Saturday, September 17, 2011

Brief Write-Up on NewPages.com

That's right. You may not give a rampaging shite, but NewPages is a pretty big deal and they like my horseshit even if you don't read it. Because, you see, my timeless story, "The Adventures of Root Beer Float Man" received a thumbs up from one Henry F. Tonn of the prestigious NewPages Web site. In case the link soon shits the bed, here's what Mr. Tonn wrote:

"I immensely enjoyed “The Adventures of Root Beer Float Man” by Michael Frissore, a humorous tale about a man with super powers such as being able to scream like a little girl, and who is dedicated to solving crimes, if he can correctly identify them. Frissore’s style comes through as the protagonist asks his boss for time off to investigate a friend’s death: “‘Well, you know, Sparky,’ he said. ‘You don't really work here anymore. I fired you three weeks ago. You have no training in journalism and you creep everyone in the office out.’” And so our hero sallies off to right the world’s wrongs."

There you have it. I'm great!

Saturday, February 26, 2011

And now a poem

This is a poem destined for rejection by the majority of the poofy literary journals around. Especially since this poem is a parody of one of the poems I read on one of those poofy literary journals. Thus, here 'tis. You bastards.



Boston Brewer


He veers from the Dude Who Calls Him Fonzie,
a kind of weird, snowflake like treat – a pizzelle
perhaps (mmmmm!). She’s half-miming, and dizzy
on Girl Scout Cookies and a teaspoon of crack cocaine

His essence
is a monsoon in July – call him Mr. Tibbs, or Christ.
He had a hell of a time of late on her belly in
the balcony of a theater, or yanking at glittery
nipples in the Framingham Best Western.

She promises that she will do some kind of dance
(safety or Humpty).
Many, many god-awful things: throwing tomatoes
at her ransom notes to the Amadeus Institute,
gratuitous hankerings, spitting Valvoline into a paper cup.

and belly dancers looking for sock puppets
who can take a punch, right on the chin or
in the bread basket, or square in the nuts.
He’ll get the Prince Albert prank call he’s asking for.

If you must know the earth is melting. This is hard to admit
when my lips look like Dali clocks and my tongue has hung itself .
They throw buttons and paper clips at the calves,
promising veal parmigiana.