Are We Not Men? (Hey Sarah, This is for Steve)

I was sitting on a candlelit patio with some friends in the northern corner of the county several months ago,  digesting some damn fine burritos, followed by the best homemade brownies I’ve ever had (really, Sarah) and chocolate chip cookies baked by an expatriot Frenchman,  clop clops of Amish buggies rolling by, scoffing at a redneck imbeciles “rolling coal” through a crossroads village so small that it’s not even a four-way stop, and roiling over old bands from the 70’s and 80’s. (And no, I don’t mean Foreigner and Foghat).

Today, I stumble upon this:


Then add this:


By JunkChuck

Native, Militant Westsylvanian (the first last best place), laborer, gardener, and literary hobbyist (if by literary you mean "hack"). I've had a bunch of different blogs, probably four, due to a recurring compulsion to start over. This incarnation owes to a desire to dredge up the best entries of the worst little book of hand-scrawled poems I could ever dream of writing, salvageable excerpts from fiction both in progress and long-abandoned. and a smattering of whatever the hell seems to fit at any particular moment. At first blush, I was here just to focus on old, terrible verse, but I reserve the right to include...anything. Maybe everything, certainly my love of pulp novels, growing garlic, the Pittsburgh Steelers and howling at the moon--both figuratively and, on rare occasions, literally.

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