On boots and bars and motorbikes...

That little light-haired kid is me, a recurrent character in the book I just finished, just behind Major, this ancient German Sheppard we had on the farm when I was young, and my Grampa driving what I thought was a jalopy of a tractor because it needed a hand crank to start (and would probably hand over what's left of my teeth to get back again as a restoration project). But like that tractor, those bright white locks are long gone. What's left of my hair is mostly gray now, and sadly, there ain't much of that. But that's not why I write today. Rather, I'm hoping perhaps some of you can help me with something... At my gramma's funeral services last week, several people commented about things remembered from the eulogies I wrote for Viola's husband, Victor Konvicka, (my grampa, someone I was very close to and the first person I ever wrote parting words for) and her daughter, Lillie Horecka (my mom, who despite seeming a healthy woman at the time of his

I found this proof cover of the 2018 Havik anthology about midday Saturday, May 19, at roughly the same time the faculty and staff were hosting a party for the new book at Las Positas College in California. I rather hoped I would've seen more photos from the event, but from the looks of it they came right down to the wire of getting this thing put together. I've attached another picture at the foot of this post that goes over the general basics of the publication this year. If my imaginings are anywhere close, this must be one hefty volume. A total of 122 contributors from six continents. I'm rather amazed my piddling contributions got anyplace near it. At least that's what I thought, anyhow. In fact, I wrote the whole thing, tongue in cheek, more as a spoof of a poem rather than an actual submission. Of course, I banged this one out on one of those days I got like 14 rejections in one day. I wrote this snarky as hell, and submitted it thinking it could

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

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

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

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