Bøker av Al Ferber

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every WORD for ITSELF:It's a jungle out there in the world. It's survival of the fittest out there in this world. And that includes thewords we use. Choose them wisely. Say or write what you mean. And mean what you say or write. I don't.

And, another thingNothing is ever really done, finished, completed. There usually is "another thing" to provide context, color, clarification, emphasis. All the shit that "another thing" does, can do, or you wish it would, or could do. Like this thing could "anything thing".Read it. Maybe you'll have "another thing". .

They never tell ya if the "OTHER SHOE" is part of a pair of shoes. Everyone assumes that is the case. But we don't know anything about the first shoe. Nobody ever talks about the first shoe. It's always the OTHER SHOE and we don't know anything about that one either for Chrise Sake.

This is a compendium, a collection, a litany of hazardous literal waste of thoroughly unacceptable manifestations of words, images, ideas, that no relatively sane person would voluntarily expose themselves to. So, go for it, dive in, it's more fun than mud wrestling.

Is about the Easter egg hunt of the apocalypse, the over cooked hamburger on a stale hamburger bun, the disappointment of an acne breakout just before the senior prom, the green hornet in your omelet, the pecker tracks on brand new sheets, skid marks in your underwear, and he holy book of consistent inconsistencies. Amen. I think. But maybe not.

Two Ends. No Middle. Odd, don't you think. So do I.

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Go back to sleep. You're not missing anything. In fact, there's nothing but lots of nothing to see here. But read on, if you must.

Someone once said to me, "It must be nice to get up every dayand see a circus in your back yard."I told them, "the circus is in my mind."

This life. This planet. Might as well be Mud Wrestling on San jab Hill.

Hard as it is to believe, I was born. Been all down hill since then. One piece of shrapnel after another. Went to school. Work at jobs. Wrote a lot, drank a lot, painted a lot. And hard as it is to believe, found a woman who gets me. Her wrapping is a bit loose as well, of course. Worse than that I get her and there doesn't seem to be a way out.

A highly unlikely convergence of three pivotal points in this writers history that had remained unaddressed until now: the beginnings of this writer, first wife stricken by schizophrenia,and her sudden death.

The angels napped, snacked, played craps, rolled the dice across celestial floors, played havoc in the world, in peoples minds and souls but took their evening respite in the trees.

The sails burned. The ship burned. Everybody burned or drowned. The ship sank. The hollow horror of it all.

The dancing girls have all gone home from the dance halls from the footlights from the red lights from the blue lights from the dim lights from the corners from the alleys from the rent by the hour rooms from the cops the pimps the dealers the rapists the beatings the ERs the johns the marks the glamor of the graveyard shift.

The massive hallucinatory nightmare flashed in fragmented strobe light fashion in his mind, before his eyes, into his ears as sonic booms, shot out through the ends of his fingers, bubbled up in his mouth and down his throat, in what they call "e;the suicidal delirium tremon dance"e;. And he danced it straight through its burning end. And out into the scorching world for another lap around the track. And then some.

ILLUMINANT ALLEY is Beat but not broken, broke but not beaten. It burns like the fabulous yellow light of the oncoming train at the end of your tunnel.Hop Wechsler, writer, poet, documentarian