On boots and bars and motorbikes...

First thing I read this morning, on what was supposed to be the opening day of spring semester: Stay the hell home! I may be editorializing a bit, but I'm sure that's what they meant. After all, hell's probably coated ice about now. South Texas soon will be. Doesn't take a genius to figure out what happens when rain, which is falling now at my house, hits a frozen road, which if it ain't yet, soon will be. Temperatures are expected to dip as low as 20 degrees with a stiff north wind blowing, which for anyone who knows this part of the world--20 degrees and a hard wind combined with our always delectable humidity, set to soggy year-round-- it ought to feel downright tundra outdoors today. For a dude who would've otherwise two-wheeled it to school today to teach classes (the Harley's my sole transport), those cancellations were a kindness. I don't think they make clothes warm enough to endure that kind of weather, nothing you'd find anywhere in

Might not be all that surprising to a few folks I know, but I field the question an awful lot these days. Still, considering the vast majority of those who know me now were a bit astounded I could even hold a pen much less use one, it's hardly rocket science.  But when that thing you've always done seems more like work than anything you might've once enjoyed, sometimes you're better off giving it a rest a spell. A rest. A spell.  Hmph. That might be almost humorous were it not so damn life-altering. Nothing I'll elaborate just this second, just know that irony can lead to long and twisted road sometimes, which is great if you're on a motorcycle. Not so much sometimes when you're living it. Of course, that's another story... For now, I'd like to share a little something I wrote two years ago, to the date. Before that particular day ended, I loaded a rather large toolbox into my truck--right about now, actually, two years ago--after the job

I haven't made any absolute decisions one way or another just yet, but for an introductory and rather experimental writing project, I thought it might be best to keep things very plain and simple -- black on white -- but  describing that particular cover design was going to be a nightmare for someone who hasn't played the font name game in some years now... HAP HAZ ARD A poetry collection by bobby Horecka If nothing else, I figure it offers an apt description of my poetic abilities. A poet I am not, nor do I claim I might ever be. It's a fact I've simply come to accept, personally, and it's a fact I doubt I'll need to argue much with anyone after they see an example or two of what I'm trying to pass off as poetry... But there is a heap--if not heap, per se, a pile of some magnitude, at very least--of poetry contests coming up in some of our country's largest and most well-respected literary journals and p

Now before you start calling me a straight up asshole, you’ve got to understand how we two first met. Not that what you might call me matters much. I been called worse. A lot worse. Today, even. If the boot fits, I always like to say, wear that sumbitch proudly. But how we met says an awful lot to how we’ve put up with each other for so long. It says a lot about what makes us tick, how we view the big wide world around us. I didn’t know Bubba at all back then. Seen him around the jobsite a few times, but that was it. We worked different crews in different trades. He was a framer, or carpenter to folks outside the business. Me, I’m an electrician. Were it not for landing on the same floor that particular afternoon—and that dumbass kid—I doubt we ever would’ve said word one to each other. It’s kind of a rule on a construction site: You don’t fuck with other crews and they won’t fuck with you. Makes everything a hellova lot easier, most days. But every crew has its dumbass. Thi

Please indulge me one day more Antipathy gravy spoon-fed be spider Rocket slowly damsel dreamer The dearly departed detestable deportees defect indifferently at Desdemona detour deny the                          despondent dire drivel      of        driveway debutants yearning confounds the drip-dry-dripping of heart strings rip-sliding-ripping more a saw-grip-gnawing impatient hands breast pawing molest malevolent nip without mauling take care to kiss delectable dewdrops delicate velvet gypsy jasmine just make sure she's devoured eternally inextinguishable decipher the indistinguishable conscript and let the soul sappers slalom dance jig n schottische respectfully irreverent irrespective irrelevant but to a fault were his loyalties or so it is said n i  f g a g a good GOD h  l t   l     so seductively silent its almost shameful                                or at least                                 it should be.

Been busy as a springtime hive of honeybees the last few, trying to get as many words on paper as I possibly can, as well as updating devices and files lost in the last computer debacles of late, getting ready for the new school year, and dealing with my lone student I gave an incomplete to last semester because he wound up having emergency surgery on his appendix in the final week of school. (No worries: He's fine now, but they sure kept him a spell at the hospital. He didn't get out until the final week of December. That was nearly a month as best I can tell, and I actually went to see him not long after his surgery in the first week of December.) But I'm staying plenty busy, anyhow. Kinda irritating at times how others don't seem to want to leave me alone when I'm working, but it's what I get, I guess, for setting up shop out here in the living room in front of God and everyone. Much as Stephen King told us to do in On Writing (which is a fine

James HETFIELD - Full Show at Acoustic 4 a Cure - 15 May 2014 - Fillmore...