deep joy

Well, the waiting is over. It's here: my very own copy of  Enrique's Motor Lodge Room #22, a book of pomes by two noted Americans. The second half of the silvery volume is populated with the writings of Ms. Misti Rainwater-Lites, a nice lady from Texas. The front end is full of stuff straight from the brain of an old friend of mine, a certain Illinois-born Florida resident, Mr. M.P. Powers.

Powers: what can I say? He entered my consciousness way back in the late 1990s when I waded into a clusterfuck of globally distributed crazies all set on demonstrating who knew the most about the life and works of Charles Bukowski and on burning each other's sorry arses asses in an intricate web of shrill flaming. One strange fuck, a certain Googolplex, really stood out as the bull moose of the scene, bellowing bizarre barbs. He ran a lightbulb store, was all hot for Chevy Camaros, loved to sell all kinds of junk online and once memorably dodged a real-life meeting with a fellow combatant by having a barbecue in a Chicago public park the day the guy showed up on the warpath and all set to commit murder.

Powers could give as good as he got in the lunacy stakes, but there was a sane and principled individual behind the persona. I knew this for sure when I finally got to meet him in the flesh and in a waterfront bar/eatery in Boynton Beach, Fla. about six or seven years ago. Drinks were drunk and shit was shot as boats bobbed and the TV chattered sports scores.

Anyhoo, a quick flick of the Powers/Misti-penned book that reached me yesterday gives me cause to become all moist and squirty at the prospect of giving his (and her) words my proper attention. I may or may not write an actual review at some stage. No promises. I'm a fickle and flaky sort. I can already tell you, though, dear reader, that if you want a hard, dirty hit of good lines then you need to get a very little amount of £££ or $$$ together and hook yourself up to the M.P. and Misti experience. As Rollins said: DO IT.