Bill Friday

fictionary… 8 megapixel artist… bloody awful poet


William of Ockham

William of Ockham


The simplest answer


Is the right one

Thanks razor-boy

Of all the

Possible answers

To life’s

Dramatic questions

The simplest never

Includes the heart


Because the heart

Has been cut out


© 2015 Bill Friday

The Road About Life

"The Road About Life" c Copyright 2015 Bill Friday

“The Road About Life” c Copyright 2015 Bill Friday


Nothing new

Just the usual mental misery

A fog brought on by working

like I imagine most people work

Long hours

Possibly a second job

or a third

Mine is on the road


Not strenuous

just monotonous

After the first year

every road looked the same

And every conversation about life


What the one monotony taught me about the other

The road

about life

Is that they both have an end

One expected

The other not so much

And that you should not forget that about both

Because the one seems to end too late

and the other

far too soon

But really

they both arrive right on time

Plan your trip accordingly


© Copyright 2015 Bill Friday

Sunday into Monday

space heater










It all collapsed at once

Everything I had staked my future on had fallen in on itself

And as I sat in my room, late Sunday into Monday


with the TV on and the space heater blowing up at me from the floor

I took long pulls on my second PBR

and typed

Because there was nothing left to do


© Copyright 2015 Bill Friday

Blanket of Heaven

c Copyright 2014-2015 Bill Friday

c Copyright 2014-2015 Bill Friday


Skunks lay low when it rains here

and possums stay off the slick streets

restricting their business to

the tops of cinderblock walls

or inside dumpsters

under the pale blue cover of streetlights

and the shadow of kitchen windows’ warmth


Here the air around me smells of

wood-burning fireplaces

and fresh wet earth

where the ocean gives up

its salt spray

on the sharp winds of night


Then comes the rolling sting

of needle spray

a gift sent from the

midnight leaden blanket of heaven

It is here I turn my face upright to meet it

and dream of what it will mean

when I die here


© Copyright 2015 Bill Friday

In the General Flow of All Good Things

mud man


The water rose and I almost drowned

Over and again,

in so many ways, unforeseen

It rose and receded,

and with each ingress and egress,

I grew less aware of the strength that had replaced my weakness

Then it was,

at just the right time,

that I saw what had become of my position,

and my place in the general flow of all good things

There was mud in my pants,

and I may have shit myself a time or two in the process,

but I was standing

And hard as it was to move, I moved

One thick step after another.


© Copyright 2014 Bill Friday

Under the Bougainvillea… at Starbucks

bougainvillea 2


You meet the nicest homeless people at this Starbucks

So polite

Women carrying purses

Actually smiling when you give up your place in line for them

Better dressed than I am for work

Maybe this is their office

Taking meetings with the birds under the bougainvillea


© Copyright 2014 Bill Friday

The Dark Road Called Forward

photo c 2014 Bill Friday

photo c 2014 Bill Friday


[My world is lately upside-down. Its only direction is the road before me, and it is called, Forward.]

I have a past. We all do. Mine is dark behind me, and strewn with the debris of unchangeable regret. The burnt and mangled wreckage of unsuspecting lives, forfeit to the fog-wet highway, taken too lightly. Captured only in digital reminders of the worst ending, never imagined, and what must have been the better times before. Times of lies rightly told, and fears suppressed long enough to enjoy the promise of surroundings that would fade away, locked safe inside grief’s scrapbook.

The open road, at night, looks like life. There is only what’s in front of you, insufficiently lit. Just enough light to aim yourself, hurtling, into more dark. Behind you, there is nothing on which to dwell. A last stop, last road sign, last lane change. Or anything more than the shadows of what might be gaining on you. And in the distance, there are the cities, distant, shining. Waking dreams, miles away and full of the hope you foolishly still hold onto, silent, in your heart. Silent, because you know that, while they were once beautiful, they are now just the out-loud promises you weren’t meant to keep. Mystical, glowing, still drawing you like a vision of your own clever words. But up close, jagged, and beyond forgiveness. A blue neon cement-scape of lives crumbled, and nothing but dirt in the details.

So you accept only what you can see in the light right before you. You trust only that the destination ahead is there as you’ve been told, and that it waits for you. You let all there is, shining in the distance, go.

And you stay on the dark road called Forward.



Copyright © 2014 Bill Friday



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

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


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


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