Somewhere in the 1970s

No one was going to tell them what life was about. Or tell them how to party. They were free. And arrogant. And young. It was the 1970s and everyone was lost.

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The Baltimore Catechism

When I read T. S. Eliot, I wrote like T. S. Eliot. Yet I did not how he wrote. I wanted to think like Ferlinghetti. And act like Henry Miller. I had heroes. As poets. I wanted to sing like my uncle Tom. Who wanted to sing like Hank Williams. This book of poems was written with the seriousness of youth. As if I was trying to break into a safe. Containing national secrets. And finding out that someone had been there before me.

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Making Movies

The magic of film is recreated, taken apart, examined and lovingly satirized in an unusual work of fiction. David Halliday imagines a BBC documentary about ‘the well known Canadian film maker Samuel Bremmer’. We see moments of the films themselves; we hear the words of the actors, the designers and the commentary of the director, Samuel Bremmer. The illusion of film, and how it is created against a backdrop of money problems, personality clashes, jealousies, ambitions, love and vanity. Originally published by Press Porcepic.

The Planet Jack: Thoughts On Here

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A planet spins on the edge of our solar system. It is remembered in folklore. As the planet X, slipping near the earth on its way passed the sun. Bringing death and destruction. It is the apocalypse. The end of days. Its real name is Jack More

Church Street is Burning

A finalist in the 2003 Eppie Best Poetry Collection, Church Street Is Burning, in illustrations, short stories, and poems, tells the story of the poet as a young man. Lost. Abandoned by the woman he loved. Bewitched by the street he lives on. Forgotten by his God. Searching for some rational order in a world fallen on its side. And leaking.

Diary of a White Virgin

The mystery that is a teenage boy. Half way between surliness and joy. The poems are short and brief like a kid running.

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Crowd Noises

Before I began to listen. In my younger days. I ranted. Invited into small spaces. Where my nose was rubbed in my words. Listened to my fellow poets. Bleed. Black. And wondered if I heard an echo. Or was everyone crazy. These were the Crowd Noises.

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Pigs

You can hear their knife like squeals in the swamp, sounding like one was already being digested.

Electric Loneliness

Elvis was so lonely. He felt like he was just someone made up in his momma’s dreams. And when she died. He had no place to rest his head. And sleep.

The Farmer

After working all day in the field, he returned to his home. Everything was gone. Meaning. Her.