On boots and bars and motorbikes...

A printer's proof of the cover art of the anthology that will feature my two poems along with the works of 120 writers from all over the world, apparently. I had no idea there were that many sub- missions. I'm rather shocked my works survived the cut. Gotta say, the more I learned about the numbers for this anthology, the more surprised I am that I'm writing this now, especially for my poetic works. Now this particular poem is another one of those poetry writing workshops pieces I crafted in late 2016, not long after reading William Carlos Williams' Spring and All and crafting a 30-page  chapbook for my actual writing assignment, following weekend trip with my dad and his wife and my future bride to Georgetown for my cousin's wedding. We stayed in a lovely B&B, across the street from Southwestern University, and had a grand time at their nuptial party in beautifully rustic surroundings on the outskirts of town. Of all those 30 pages, m

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

Unless math fails me, they ought to be turning eighty-five this year. But this video and a book I wrote are a couple of items we put together and worked like madmen to get published largely during the month of September. W e somehow managed to pull it off while getting our regularly scheduled publications out the door and spending a full week on the road while covering the Hurricane Ike when it tore through East Texas and left half the state in darkness. Nothing like deadlines bearing down to see what people are made of. The book  was roughly a 100-page pictorial history of the organization, which made use of several great historical photos in combination with several more modern shots. As such, roughly of the third of the photos used were my own. The color scheme, theme and many of the quotations by current and past leaders were shared between the book and the video. Although the book itself didn't garner any accolades by itself, one of my photos did. A single sho

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.

A San Marcos mainstay, Bill Cunningham was often seen roaming around the city, donning a fedora and sunglasses, and talking books, history and general coolness. A writer, activist and former Texas State University regent, Cunningham died Thursday. He was 69. He was remembered by friends and loved ones as thoughtful, witty and well-loved. “Bill was kind of an icon in San... https://www.mystatesman.com/news/local-obituaries/writer-activist-and-san-marcos-icon-bill-cunningham-dies/1sU8170kfoJf6ocRXpcpKP/ -30- I ran across that bit of news, wishing a buddy of mine from San Marcos a happy birthday. I came to find out he's libel to be locked up for the next three to five (if he's lucky--something about lugees and cops, again, and a string of other litanies--strike two for him). Another friend told me that shortly before he told me he's off to Georgia soon. The same fellow, in fact, who introduced me to the other fellow in the news obit. I'm just getting old, I

WOW! Women On Writing Contests: Flash Fiction and Essay Contest

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