Bill Friday

fictionary… 8 megapixel artist… bloody awful poet



There are days

when I think I have

lived long enough


Days after birthdays

and when holidays have

passed for the year


Personal days of remembrance


and deaths


Days of finality

after celebration

or mourning


Days that follow

the emptying

of my soul


Days I can’t remember

why I’ve hung on

for so long





Copyright © 2014 Bill Friday




I feel the unclaimed warmth of you

across the miles

as I would across the bed

at the length of one strong arm

yours or mine


I hear the steam in your breathing

in time with the beating

of two hearts at rest

after the frenzy of first contact

as you turn towards me

across the bed

across the miles


I hear you sound the sounds

of warmth that I have claimed

that we have made

of me as I am now

inside you




Copyright © 2014 Bill Friday

From the Stage at Kadie’s

sin city kadies


She pours me coffee and flirts right through me with her eyes, and a smile, in my direction.  I know I’m not the only one, but a man can dream.  So I smile back, and let myself like it.  I tell myself it’s the free coffee that keeps me coming back.  But tonight I know that isn’t true.  It’s her eyes when she smiles that keep me coming back.  Anyone can give you free coffee, but free coffee, and that smile, warms a man more than coffee ever could.  When it happens, that smile with those eyes, it’s like looking at a full-color, quarter-page panel from a Frank Miller graphic for the very first time.  It’s like Nancy seeing Hartigan from the stage at Kadie’s, locking eyes with his, on the night of his impending demise.

So, just for tonight, I chose to be honest with myself and accept that the coffee, like watered-down booze at Kadie’s, isn’t the reason I keep coming back.

And I let myself like her smile and her eyes, and the way they warm the last place still alive inside me.  A place where coffee cannot go.

And I dream.


© Copyright 2014 Bill Friday




It’s not the first time

this has happened between us


You’re busy, and the whole world

revolves around you


Oh, and you’re right

Ask anyone


Ask yourself

Now ask me


You can’t see past

your self-satisfied nose



I’ve been here the whole time

Bleeding on my keys

Undercover poet of The Village


Pour me another cup

You useless fuck


I’m going to make a

living off your muse


Is this the way

you’ve always been


Or is it the power

you’ve been given


To ride a skateboard to work

and earn tips for a living


One day they’ll know about you




©2013-2014 Bill Friday




(A reflexive, in middle-voice.  Whatever that is.)


What is my fucking problem?

A need to leave myself alone?  To explore the loss of sanity in the name of productivity, while prepping for the looming zombie apocalypse, and retreat from existing in public places that play 70’s synth pop from overhead speakers until my brain feels like George Romero’s grand children’s Play-Doh?

I need a hovel.  A place to go.  A place to stay.  A cramped enclosure fit for sleeping and writing, and possibly fucking.  I’m not really sure about that last one.  A place about half the size of your average drive-through Starbucks.  A box to call my own.  A box with a toilet and a shower, and a kitchen too small for Barbie to use, as if Barbie could fucking cook.  A box with a bed against one wall, and a desk with a chair against another.  A box ten steps from end to end, so there’s no temptation to fill the space with up-cycled dumpster chic shit.  A place to drink coffee and hang my art while I hang my head.

A place that only exists in my writer’s mind.  Because, if it did, what excuse would I create to keep from being there?


© Copyright 2014 Bill Friday


Chasing Dreams Doodle


I’ve grown


of chasing




will now

be chasing





© Copyright 2014 Bill Friday

Willie and Johnny and a Woman of Questionable Character



I need folk songs cut

from gravel and bone

or the blues

any blues

but the whiny kind

all the too cool kids

sing these days


I need my shirts black

drums thick

fiddles high

and harmonicas

wet and pressed

against lips dried

and cracked

by the spotlight


I need Willie Nelson

and Johnny Cash

played back-to-back

and a woman of

questionable character

crying life into

a microphone last dropped

by that skinny little shit

from the opening act


© Copyright 2014 Bill Friday

Better Looking Than Louis CK

louis ck pain chart


I never had

a groove to lose

let alone

one to get back


Just a bearded man

with a flat ass

not flat abs


Better looking

than Louis CK

and funnier

but not on cue


Plus a fucking

great personality,

when it suits me to


I’m going to

end up alone

in this life


Not because I can’t

pull chicks

but because I can’t

pull the trigger


And because I want

more than I deserve.




© 2014 Bill Friday

Older and Frailer



I avoid thinking about my childhood

Unless someone asks me to tell them

Why I am the way I am

And then I’m forced to

Or I lie


And usually

When I talk about the distant past

I spend that time remembering my dad

Whose influence always finds

Its way to the surface

Of my thoughts

The quickest


He would yell when he got angry

Mutter when he knew he was wrong

And condemn

When warning me against things

That could lead to harm


But as he got older and frailer

With age and a failing heart

He also would

Own up to his yelling


Condemning ways and speak

With genuine contrition


Until the last night I saw him alive

And I knew that he

Loved me more on that night

Than on any day

Which had preceded it



© Copyright 2014 Bill Friday

Closer to Becoming

original art by Tiffany Ashley Truttman

original art by Tiffany Ashley Truttman


I’m sitting cross-legged

on my bed

returning correspondence with friends

on the internet

fucking buck-ass naked

The light from the cresting

August sun makes the

piles of dirty laundry seem

less than it is

Maybe a load tomorrow

maybe not till next week

The coffee isn’t strong enough

but I won’t go downstairs

like this to make more

or get dressed so I can

And now, the two o’clock breeze,

fifteen minutes early

telling me that Autumn is

closer to becoming

than an empty bedroom floor.




© Copyright 2014 Bill Friday

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fictionary... 8 megapixel artist... bloody awful poet


fictionary... 8 megapixel artist... bloody awful poet


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