i think i might do this. honestly: fiction writing will never be a literary skill or interest to me, until that stick up my ass was removed during my rib surgery. from that rage tree that grew over a decade and when i reached the top, the tree spoke.
alright man. you just said some crazy shit.
group laughter, an awkward laugh.
yes, i did. oh, sorry, that was my geniuses just offering breakfast.

2013 print publications set straight through june already? very cool…


PRISON FILLED PHARMACY is scheduled for publication in the JANUARY, 2013 issue of AMULET.
> I AM SO is scheduled for publication in the FEBRUARY, 2013 issue of AMULET.
> SURREALIST DESCRIPTION OF A MILK SHAKE is scheduled for publication in the MARCH, 2013 issue of AMULET.
> ANNOYED ARTIST is scheduled for publication in the APRIL, 2013 issue of AMULET.
> WINK, WINK is scheduled for publicaiton in the MAY, 2013 issue of AMULET.
> CURVES OF A SERPENT is scheduled for publication in the JANUARY, 2013 issue of MYSTICAL MUSE MAGAZINE.
> BRAINS IN ALABAMA is scheduled for publication in the FEBRUARY, 2013 issue of MYSTICAL MUSE MAGAZINE.
> WEST COAST ROCK TOURS is scheduled for publicaiton in the JUNE, 2013 issue of MYSTICAL MUSE MAGAZINE.

thanks Perry for the support.  here is some info about this awesome publisher and publications. a true gangster right here.


Help us keep our contributor’s copies of our magazines FREE for our writers. SUBSCRIBE NOW !!!

To share the literary efforts of writers throughout the United States and abroad. Writing is good therapy.

Company Overview
Submit poetry, short stories, and essays for publication to:Conceit Magazine
Perry Terrell, Editor
PO Box 884223
See More

Conceit Magazine – short stories, essays, poetry and articles
Amulet – poetry only
The Ultimate Writer – short stories, essays, poetry, articles, personal encounters, contests
The Bracelet Charm – short stories only
Luminaries – Inspirational poetry, short stories, essays, articles, dreams and personal encounters – fictional or non-fictional. All faiths welcomed. DEBUTS: June, 2011
General Information

Our subscriptions are dowm at present. Please subscribe so we can keep the contributor’s copies FREE to our writers.

Release Date April, 2006

Awards Catalogued and displayed in numerous libraries and university libraries throughout the United States and abroad.

Numerous accolades from our subscribers, contributors and readers.

Products Independently published literary magazines. REAL magazines distributed by mail featuring work from writers throughout the US, Canada and abroad. Writing contests. CASH PRIZES! Please visit the Myspace site for detailed info.




sorry for not posting lately, being a person who writes with my hand on paper makes for re-typing up work sometimes emotionally draining. I write everyday. please dont ever think I have quit or am not sticking to it. thanks for following my blog. and please keep on doing so. i will be posting a lot this week. the critics kicked me down for a minute, and now understand why a lot of artists do not read any reviews or articles about themselves. that can be dangerous. i have been just trying to fine tune the style I have built, making it as distinctive as i can, i write what i write and i consider myself an artist, even if a shitty one, still an artist, and at least one or two readers like it, and it has never been about being liked the most or writing for anybody but myself anyways. yuck, never. i am not stuck up and believe everyone should read my poetry. which brings me to mention that i am now for sure done with verse form, i feel a more musical poetic prose of syllabic rhythmic flow of blah maybe suits this current transition in artistic growth, trimming the fat. and i am done feeling an obligation to justify, explain, apologize for my words. over it. i feel lucky to have one person like something i write. i have been reading everyones blog posts that i am connected to and you all are some beautifully minded people. for sure.


I remember, when before I slept last I heard the first rain come down. And during so these poems of beauty flew in and out so fast I froze unable to grab the pen some feet forward, pen some feet at my left. Vain, I confess to be most of the time. Though as I listened to the cast of diction swim and form in my head as if ordered by god, these angels as letters forming into my relief I sighed with relief that it was to be with me still. A good month only long rubbish explanations of nothing filled my head and I wrote them down. Though moments just a few before typing here as I read the words I have written recently I felt a bad taste for on my tongue and new I must return simply just because. Of who I am, songs. Of words, of sound. Of words read out loud to tame and shall do. I must stay well in form for my confidence intact to be reported. As long as my hips move and my eyelids close to a faint hum to that of which moves me in joy. An aisle of that pure love one feels at any age yet knows yet will not say, that time defines the goodbye that they so gently voice and add that all with a promise, will be perfect, everythings okay, now until that day, I stay, too sensitive for a women to take a hold and toss like a hot potatoe now a game of keep away, living like I say not one day bored letting maybe fate off and away… some I am positive maybe all believe this prose in which I announced claimed poetic style my preference to sing a tune like these so vague, but just hug you and together you elevate, opening your eyes and realizing cries, no need my body language tries to implicate for your american wet eyes, random thought that it is though who knows me no suprise but this billy collins and other watered down guys are poets that are of the MFA program and i believe nothing else but what a surprise, at least they are not of the typical case a poet usually comes from and tries, like me, having just then the epihany, I’m so predictable fucking so much as the color of the sea to this my friends baby. Well for sure now I wont to me smell my own pee. Lots of marijuana plants I would love to but wont grow em, I just want to chill and thank my brain for urges to write a poem. Post prose poetic a long breath and death, our presence.

wow, poetry, i just thought about a moment and see. they studied it and could not put a definition to the T and just shrugged and its now become to always be kind of uncool and shit

what a bunch of little bitches. truth is your butt cheek that itches. what if my faith was put in dangling turds?

wouldnt sit so well now would it sir?

neither would what I rhymed you with, though I do it much, that time I believe the fifth. but get over it, dont be a baby and crash the party, i used to be the famous hardie farty. easy target. but dont enlarge it. i clear rooms. see? i farted


did you know the term
“its raining cats and dogs”    was just fucking random?      it didnt ever mean shit.       funny.     oh, and always the bunny, is who wins, if not, then my name is flims       e.    sim   mons                         oh, no,sorry, shit                     meant tit,             thereyago                blow?     cool.   funny to b: stool.    so gross. and hilarious.     somethin carry us. ok i’m done.    cant say wasnt fun.

the writing in my notebooks is beautiful and just music, but I will anyways write something but its after i see something annoying a friend posted on facebook and so i show up here all “the world sucks” mode. to fix the problem, just focus. on. the. now. letting what happened in the past, you are letting have an angry look and hold your head down? come on man. you are so much better than that. guess what? you have some choices to make, and whatever you choose, will be amazing and its going to touch the passion vault lock…… wow mine is half this size.
okay, so you get me.

whatever it is, even you dont know, be done, its in the river, or lets say you just pooped it out. no, no, leave below your confusion, or any resentment somewhere just wherever, because they are stupid, kill your anger already. you are not tough. you sob in guilt any time you even get righteously angry. think: not thinking”




oh for my head of mop a new bed. Dont be offended, but, I am happy I get to bring a beautiful home now without an embarrassing futon on the floor. I remember sometimes almost not being able to…….

ya know

oh fuck it, BE AROUSED. ERECTION (whoe dude, totally over the line).  And I would feel so bad. I’m not a slut. I was officially not practicing the act for like, 4 months. And then a law who claimed to be named murphy fixing a telephone joked about what if now, done with my 4 month whatever, will never want a thing from me. Man, thanks homie. I’m walking down to first thursday. i have a mop of stoner hair and one of my new shirts on if anyone comes down to firsties thursdies come say hi. I talk normal in person.

So yeah, my friend Edgar, started a clothing line, simply called 50tree(tree not spelled out, but a green tree) on black. And you have to sometimes say it out loud just looking at the Logo to get it. And you know what? I think its kind of cute. I will leave a link and photo below so you can see. A non-corporate “sponsorship” like this is not much more than us doing smart marketing for ourselves as independent entrepeneurs of our self made “product”, both winning, and not losing anything in the end. I wear a shirt at a show, they send a copy of my new cassette release out with orders of my minimalistic, soundtracky, trip-hopish analogue recorded, composed music. Exposure, to elaborate on what I said before the last sentence. Anyways, I dont explain myself 🙂 I make decisions and I am stoked. Much more to be said. but not yet. I dont want to jinx something that would rule.

(Sigh) What the hell is going on here? This is Portland, Oregon. ARTSY FARTSY Portland. I want to know what dumbass chose to make an education in art, of all forms, pretty much extinct, unavailable to kids in the public school system. What group, what the hell ever, WHO let this happen? And WHY?!!! I honestly, being a Portland native, musician and proud poet, feel an obligation to make a fuss about a cause that should not be, especially in the city we live in, a cause at all. 2 out of 10 kids on a good day learned an eye blink of a lesson on something artistic. Art has become an industry here. And the city has a reputation for the Art scene. Lets remember Music is Art. Art made the Pearl District, named after an artist, where the cheap art studios used to be. Not to mention, I bet he and she and they and that one guy and them, those guys, and maybe you, moved here from another place, and I am not surprised if half to form or join a band. Lets not mention…. oh my god, so much stuff. Portland is Portland because of Art. We need the people running the city when we are old to have a deep respect for the arts also. I dont want to be writing this, thinking about it gives me a headache, but, fuck man. I am shocked.  And informing possibly no one. Check this out: On October 26th, there is a “Festival” at the Someday Lounge with a bill of DIY Northwest bands and musicians called LoopFest! My band(just me) if you wanna call it that, Bass Shaker Presley is officially now playing this show to raise awareness on the lack of Arts and Education and also in the name of the arts scene, to thank the city, celebrate the vibrant as hell art scene here. for real. i feel like the city was saved by artists. I will have a microphone, thats what I am gonna use it for, for 30 seconds.  15-20 years ago, portland sucked; I was apologized to in 1995 for living here while at Disneyland. i bet that guy lives here now. why are all of your and my friends not from here? yeah man. Bass Shaker Presley sounds like this: http://soundcloud.com/brian-hardie and will be very LOUD at this show. I have fatigue from the now normality of trying to sell myself every day, and am eating a sandwhich. ‘put a turd on it’ i mean bird. someone has to get that.

Me In The Bitchin Kitsch Oct. Issue

I just realized, that whenever something shitty happens, not just unfortunate, but just plain fucked, happens, where I am forced to become stronger, where I have to move on, to keep on, I immediately change notebooks. Its a way of moving on, a way to not deal with the past, messing up my nows. Every old notebook saved has plenty left to be written in. I have around 20 saved. Have owned and used for sure over 100 cheap notebooks in my life, many back pocket Moleskines. Though because of my relationship with my writing, I never kept track of my used or I should say finished with, journals. I remember very well my first, as a kid. Sky blue cover.

I need to write more quotes I dig in here. Not just vomit all over the pages and then be done with it. You know, after I empty the dirt from my belly, as Henry Miller wrote. Where I bury casual “I-dont-knows”, here. I’m writing prose write now, though. There would be no connection, and only static would be heard, dead-air, deformed offspring from being thrown into processing perception getting stuck, thrown off board. Something I would never admit: I let criticism of my published writing get to me. Or, okay…. I am threatened, deeply scared of it. I hand over my power as an offering! when I should and do hate critics already. I have to force the words out when I am fearing what might be said about those words, sentences, syntax, that I produce. I am telling the critic, “I know, I know” or even worse, apologizing. Guilt over not saying the right thing, and not convincing. For having eyes rolled at, shoulders shrugged at, sighs from a readers annoyance or boredom. For not giving the reader wings, for not stopping them in their tracks, and making them feel something. I know that is true(what is true?), but I’m still keeping it away from my own eyes to read (You are losing me). I gave my power away. That one, certain power of bragging I just realized existed as a strength, muscle. Mine is under a rootbeer belly. Crazy (are you lost yet? You cannot catch me).

I feel ashamed to admit that I nearly gave it away from not believing in myself. What are you rambling on about? My own worst critic feeling the success of giving me an ass kicking. If I write it down, I will see how I should not be discouraged. (Sorry man, I gotta run)  My best friend of 20 years, because he was butt hurt, left an insulting comment about one of my pieces, or more so about my style, on a blog post. And I didnt write for three weeks I let his opinion convince me he was right. Writing for the first time in almost a month, I felt as if I had taken a shower much needed. No writing meant no blog posts too. And I just finally started connecting with some people. No stopping (I can say okay I wont but will) I felt like I was fading away from the practice of something that no matter how much I told myself that I am a shit writer and there is no point at facing another blank page and (and and ends it)

“Hey this guy cannot explain a damn thing. He runs away during the sentence from the sentence therefor he is pretty much mumbling with his pen.”

I want to believe I have true meaning. I want someone I adore to let me know that. Though I’m still writing, remembering why I started writing at all: something was telling me to. Inside. The puzzle misses a piece without my writing. Pompous so called pride is a defense mechanism. People want to be told how it is. So I let them know that I am original, true, human, therefor beautiful. Nothing more boring than an honest person that is normal and even perfect. I wont stop writing. I do want to feel naked sometimes, and show that I am human with faults, that wants acceptance, that feels. Someone has to let you know that all of that pure bred human type is actually walking the sidewalks still and that someone else being one is completely cool also. Yuck. What a corny lame sentence. Perfect? Perfect is Boring. Find a plastic surgeons blog. Wrinkles and taking a crap and having flaws and jealousy is what happens on this blog, because that is what real life is (awww, look at him speak of fuck no one give about? I am Ivon the Russian), admitting you are wrong sometimes, admitting, that your just butt hurt and acting accordingly. What a boring post, sorry. Its crazy how huge just one persons world is. Still everyone poops (But I really dont!) Well then you are a zombie. Glass of pee? Finger and sour cream? No? There is some fresh hair in that sour cream. Cool. (Thank you, though, I might crack a cold piss here in a second)

Cool, bottom shelf in the fridge. Dont forget about that hairy sour cream. Yeah, my food stamps re booted yesterday. I gotta grab some Turds and Tators for your buddy. Lets go to the store, man.

(you always put the perfect amount of hair in the dip)

Told you it was dank. Gotta smoke? Sweet, thanks.