Art for Sale

I post a lot seeking work and reminding you that my books are available. Why do I do this? Because I am poor. It is hard to make money off one's art. I think things will get better after the Jimmy Plush release, but up until then, I've got to look for ways to make some extra money without begging and without cheating you fine people. When I was young, I wanted to be a painter, but was told I couldn't because of a lack of coordination and spatial sense. Instead, I learned to paint with words and poetry and construct images and worlds and states of mind. A few years ago, my girlfriend Leza suggested I try painting. I was reluctant at first, but I found myself enjoying it. I created this painting "The Magician".



Turned out I liked painting. And I've done it occasionally over the past couple years. I made one of my paintings my profile photo on Facebook and people responded very favorably, making me think maybe I had something. And what I shouldn't have is fear. So, I took my poverty as a blessing, understood is a receptive state and said to hell with it. I've decided to sell some of my paintings. The first painting, "The Magician" can be yours for just 25 dollars plus 12 for shipping (domestic) and there are others too.



This one is called Instinct. I painted it shortly before writing Archelon Ranch and I think it sparked a lot of the imagery I used in that book. I considered asking Matt and Rob from Legumeman if I could use this for a cover, but I lost my nerve. It is one of a kind and it sells for just 25 dollars plus 12 shipping. One of a kind, comes with a free piece of flash fiction.

$25+ 12 shipping

This next painting, "A Shearsman of Sorts, the Day Was Green" is bigger than the other one and has more sentimental value. It has inspired me and I hope it will inspire you. It's inspired by Wallace Stevens' poem "Man With the Blue Guitar", which in turn is inspired by Picasso's painting of the same name. This painting is a different figure, though, powerful but sort of malevolent, waiting and expecting something. This one is charged with a lot of creative energy, so would be a boon to have in your study or studio space.




35 dollars plus 20 shipping

The next painting is also weird and special. I had a tarot deck that was no longer serving me and I had just acquired a new one, so I decided I would do something that honored some of the cards while at the same time getting them out of my hair. So I wet them, tore them, stuck them to the canvas and painted three figures over them. I think you'll agree that they have a certain strange resonance to them. I call it "Gentleman Automata" because that's what the three figures make me think of, especially the pink penguinish fellow to the left.



40 dollars plus 20 shipping

Update: Decided to add another two of my earlier paintings. This is a smaller one, so is pretty inexpensive and won't cost as much to ship. But I think some of you might enjoy it.



15 dollars plus 8 dollars shipping

The lighting on this photo of the painting isn't great. The background is much lighter. This painting brings with it a certain sense of wellbeing and peace. I'm proud of how positive and nice this one is.

20 dollars plus 12 shipping

Thanks for looking at my art. If you like it, it can be yours.

Just So You Know

I am currently available to do manuscript critiques and edits, consult with authors regarding small presses that might be appropriate for their work and overall make the small press world a slightly easier place. Price negotiable. I have worked as submissions editor for Evil Nerd Empire and Bust Down the Door and Eat All the Chickens and have edited four books thus far. I am most familiar with horror and Bizarro publishers, but all genres are welcome. Email gacookeditor@gmail.com

Birds and the Bees: Sex ed 2013

zRecently, in Texas an 11 year old was raped by 28 young men. Conservatives are saying it was her fault for dressing provocatively. The definition of forcible rape is changing. Someday, it will not exist. Let's peek in at a trailer home two years from now, shall we?

Rebel, my boy, sit down. Not there. Not on that chair. That's my other good chair. Man works his ass off from 35 years and he don't have a right to two chairs? On the floor, you piece of shit, sit down on the floor! This is important, dammit! Now you had better fucking listen, because I ain't gonna say this twice. You're sixteen and I think it's high time I taught you about...you know. YOU KNOW. What do you mean, you don't know? I'm talking, you dumb little shit, about sex. You know, sex? Yeah, I bet you know, sex. No, I know. You're a good boy, Rebel.

I'm sure you notice your sister's gettin' a little chunky. No, it ain't the tatertot bacon grilled cheese casserole. Your sister's with child. Don't you call your sister a whore! She was a good girl. I'm the man of the house, I asked for what was mine and she gave it to me. Barely cried. Earned her ice cream cone like a champ, so don't you call her a whore. Byron was tellin' me his daughter aborted his son. Can you imagine that? Little bitch killin' her own brother? I raised you two better than that, din't I? I raised you with The Lord.

Anyhow, your sister's with child because I stuck my...you know what...in her and I gave her my seed and the Lord saw it fit that she should bless this trailer with another boy. When you stick your...you know...in a girl...the Lord might see it fit that you bless your trailer with a boy. But first, you gotta court her. You might think you're s'posed to just wait by her car, choke her when she's gettin' in and demand she pull down her panties so you can just have your way with her. Not so. That, my boy, is rape and we ain't rapists in this family. Things get complicated here.

Now, if she's wearing a tightass little skirt, she's tellin' you she wants it. Then you can disregard what I told ya. Bitch is beggin' for it. That's how you came about. If she's dressed respectable like, you're gonna have to buy her a drink. And then you slip one of these badboys in there when she's in the bathroom. You talk to her 'bout her interests and shit til she gets sleepy and then you can bring her home and do your business, make yourself a son. And you raise him good like I raised you. Now tell your sister to get in here. I'm gonna show you some of the particulars.

Badger Cab

There was a woman that witnessed something terrible some gangsters did. Nobody was sure what it was. Not even she really knew. But the gangsters must have known since they objected to her knowing this. They somehow found out what cab she rode home in and while the cab driver was at his favorite Gingerbread House restaurant enjoying a gingerbread house, they filled the back seat of the cab with honey badgers. She got in the cab and was ripped to shreds since there were no action heroes in the cab. There are no action heroes but plenty of gangsters.

Serial Experiment Part 5

Experiment Part 4

"FUCK YOU!" he screamed at the light, the poetry, the hope, the mercy. She came to him lucky, about to rest, white haired, bloody angel. She came to him close to the quiet that was the best that men could hope for and he awakened her into the world of screaming and sorrow. He did not apologize for the things he did to people, no matter how loathsome and yet an "I'm sorry" almost crept past the wall of nihilism he had erected to keep out these and similar sentiments.

"Thank you," she said.

A lecture. A dismissive sneer. A derisive laugh. All possibilities. All in character. If there weren't a kind of blank canine sincerity in her brown eyes he would have thought that she was trying to mock him.

"You're welcome," he said. He meant it.

"I believe my name is Elsie," she said. She was proud. It meant something to be her, even if she could not tell what it was. He thought of the first time he called himself Robby Graves, screamed it into the microphone. Abrakadabra. Something else. An explosion of possibility. Not so much that she thought her name was Elsie, but that she knew this one fact and it deeply effected her beliefs. He trembled a little at the static charge of her assertion.

"It's nice to meet you, Elsie." It was nice to meet her. It was scary to meet her. He shouldn't have met her. She was dead. It was still nice to meet her.

"Do you have a name?" she asked.

"Yes," he said. He was hesitant to give it. He did not know which one to give or if either of them was right to describe what he was becoming.

"Is it a secret?" It was not sarcasm. It was perfectly legitimate question. If he were at the top of his smarmy, pseudospiritual depression junkie form, he would have said, "yes, but I'll tell it to you anyway."

"Robby. Robby Graves." She laughed at the pun. When she was done laughing at the pun, she laughed at another joke, one she kept private. It was cutting, truthful and funnier than the pun. He had an inkling what it was, but he would not have laughed at it. He did not ask what was so funny. She felt selfconscious about that.

"Is that your real name?" she asked.

"Sure, I guess."

She fell to the floor weeping and shaking as if kicked down by an invisible ogre. She folded her arms against her chest. He backed off, afraid to touch her, to do something about whatever celestial ailment left her in this position. He waited, knowing that it would pass, but that whatever had brought it on would linger.

She stood up straight, hugged him.

"We have to get out of here. Someone bad is coming."

Serial Experiment Part 3

This is section 3 of the Serial Experiment I've been doing with Ash Lomen. For info on the experiment and the first two sections, click the links below:

Serial Experiment Part 1

Factory Boys Serial Experiment Part 2

Part 3

Beloved Elsie, child of moonglow
Softer than fresh snow
If only you could know
The warmth that you've brought

Beloved Elsie, fire of destiny
Right hand of insanity
If only you could know the
Disaster you have wrought

Earthlight was singing. Name almost familiar. The voice was Summer rain. Not too heavy to make trouble. No hurry to get home. She would not catch cold. Second verse hurt, but it was strangely nonjudgmental. Simply what she was, whatever that was. She remembered a crowd gathered to watch a frightful looking man, a giant with a heavily scarred face. He was at a podium speaking. Looked scary, but nobody was afraid. In fact, they felt good being near him. They loved him. Without question, without hesitation, with the purest of intentions, they loved him. She felt like crying at the thought that somebody so frightful was so loved. She wondered if anyone had loved her so much as this man who loved and was loved as the Earthlight loved.

Beloved Elsie, brought forth in starshine
You'll understand in time
All of the things that you forget
You could live without regret...

The man who loved and was loved so much shakes, twists, contorts in pain. She hurts too, looking at it. The crowd hurts. Please, he is big, he is old, he is powerful, he will live...someone would have to listen to that prayer, someone would have to know how much everybody needs this man to survive. He gives one last pained look, asking why and knowing that the only one who could answer it would never tell him. Somewhere among the crowd, a bad man smiles. He must have been a part of it. It looks like he really wanted it. Somebody do something. Somebody save him, somebody do something about that man! Either man. The man everyone loves dies and the man who had to be the only one who did not love him flees the scene.

If this mistake has to be made
If this justice is delayed
Open your eyes, don't be afraid...

She opens her eyes. The face she sees is full of fear, full of misery, afraid of the dark, afraid of the light.

"I'm sorry," he says, not knowing what he has to apologize about.

Serial Experiment Part 1

So, I've been a bit on edge lately. I'm always a bit on edge. But, I've been waiting on edits and responses to a few queries and getting back to writing short fiction and thus my creativity and writing have been erratic. So I decided to take some initiative and jumpstart my brain again. Horror artist and Bizarro and horror author Alan Clark has a great book of fiction out called Boneyard Babies, made up mostly of collaborative efforts. Fantastic, experimental stuff. I will be reviewing it more thoroughly in the first issue of Nuckelavee. He describes a great writing game called Bone Grubber's Gamble. I decided to try it, so I got in touch with horror/Bizarro poet and author Ash Lomen and we tried it. Twice. Both times the stuff was good. So I decided to try another game. One more indepth with more longterm results. Each of us makes up a character. Sends details on the character to the other one. This is the first viewpoint character. The second one, we make up for ourselves. So, the story will be told from four perspectives two made up by Ash, two made up by me. When all four viewpoint characters have been introduced, we can use any perspective we like. If you want to follow this serial, you will need to follow both blogs, where we'll be taking turns posting sections of the story. I'm getting things started with the character Ash created for me. Lights go up on Gothrocker Robby Graves.

“I am the insurrection and the blight,
There’s a reason that I just go out at night
And all the little girls they spread legs wide
Because I take pride
At bein’ more dead than alive inside
And I will treat you like a slut
I will make you cut and cut
Cause we are only human when we bleed
And I’m becomin’ somethin’ worse
I’m becomin’ somethin’ worse than me…”

Robby Graves was more a consumptive than a rockstar, not singing, but spitting lifeforce that he couldn’t spare whenever he stepped up to the mike. A bleeder, a junkie, a proud lost cause that made stray martyrs long to strap dynamite to their chest. Girls caked in thick white makeup held up scarred wrists to reveal deep devotion cuts, tore off their tops and waved pierced, sliced and cigarette burned breasts that could be his if he offered only so much as his attention. They loved him for his long blonde hair, his bare chest and his message of existential surrender. He could never love any of them.

“Least favored son of Morningstar
I slash my wrists with my guitar
And I’m becomin’ somethin’ worse than me…”

A smiling Japanese schoolgirl in the front row stuck a sharp tanto into her belly. Twisted it. The smile never left her as she bled out everything inside. He stopped singing, absorbed in the spectacle. He was not surprised, he was not impressed, he was envious. He wished he could give something like that. Perfect display of Zen nihilism. Mastery of elegant empty. He walked out, went to his van. He needed a hit.

Cried, but didn’t shoot up. The drugs didn’t work anymore.The cuts went away. When he used his groupies, they developed an eerie sense of contentment and well being, the cuts on their wrists vanished as his had and their eyes opened to life, while his desire was always to lead them to the clemency of death. He didn’t like this. The drugs didn’t work anymore. The cuts went away. He had been dreaming of angels with the heads of white rabbits.

He took a handful of pills, begged his body to surrender, didn’t want to die necessarily, not for good, just to be away from the things that were him. What he’d always wanted. He was, in a way, getting it. He closed his eyes, concentrated. Meditated on disappearing. Black. Blank. Enveloped. Empty. Hollow.

Thud.

Something banged against the van. He opened the door, stepped out to find a dead girl on the ground face down. In spite of her white hair, she looked like she was barely out of high school, perhaps even young enough to be a junior or senior. He rolled her over, hoping to get a good look at her face. He regretted that. The spark he tried so desperately to suppress filled him, felt tiny traces of life left in her, sought to fill her too. He begged it not to, but it wouldn’t listen.

End of section 1.

Keep your eyes on Ash Lomen's blog for section 2.