There Is No More Outlaw Poetry Left

There is no Outlaw Poetry in the coffers. It’s a shame I named this blog Outlaw Poetry, but mostly I did so in deference to the latest poet in our Rock River Literary Series, Dennis Gulling, who is one of the great small press Outlaw Poets in America. My intent was to serialize the 100 poems in his book The Blood Dark Sea over the seven blogs I write for or edit, and all the poems are gone. I suppose you could buy the book, but I know from my experience there is no chance you’re going to do that, so I hope you have enjoyed The Outlaw Poetry blog. I suppose there are other places you can find Outlaw Poetry on the internet if it’s really your bag, which I’m sure it isn’t.

It’s possible I could repurpose this blog as boner pill blog or one of the other thousands of useless applications I see the internet being used for. The Cubs are on the west coast beating the hell out of the Giants tonight, and I have only a few more chores to finish before I can sleep, so my day is almost over.

How about this? I’ll reprint my Ed McMahon poem titled “Whiskey Spills, Bad Lovers, and Celebrity Deaths Come In Threes,” from Zombie Logic.

Whiskey Spills, Bad Lovers, and Celebrity 
Deaths Come In Threes

“You know Johnny fucked
Farrah Fawcett when she
Was still on Charlies’ Angels,”
Says celebrity sidekick Ed
McMahon from behind a Scotch
Too cheap for an ex Marine
To a second rate bartender/actor
Paying too little attention.
“And he always said that Michael
Jackson was a fucking child molester,”
Says McMahon, pretending not to notice
The celebrtity tabloid show
Flickering in the corner.
As late night sidekick Ed McMahon’s
Shaky hand spills a third trickle
Of rot gut onto the bar he knows
Back home his trophy wife
And the three Pekignese are already
Staring at the couch like
They’re seeing a ghost.
Ex Marine Ed McMahon beckons
The two-bit bartender closer
And offers: “I can only tell you
One thing kid: Whiskey spills,
Bad lovers, and celebrity
Deaths come in threes.” – See more at:

Tomorrow night we have Bad Prom. It will be the first prom I have ever attended. I suspect many of the cool kids in town will be there. I’d like to drink just enough to have a good time, but not enough to wreck my entire weekend the way I did last Saturday when I got a call at the last minute and had to stand in for a feature poet who had called in sick. Mostly now I’m just trying to get to 500 words, wait for clothes in the dryer to dry, brush my teeth, and crawl into bed. Cubs win! Cubs win! And a tantalizingly small amount of words away from 500 I am out of here like Dennis Miller.


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