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

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

Houston Chronicle's version: https://www.houstonchronicle.com/news/houston-texas/houston/article/Barbara-Bush-wife-and-mother-of-presidents-dies-12841383.php?utm_campaign=email-premium&utm_source=CMS%20Sharing%20Button&utm_medium=social

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