood Trauma — Longreads It is perhaps destined I should find these words in my inbox, on this day, one day after--as it truly turns out--the following took place in my own life: I've bragged of late on these happy message boards about having finished a writing project of my own creation. Some of it, a few of you read on this very page. Much of what I've shared thus far I found at least darkly comical if nothing else, and from most reports I've heard from those of you who have commented back, the sentiment's been fairly mutual and, for the most part, appreciated. But one I have not shared--was in fact afraid to share, and fairly fucking sure I might not share altogether after attempts to share at least one version of them and gotten at least a dozen rejections letters from publishers on already (which is not the sort of shit one wants to

As I begin to flesh out that that mess of a book I  put together I'll be posting new stories (or at least parts of them, at least as I go. The truck shown above wasn't ours actually, but its awful close to what ours looked like. I so wanted to get bad boy beat back into shape and repainted. "Drive!” the old man yelled, reaching inside the pickup cab to grab his weather-beaten .22 from the back window gun rack. He prattles something urgent sounding in Czech, before leaping the side-rail of the truck bed, Duke-boy style, and taking his place hunkered over the cab. “Hang on,” the old man tells me, shoots me one of those great stiff-lipped smirks of his, his blue eyes glittering like diamonds. He and Mom both had the greatest eyes on the planet whenever they were up to no good. Most days you saw him out walking across the farm, he was hunched forward and limped when he walked. After all, he was pushing sixty about then, I do believe, and while they wer

UN FATHER HOOD D addy Daddy I have a joke What is it little bit? OK OK It goes like this Why did the        cookie                                                                                     go to the hospital? I don’t know                                                                            Why? Ready Daddy? Ready? It goes like this because he felt crummy                    Get it? D addy Daddy I skinned my knee It’s alright, little bit    hold her    kiss her wipe her sad little eyes Don’t worry, little bit                         Daddy’s here                                                 There’s no need to cry D addy Daddy I got this new horn come w