Experpt from HAPHAZARD, an in-progress poetry collection…

I haven’t made any absolute decisions one way or another just yet, but for an introductory and rather experimental writing project, I thought it might be
best to keep things very plain and simple — black on white — but  describing that particular cover design was going to be a nightmare for someone who hasn’t played the font name game in some years now…


HAP


HAZ



ARD


A poetry collection by bobby Horecka




If nothing else, I figure it offers an apt description of my poetic abilities. A poet I am not, nor do I claim I might ever be. It’s a fact I’ve simply come to accept, personally, and it’s a fact I doubt I’ll need to argue much with anyone after they see an example or two of what I’m trying to pass off as poetry…
But there is a heap–if not heap, per se, a pile of some magnitude, at very least–of poetry contests coming up in some of our country’s largest and most well-respected literary journals and publications within the next six months or so. What floors me is just how much money they pay out in prizes.
Sufficed to say, if I could win just a couple of those prizes, ol’ Atzenhoffer’s at the end of my street here in Victoria would probably be able to get rid of at least one of the shiny new rides that they seem to have trouble finding the parking spaces for over there.
No sir. I wouldn’t mind that in the least. And the way I figure it, I don’t stand a chance in hell of winning a damn thing if I don’t bother entering, right. If nothing else, it’ll give me the chance to try my hand at something a little outside of my comfort zone.
Who knows? I may learn a thing or two in the process, maybe even get lucky and be the ONLY
idiot who enters, and thereby be the only one who can collect that pretty little pile of $100 bills they happen to be giving away. Don’t laugh too hard: Screwier things have been known to happen…
Usually , they happen to other people, but even the blind hog will happen upon an acorn every once in a while, as my grandpa used to it. It’s all about persistence, more than anything, or so I’ve heard and read. And how damn hungry that hog is. This hog here’s half starved, I’ll have you now…
So as not to stretch this particular post out too long, I’ll cut this short here with one last thought: ke I said several contests have approaching due dates in coming weeks. If it sounds like something interesting, Poets & Writers magazine has one of the most comprehensive listings I found. Google, ’em and check it out, but if you wind up winning and getting my truck, you’ll at least stop by and let me ride around block with you at least once, won’t you? Cool…
Finally, my excerpt (as yet, untitled, but I also gleaned the collection title from it):




I remember a boy
clumsy, cotton-topped

following that old man
around, every-where


hat stuffed with newspapers
hulking, over-sized


trying to fit desperate
uncertain, hap-hazard

bottle feeding orphan calves
tugging, love-starved


they found their nipples
rubber, man-made


at a little boy’s hand
clumsy, cotton topped


both knowing mother-less 
tugging, love-starved

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