I'm back, Moonbats! I have returned!

Where did I go? To confront Death and History. To the depths of depression, a black hole from which my creative voice struggled to escape.

Greetings from Sin City. I'm not exactly the Anthony Rendon of Publish0x as I did return from the Dead List before the conclusion of the previous season.

Yes, I managed to rattle off a sequel to the Replacement President Conspiracy and published an overdue instalment in the True Tales of Medical Horror series.

Moonbats, I yet live! May this news make my enemies tremble and hasten their inevitable demise.

Lately, I have been thinking about death more than usual as the reasons for doing so continue to accrue.

My mom died in June of 2023.

A handful of you may have been aware that my mother was vaccine injured and had been sickly for the last two years. She has succumbed to being shot. Even her doctor had to admit that she died of "vaccine complications."

Yeah... it's complicated, alright.

Alternating sadness and rage. No words are sufficient. 

I am not the loneliest man in the world but there are times when I feel like a contender. This is one of those times. I'm plagued with some of the loneliest thoughts a man can think.

The only woman who ever loved me is dead.

Less than 30 days later, another number was up. That of my sister.

My younger sister died in July. She wasn't vaxxed, just very unhealthy for a very long time. My sister was a trained nurse but was morbidly obese and did nothing to improve her health, until it was too late. 

One time a doctor had told her that "it's all genetic" and so she didn't bother to try eating healthy.

It gets much worse, but that's all I will tell you. Though, I'm not one who believes that we shouldn't speak ill of the dead. I believe in telling at least as much truth as necessary. And, no more about her is necessary here.

Except, to note that a friend of mine died on the same day. We were never close friends, though I did sleep on his couch a couple of times. However, he was an influence on my life as an artist, particularly as a poet.

His name was John Emmons. We became frienemies in 1993. He was the host of the infamous"Poetry Alive" open mic reading at Cafe Espresso Roma on Maryland Parkway across the street from UNLV. That's where and how I met him.

I had moved to Las Vegas from Anaheim in March of 1993. I had moved there with my friend and band mate, Jeff Ford, and his sister Jamie. Other than their grandmother and the people at work, I didn't know anyone in Vegas. I was writing a lot of mostly bad but occasionally nearly good poetry as a young artist struggling to hone the skills to allow my authentic voice be heard.

And, in order to be heard, I went to my very first poetry reading. I rode a borrowed bicycle from beyond Bermuda and Windmill around McCarran airport to the cafe.

I didn't know anyone, so no one talked to me. The sign up sheet was numbered up to 36 with nearly every slot taken, the only exceptions being one through six. So, I signed up at number six and hoped someone else would want to go before me.

No such luck. I was the first person John called to the microphone. I almost said "stage," but it was only a little riser of maybe eight inches in height.

Yes, for my very first public reading I had to go first. I read a couple of rhyming things and some odd word association stream-of-consciousness stuff I was writing at that time. There was some polite applause, even from a few people who were talking while I was reciting. But, no one spoke to me.

I came back and repeated the process five more times before anyone spoke to me or signed up in the first half dozen slots on the list.

The first people, other than John, to say anything to me became fast friends and led to the foundation of Nature Boy!. That would be Meagan Angus, Andy C. Hall and Jason Quiggle.

But this isn't about them. We were talking about John.

One week I announced that I was going to read a series of poems written by my friend Steve Flanagan. John refused to allow me read someone else's work and kicked me off the stage.

The next week I returned with a new original poem. It was what would be called a "dis track" if it were put to music. I mocked him and used some creative insults. One particular line which seems to have resonated and stuck with a few who were there was "you want to be the toast of the town? Well, here's my dick in your eye!"

John loved it! After that he almost always had a smile for me. "I always hoped that I'd inspire some poetry out of this room, but it's been like pulling hen's teeth so far," he told me. He continued, "most of these people wouldn't know inspiration if it farted in their faces."

I didn't realize it at the time but he was doing his Charles Bukowski impression while he said that. John often invoked the spirit of Bukowski at Poetry Alive, even reciting bits from the film Hostage. Fitting, and more amusing when you were in on the joke.

Anyway, he continued to influence my development as a poet when Lollapalooza came to town in 1994.

That year, part of the festival included a poetry slam. I had no idea what that was when it was announced. I had a confusing encounter a few weeks before, when as I was coming off the stage after reading a few pieces, a young woman approached me and said "you do slam, don't you?" I thought she was talking about injecting heroin. "Look at my arms, I'm clean!" LOL. Maybe I was just a little bit too self conscious of the fact that I was very thin since I couldn't afford to eat every day.

Anyway, I participated in a handful of poetry slam events and didn't advance to the final round. However, two of those who were selected had to drop out. One apparently had a scheduling conflict which couldn't be resolved (couldn't take time off from work) and the other was disqualified under the rules because he was only 17. 

As a result, the two replacements were selected from the pool of competitors. The members of the slam team chose one and John Emmons chose the other. John chose to include me. 

As he told me later, he chose me for two reasons. One, I have a unique perspective and was writing things unlike what anyone else was doing whether that was my longer narrative works or the bizarre word association stuff. And, two, he knew that some of the others were annoyed by me and he thought it might motivate them to be at their best.

John liked to stir the proverbial shit and poke people with the stick. A few times I was the stick. Thank you, John, your contributions are appreciated.

There were other deaths last year.

Levi was a barfly acquaintance from the Double Down Saloon. The last time we talked he asked, "how did you do that?" Because he had watched me talk a beautiful woman over to the bar where we had a long conversation and she bought me drinks. 

You read that correctly, she bought me drinks. She was a prostitute but I wasn't buying anything. I just wanted to see if there was anything beyond the physical appearance which was definitely attractive. When I picked up on her euphemisms and figured out her game, I didn't show any disgust or ask for a freebie. I just talked to her like a person and she responded by smiling the whole time and giving me hugs. Levi thought that was amazing. That wasn't the first time he had seen me chat up a woman and get free drinks like that, but this woman had been particularly stunning.

I don't know what killed Levi but I suspect that he had been vaccinated with a Covid shot. I'm not sure of his exact age but he probably wasn't older than mid 40s.

Burrito was a poetry friend who was also a barfly friend. Burrito found his way into a few of my poems. There was also the infamous art collaboration between myself, Cactus, and Burrito's bike thief. Burrito was definitely vaxxed. Burrito was a Scientismist. He died of a heart attack at 38.

German Santanilla was another poetry friend who died within the last two years. He liked to tell the story of our meeting in a dark parking lot one night. I had been talking with Carrie O'Connor after a reading and she asked me to get German's attention. I shouted "Hey, mister, you want to buy a monkey?" He couldn't forget me after that and became one of my strongest defenders in the scene as he was able to recognize and appreciate my sense of humor. Unfortunately, he got vaccinated and his health deteriorated rapidly. He was hospitalized for pneumonia and didn't recover. Wearing a mask didn't help him.

And, John Emmons was also vaxxed.

Without a doubt, the vax killed my mom.

But, you know, those are just wacky coincidences. Anecdotal evidence at best.

So, yeah... These are just a few things which have been bouncing around my brain and distracting me for the list of things I need to write. 

I used to write prolificly during bouts of depression, however I want to break the cycle and avoid writing about depression. 

Unfortunately, that resulted in far less writing being accomplished.

The sadness has been too heavy to lift a pen. The hole in my heart goes to such a frightening depth as I am unable to see where it ends; perhaps it is infinite. I've been struggling to put these thoughts and feelings into words. 

The thoughts are tormenting. 

The feeling is crushing. 

The words are inadequate.

I began writing this more than six months ago and left it unfinished until now. I still don't know how to wrap this up in a satisfactory manner.

Sometimes things just end.