Is about the Easter egg hunt of the apocalypse, the over cooked hamburger on a stale hamburger bun, the disappointment of an acne breakout just before the senior prom, the green hornet in your omelet, the pecker tracks on brand new sheets, skid marks in your underwear, and he holy book of consistent inconsistencies. Amen. I think. But maybe not.
They never tell ya if the “OTHER SHOE” is part of a pair of shoes. Everyone assumes that is the case. But we don’t know anything about the first shoe. Nobody ever talks about the first shoe. It’s always the OTHER SHOE and we don’t know anything about that one either for Chrise Sake.
Born in Missouri more than a century ago and raised in a Pentecostal orphanage, the creature now calling himself Gelson Verber has changed his name countless times. He’s part-werewolf, and makes his living hunting certain kinds of bad men—criminals, rapists, thugs—in an often grotesque parody of the natural order. Verber is clearly suffering from the kinds of things a werewolf would be uniquely vulnerable to in the modern world: the horror of war, drug abuse, and isolation in the rain-drenched environment of Portland, Oregon. He has PTSD, but in a unique way, often flashing back to his time with a regiment in World War II. His smooth life as a serial killer takes a turn when he falls into the crosshairs of Salt Street, a development corporation running pirated criminology software and Big Data sieves to identify werewolf hybrids, who are then forced into servitude. As he falls deeper into the trap that has been set for him, his introduction to its evil architect triggers within Verber a string of recollections, conversations with the late werewolf-hybrid, John Jack Bridger. Salt Street's trap is masterful, but it does have one terrible flaw: you cannot cage someone—or some thing—like Gelson Verber.
every WORD for ITSELF: It’s a jungle out there in the world. It’s survival of the fittest out there in this world. And that includes the words we use. Choose them wisely. Say or write what you mean. And mean what you say or write. I don’t.
These poems speak of our bodies' limitations and the spiritual exigencies of our lives; they are haunted by emptiness and loss, tenderness and the whisper of our flesh. --Black Heron Press.
Feeling overwhelmed by everyday life? Searching for love and acceptance? Discover how God revealed the depth of His love and acceptance to this author and turned her life around.
This is a compendium, a collection, a litany of hazardous literal waste of thoroughly unacceptable manifestations of words, images, ideas, that no relatively sane person would voluntarily expose themselves to. So, go for it, dive in, it’s more fun than mud wrestling.
