poetry prose, past present

It's Austin, Texas time with this guy who is - no lie - a bit of a hybrid between Hemingway and King. Among other archetypes. And suddenly the great typewriter in his mind sings, receiving a signal of certain insight and significance concerning just how we might wield the e-might of all who write and, inspired, conspire against the greedy desires that hardwire the incumbent economic matrix for writers. Shit...and readers. 

You better believe this. 

Anyway he thus needs this moment to own Prose and present its presence to silly-old-me amidst beer, whiskey, and chicken wings in the motherfucking Omni. 

I know. 

Mental and physical literary omnideliciousness insistently ensued allowing our intuitions an opportunity at apparently abolishing an atrociously abysmal arrogance emblematic of our inherited era, id est almost all authors' anguish, et al.

Two years and three days later, I proved here that A is no Prose hater.

Cheers!