Not a project, exactly, my library, not a project in the narrow sense of the Baker Portfolios, but -- thirty-some years in the building -- a project indeed! And a bespoke introduction to the "real" projects that follow. Spread over two rooms and threatening a third, a confederation of sophists and sages in full regalia, casuists and scholars, a throng of savants, midnight soloists and timeless scribblers -- whispering, gibbering, howling from their shelves across the hours, across the seasons. And then, the silence. All in all, the perfect cradle for a grateful writer foraging through his meager nest of ideas. And a lovely place to light up a cigar, to sip a little wine. Come join me . . . .

HOBY BLUE BANKS IN EXACTLY 1,000 WORDS, MORE OR LESS -- because sometimes you just can't stand being yourself. A scurrilous volume of short stories, "as told to Bruce Sager, typist" . . . [by no less than Hoby himself!] . . . "who otherwise don't know shit, and who, on top of his other deficits & defects, of which there is no small number, wanted to call this thing 'Speak Easy,' I guess because of the lizard on the cover, which, to an artsy fartsy mind, might be a statement or some such about trusting what speech come tumbling out of a man's mouth when he gets to talking." Not for the faint of heart. Forthcoming in 2017  from Hyperborea Publishing.

A practical instruction. Well, no. Not  really.
But a “must read” for any poet.
Depending on your definition of “must.”
 
     And look how hard you’ve been
     working. Does the laborer not pause
     under the midday sun for a sip of water?
     The soldier beguile the hours of bivouac
     rolling coffin nails? Who are you
     to deny yourself the common comforts
     the body demands? And besides,
     maybe you have your poem already.
 
Do you recognize yourself here?
 
     Here’s where the might and majesty
     of the language will step in, married
     in the near night under your little
     gooseneck writer’s lamp. Or maybe
     not. Maybe the might and majesty
     of the language are currently in
     the employ of some other poet,
     likewise desperate to turn a bright sheet
     of foolscap into something deathless
     and deep, and despair begins to set in.
 
Turn your back to it, sugar booger.

It started out as a lyrical -- yes, lyrical! -- poem about the fascist mind. (Have I lost you yet? I don't think I'd get past that first sentence, personally.) Anyway, as this recent presidential race grew into a monstrous debacle, the poem took on a life of its own. See if you recognize any of the players. An atypical piece for me . . . which means it might sell a few copies. (Publication Date: 12/21/2016)