The (New & Improved) HYENA KITCHEN

"Wrappings" by James Patrick Lockett I shield myself from the lights and tinsel, from the greed and falsehood, from the gift wrapped hatred hidden for the season; I hide behind pages of Bukowski, and wait for my deepest wishes to come true, and for the rains to end.

        I seldom publically acknowledge my atheism, as I have always felt that what a person believes in, or doesn’t believe in, is his or her own business. Everyone has the right to believe that which they need to get by day to day – just another choice we’re faced with these days. While I tend to be more vocal on choices like Coke over Pepsi, or liberals over conservatives, I remain a “silent atheist,” one who sees no reason to wave my lack of belief in the face of others as the “bully atheists” do. However, when my mind and heart make an informed choice to believe something, I resent being lumped in with the aforementioned “bully atheists.”          Deepak Chopra – who until today I’d always dismissed as the touchy-feely Guru to the Stars, who’d pen a number of “how to fix your life” books that supply endless fodder for daily Facebook affirmations; the mystic version of the Wayne Dwyers, the Tony Robbins and others on the Rah-Rah-Rah-Babble lecture circuit speaking to the nation o

      "The Special”                by   James Patrick Lockett        It was an hour ago – to the second, if you care to be that precise – that we’d broken up. But, since I was looking at a clock next to the glass shelf of high end scotch, all bets were off. Bar Time! Could be an hour, could be could be ten minutes. However, I was on my fourth drink, so it was probably closer to . . .no, wait . . . that’s also a poor gauge. Fuck it, let’s just say sometime within the past hour I became single again.        I sucked the last bit of Jura off an ice cube and set the glass down in hopes of catching the bartender’s eye. I stared passed my empty glass, at the bodies on the dance floor pulsating to bad eighties songs. . .  . . .  traveling in a fried-out Kombi, on a hippie trail head full of zombie, I met a strange lady, she made nervous . . . . . . indeed. Ladies Night re-imagined with a clever slash of a Sharpie to Eighties Night. I could see Maggie and her friends sittin

This is an extended piece from a Flash Fiction Challenge that was limited to 500 words, well as you can see the muses were kind and the story took on a life of its own far beyond the word count (A 500 word edit exists in the St. Patrick's Day edition of Mid-Week Blues-Buster Challenge at thetsuruokafiles.wordpress.com) I hope you enjoy this "Sainted" little tale inspired by a Pogues song.                                    “A Pint, Wager, and a Song”                                                           by                                        James Patrick Lockett         It was cold, the kind of cold that only a Dublin morn’ can oblige. The glass didn’t help any, either. It hit like broken shards of ice; spraying across his back and shoulder as he turned away. He shook the cold glass from his hair and checked his back the best he could – no blood, no foul. The whore hadn’t been as lucky. She lay on her back, across a bed of cardboard boxes, a narrow sh

A friend of mine turned me on to a Flash Fiction Challenge - the Mid Week Blues-Buster @ thetsuruokafiles.wordpress.com.  The writing prompt was Santana's song "Put your lights On" and, well, here's what came of it.  "Under the Neon Sign by the Stairs Up to te Bar Above Margarita’s"                                            by                          James Patrick Lockett        "Hey buddy, spare a buck?”        I  didn’t look up, just dug deep into the pocket where I used to keep my keys. The single dollar bill looked grey in the green light of the neon sign. It felt heavy like old cloth. I stuffed it back down and said “No.”      “Oh com’on, all I need. . .”        I looked up this time. My eyes met his and he stopped as if the reflection of green neon in my eyes spelled - Shut the Fuck Up – instead of s’atiragraM.        "I said no.” My weight relaxed back into the wrought iron security door of the stairwell. Some bluesy gui

Happy 2014, the eleven month version. Here we are the begining of February,  the official start of the year for me after a January bout with H1-N1.  There have been several fevered and/or boredom inspired blog entries started and dismissed over the past few weeks,  everything from a response to John Hagge's asinine suggestion that all atheists board a plane and leave the country,  to my thoughts on secular idealism, to Justin Bieber (as well as a few new poems that are making their way to The New Yorker before seeing light here) - all of which may eventually get dusted off and make their way to the kitchen,  but not right now. One of my February resolutions is to stop feeling the need to explain  myself when I say "no." With that in mind,  I came across this. . . "Never waste your time trying to explain who you are to people who are committed to misunderstanding you." . . .so with that said, and my apologies to Popeye,  I am what I am, I own my thoughts,