Im Back

Thank you blogger for resurrecting my site. I am a little older now....not sure how much wiser but I am happy to be back. I hope you'll all join me again.

Heavy- Hearted Wanderer

He returned from a romp in that oversized schoolyard known as America and people in the village had noticed a change.

And upon his return, on the few occassions he would venture outside, he talked in mono-syllables of a girl he had met. He talked remotely of one dissappointment he had encountered after another.

All situatiations reminisant of that land were irreparable and he accepted this with an almost unhuman quiet assurance.

But he was no longer connected to anything and wanted nothing to be connected to him. Slowly, he pushed away all that had once been his reality.

People remarked of his deadened spirit. He had always said there was no such thing as "spirit" anyway.

He grew more lethargic than a cat in the sun. In fact, he didn't care much for the sun...he didn't care much for anything.

He did not weep, he only slept. He preferred the company of his dreams to the company of old friends. Noone understood this.They just knew that he was gone,,,his body, a shell,his heart; a vessel of hardened sanguinity.

I cried for this wanderer but I wasted my tears.

By: Devon R. Waters- the melancholy series- MDJ Press, 2004,BROOKLYN, N.Y.

Not So Du Jour Anymore

For those of who find me to be either uncredible or incredible... I want to secure that I can be found on google. Basically, i will do this by publishing nonsence such as this to fill in the huge gaps when i am too busy or too lazy to write. i refuse to use this page like a diary as others do; i want it to stricly represent my published an non-published work, which accounts for the inconsistency and the inability to access me via google from time to time. stay tuned...stay connected.

PS : Did you all see I was reviewd by blog celeb Jason Mulgrew? Jason, I have to say, I did not know who you were until I saw your profile in People Magazine. He and I could not be more different but I appreciate that he took the time to read my shit. Thanks and get a day job...just kdding.

Writers, Stop Misusing Your Gift !!

I stay away from, well, lets say more accurately, I yield at the desire to write anything that could solicit an emotional response to a social or political issue. As a writer, I feel it is nearly always a cheap poignant device to move people to cry or protest over years of consistent democratic decline. I would ask, by this point, what exactly is the point?? Not only is it irresponsible but there are too many writers doing that already and I think it is base and boring and well, pretentious. To all of you who customarily feel the need to flout the burning bacon of democracy, I say this, writers don't have unique viewpoints, no unique observations, no power to persuade sensiblities. They merely have unique ways of putting thoughts and ideas together and within the political critique framework, well, there are just so few ways one can do this. Eventually, it all begins to sound like commentary. Sorry, but I'd rather chew on the fat of one's raw emotion than on the gristle of commentary any day.

By: Devon Waters
Published :Issue 214 MDJ Press, Brooklyn N.Y.

Anywhere But Here --- A Short Story

at age nineteen, Julie was like the walking dead. she carried around with her, a proud subversive fatality that she simply didn't know what to do with. she had judgements about the way people were, the way institutions operated, the way things should be. none of these judgements were actually founded in natural reality. they had truth only in the form of a distorted perception that she had adopted when she was younger and suffered one disappoinment after another. she just was not amused by what the world had handed down to her thus far. Now, naturally, this carried over in her dealings with people. she grew more discouraged with every social encounter. she knew it was probably because she secretly felt she should be adored for something. but for what? her morbid self-importance? her pretty face? that wasn't enough. she did not realize this yet. Julie had a lot to learn.

her newest indulgent crusade was a search for freedom. " if i could just get out of this town, anywhere but here, then i could really start something" she thought to herself. she planned her escape more diligently than she had ever planned anything. managing to save enough money working all summer at Foertcsh's Bagel shop, Julie felt a guiltless wonder and purchased a ticket for Belgium. in those days, you could do that. the year was 1972 by the way. she had a spinstery aunt who lived there. she made arrangements to stay with her . This eased all reservations her mother had about Julie's travelling. how convenient. who the hell doesn't have a lonely spinster for an aunt, an evertrusting one, to run to?? i'd like to know.

anyway, Julie made it to Belgium. from Brussels, she had to take the regional rail line "Numero Vingt Cinq" to Bruges. that's where aunt Cele would be waiting.....probably with a rum cake in hand. actually, the plans weren't solid. tht would be too inviting for Julie to ruin their meeting. plans are too easy to break.

Julie got talking to a man named Paul on the train. she chomped on a mediocre fruit salad. she had always been prone to motion sickness and so Paul provided a healthy distraction for the grueling jaunt up Mount Pernasse.

Paul was not an attractive man. His skin resembled rice pudding....pasty and unstructured with deeply carved acne scars. he was much older than Julie, about 36. Julie liked him right off. he seemed curious about her. that jazzed her. he spoke english, yet another plus. he read good books too. he was reading "Beyond Good and Evil" by Nietzhe. it was the kind of existential shit that Julie was into. she thought she was clever in this but really, all sad girls her age digested that stuff.

" that's a bitchin' sweater, i've never seen a sweater like that before. it would look like a sac on anyone else but it suits you" Paul said to her after they had gotton aqainted. "yeah it is cool isn't it. i got it cheap at the Lucky Warehouse in Calgary Canada where i'm from." "well it doesn't look cheap..not on you, and i guess i'm lucky that you're wearing it. Paul tried to make a joke that didn't translate very well into english. Julie did look good in that sweater. it was a form fitted oatmeal with slightly tucked stitching along the bustline. by no means did Julie have cleavage but she had something else.....some inch of sex that hinted through that taught stitching. nonetheless, she didn't apperciate Paul's comment. it was the sort of thing that flattened a conversation. she wanted to talk about anything besides what the fuck she was wearing. men have a way of killing a suprise with a compliment. its sickening really.

" i read "And the Atheists Talk of Gods". its basically a commentary by this Canadian farmer about Nietzhe's work". Paul was staring out the window at the dairy farm passing. He turned to her. did a 90 degree in his seat. "Oh yeah, i never read it. you like Nietzhe though?" "Oh yeah, last year i couldn't follow some of his points but now after reading some essays on his stuff, i'm really into it." "Well the more you read, the more you'll understand. i couldn't get past the argument that morality is subjective when i was your age. i was a devout Christian when i was younger." "Oh how sorry for you" Julie looked cynical. she had a smirk. "yeah, how sorry for me" Paul's slanty eyes lit up as he laughed. Julie liked his eyes. They shared the laugh. it was the first time Julie had laughed out loud in months.

the train seemed to be going through an endless tunnel under a mountain. they went on talking despite loud clacking noises the old car was making as it hit the iron rods. they talked about everything except why both of them were making the trip to Bruges. Julie was relieved by that. she thought the why's and where's of things was boring. she told him mostly about her experiences at the Bagel shop, her perverted boss, and how she would score coke in the springtime during the rodeo season in Calgary. "all the shitheads come to town then, wanting to sell their drugs. i like yolie the best. it gives you a good high but its more mellow than the amphetamine stuff". Paul didn't like her talking about drugs. mainly because he was not an expert on the subject. he wanted to be an expert on everything. "that makes me sad, you shouldn't do coke, you'll waste away doing that shit" he said. "it passes time and it makes time more interesting. i plan to cut it out, ya know". "good, cut it out". they smiled at each other. just then, Julie saw Paul as an out. maybe she wouldn't be so bored. maybe she wouldn't want to dabble in coke if she had Paul to look out for her. fuck aunt Cele, Paul had books and a penis. maybe this was her way to freedom. she just got that feeling.

Paul talked mostly about work. he had inherited an architectural firm from his father but he sold the business eventhough he did go through architecture school and all that. he now owned a grocery store. "i'm very busy. i go to all the markets myself to purchase the produce in bulk and i have a deal with a fish hatchery. i have the freshest fish in Bruges. i have good a thing. Belgians value fresh catch. people count on me and i count on the returning cutomers naturally". Paul was a good man. he had a quiet assurance. Julie could tell that. he was a conrtibuting member of society. Julie admired that cause she felt she wasn't. "you seem nice" she said. "and you too. very much a lady. i like that". slanted eyes shining. "hey, you could come to the market with me today if you want. i'll make dinner. you can pursue my library." without a thought to poor aunt Cele, she accepted.

she was, however, conscientous enough though to make a call to the little woman when she got back to Paul's place. "i won't be coming today. i met up with a friend from school. he's backpacking. he's staying at the youth hostel on Rue Dailly. we're gonna go sightseeing together." a good lie. "i was waiting at the station for two hours. who is this friend. do you know him well?" yes, very well. he was on my same debate team in Calgary. don't worry. i'll call again." "Ok. be safe." i will". Paul looked at her disapprovingly when she hung up the phone. "you shouldn't lie to that woman, whoever she is. she must know Rue Dailly. you should have told her who you were with. i'm sure she would've been pleased with you being here. everyone in this village knows me. i'm the village grocer, remember?" "well, when i call again, i'll tell her." at that moment, the motionlessness of her motion sickness took over. she could feel water floating up to her throat. she was going to puke for sure. she ran to the toilet. chunks of fruit salad spilled out. she was sick the rest of the night. Paul was sensitive. she stayed there. she would stay every night from then on.

Julie nested in with Paul for two months. they had sex maybe twice the entire time. there was an imaginary veneer between Paul and herself. Paul was so much older. and he was always tired when he came home from closing the store. Paul worked around the clock. he was hardly ever home. she moped around the house at night, she kept it dimly lit. examined his books, looked at his pictures; family, ex-girlfriends. they were all beautiful. ugly Paul could get beautiful women, she guessed. she would always masturbate after looking at the pictures of the girlfriends. she got turned on when she imagined Paul romping with a woman his own age. she imagined their relationship. a real one. not the one she and Paul had. it got her swollen and ready every time.

during the day she would walk around, smoke too many cigarettes. her hand wouldn't know what to do so it lit up one after and so on. she sauntered about, parking for hours at the same coffee shops. young english-speaking bucolic types with too much time on their hands talked about politics and how self-made they were. they seemed to act as if speaking english was a priviledge. speaking any language is no real priviledge. it lends itself to pointless discource. that's why i write (he,he that's not supposed to make sense).

anyway, the scene was this way on any given day. just the type Julie hated. the people were boring. Paul was getting boring. she talked a lot of crap to these folks. her stories hooked her more than they did anyone else. noone cared who she was. she knew this, hence kept the lies running.

she stuggled with a desperate feeling in her gut. part lonely, part distaste. she wanted attention but as soon as she got it, it felt too confining. it wasn't long before she got that old bemused restlessness she had known so well. she found a coke guy, Julien; the requisite slimey, decadent young thug. sometimes she would borrow money from Paul to get some, just to pass the time. when she didn't have the money, she would fuck him in the back room of the esperanto. good, dispassionate, cum sealing fucks. that also passed time.

it rained nearly every day that winter and the rain had a bite to it, very cold. people looked pained as they walked and waited for the bus. Julien didn't make his rounds at the coffeehouse as much. Julie was inside a lot.

"why so dark in here, turn on the lights Julie." Paul was home early today. "i like it dark, its more soothing". Paul ran around and turned on all the lights. he always did this. he was getting to be very predictable, too predictable. Julie flipped through a fashion magazine but didn't read the articles. she just looked at the pictures. "i didn't know you read those things." "i don't. i just look at the photos of the models." "the whole house smells like cigarrettes. you're an obsessive smoker Julie." he said this as he lit up a Gaulois. he took a puff, it looked more like a sigh. he was looking at her. he bent down, kissed her little head and remarked that she looked nice today. he noticed she had a photo stuck between one of the pages of the magazine. Julie had been looking at ex-girlfriends again. "who is she?" "oh, the black girl? that's my old girl, Sabine's her name." "she's pretty but she doesn't look black to me." "well, she's north african, morrocan." "what happened to her?" Paul got somber. "she probably married within her community. she's a muslim. they practically have arranged marriages, you know." Julie was dying to ask if she was good in bed to which he responded "oh yes, she used to like to sit on my face. my jaw would get tired". Julie liked the sound of that. she would be too shy to try that out with him though. Sabine...good name. she woud incorporate it in her next masturbatory fantasy. sick and demure indeed.

at dinner, Julie was quiet. she was sick of eating fish all the time. she also was thinking about Paul....more like feeling sorry for him, for the fact that he lost the morrocan girl and all those other women, for the fact that he cared for her so much. sick and demure indeed. Julie secretly didn't want him to care so much. in her way, she cared too but didn't want to allow this. she felt too much the duper, too lame a person to reciprocate. fear always hit her like an avalanche when she got looming toward a basic human feeling like love. Paul was too good. he had causes, passions, he liked people. she was unworthy, disingenuous in most of her dealings, bored, apathetic about life. the walls were finally closing in on her. once again, she is discouraged. she didn't know what to do, where to go.

that night, Paul tried to make love to her but he was too tired. he couldn't get it up and he smelled like fish. he was lazy about showering after work. in fact, it was the only thing he was lazy about. in any case, Julie made up her mind that she would never try to sleep with him again. it was too much for her to carry out now that she saw the innards of their existence together.

the following evening Paul got home late, 3am. Julie had already retired to the bedroom but she wasn't asleep. she never slept even when she wasn't on coke. she was sitting in the tacky rataan chair ( Paul thought it was surfer chic. Julie thought it was common and ugly) in the corner of the room, reading that "Beyond Good and Evil" book. Paul had an unusual frantic energy about him. she suspected he had been drinking. she didn't care either way. "i can't believe it!! Vichten Bleizza!." she didn't understand Flemish but took it to mean "oh my god" or some equvalent. "what happened?" she really was sorry she asked. she wanted to go on reading that book. she knew his explanation would be longwinded. he got in those moods sometimes.

sure enough, he went on about how his milk distributor had to fold and sell the supply to a foreign trader because the milk was suspected of being bad. he would have to shell out more money to pay another distributor or match the price of the overtakers. the health commission had done some research that suggested a possible link between an abnormal amount of bovine hormones and Krohn's disease. "its a good thing i'm an avid constituent supporter of the Labor Party. the Green Party are the ones stirring up all this. they like research!" his arms were flailing. he went on about how he was going to write a really profound letter to his Belgian Labor representative in European Parliament. Paul could really be a gasbag sometimes. he loved dwelling on a subject he knew well. this irritated Julie. apparently, he knew milk quality and his rights as a citizen well. Julie didn't care. she wished she did, but she didn't. she just couldn't bring herself to have an opinion about a cause that was of no significance to her. she couldn't help the disgusted expression on her face. "they have some intern type up those consituent letters probably. i wouldn't expect a response back any time soon." she said. and then went back to the book, staring at the page just to have an excuse to look away. the letters were running into jagged lines. she was really staring, not reading.

she blinked to clear her vision and one particular sentence revealed itself from the page. it said, or Nietzhe said rather, "a wasted condition breeds a sort of self-loathing that would mimic what the spirtualists call, ill-will or evil." Julie realized her boredom and restlessness and disdain for people as just that, "a wasted condition". perhaps she actually hated herself for being lazy, for not having a cause to believe in like Paul. perhaps she was so bored because she was boring. Paul had even once offered her a job at the store and she turned it down. she didn't want to deal with customers. then he suggested she stock shelves and she told him she couldn't do those menial tasks. but really, what was chain smoking at a coffee shop all day? what was making fake talk with the crowd there? what was masturbating to a picture? those were menial tasks. it was true, she did hate herself. all this time she thought she was too good for everyone, she scoffed at the public offenders. even Paul, sometimes fell short of her jerky expectations. but one thing, she could never move past it because she was not good enough for herself. and she was afraid of the inevitable next step; "evil". had the process of becoming evil already begun? she didn't want to know. she couldn't take it anymore. if Paul was her out, she needed an out from her out. she needed to be anywhere but here. freedom was hell....a predictable playground.

Paul must have exhausted himself from his concietnious labor spin. he had fallen asleep in the bed just across the room from that ridiculous chair. as usual, he didn't bother to shower. his beanbag head was hard to distinguish from the pillow itself. she thought it looked cute. she thought she might move in and cuddle but she didn't. Julie got an idea; an escape. a carefully maneuvered one by which she would sneak out of the house while he was sleeping. so excited by the thought, and gagging with clausterphobia, she decided to do it right then.

she changed her clothes. she put on a denim skirt that scaled just below her female portions. she coupled that with a pair of platform shoes and an izod shirt. where did she think she was going in an outfit like that? the bordello? she wasn't sure where she would end up. she just knew that she was probably evil and evil folks are always ready for a night on the town. and quietly, out the door she slipped.

she was surprised by a feeling of freedom as the night air bit her in the face. her freedom though, suddenly turns to a combination of fear and panic as she hits a dead end. not in the road...just in her mind. she thought maybe she had exhausted all options already. maybe she had paid her dues as a human. what could she possibly do that would seem amusing? what was fun anymore? she stretched on anyway. maybe any break from Paul would feel good.

but if she wasn't seeking the familiarity of Paul. she was seeking the familiarity of something else. she couldn't really be free. she needed attention. she needed to be noticed, adored. she was a slave a nagging vulnerability; that she couldn't exist without people noticing. every motherfucker out there has that feeling. only to her, it was a big deal.

she made her way down a seedy alley. she had been down this alley once before. it was Julien's apartment. he didn't pay rent, he just sort of flopped there. she had to go up there once for coke when he couldn't make it to the coffehouse cause he was sick with the flu. she knocked. the door was an industrial steel, like the door to a meat locker. that's what that place was, a meat locker. a frozen shell of a place that housed a bunch of dead meat. Julien and his crew were corpses for sure.

Julien answered. he looked even more gruesome than he had the last time she saw him. he had scabs on his lips this time and his eyes were bugging out of their sockets. a vacant stare reflected. slacking jaw, dead eyes. "ah, da girl from the cafe. come, please come". his english was very bad. Julie went inside. she was overcome by the smoke in the air. it was yellow and burnt. it was crack smoke. they had been smoking crack. she was in a crackhouse. the usual boys; Julien's lackeys were on the velvet and stained couch, cutting and dividing their drugs over the coffee table. they look up in unison at her. they looked like vampires. dead, vacant, ready to suck her blood. there was soft disco music thumping in the background. "this was pure evil" she thought to herself. "i am not this."

Julien tapped a pinch on his hand and waved it to her. "please take" she didn't feel like scoring. she was getting tired of that. she had gone a few weeks without it and developed an anxiouness and insomnia without it in that time. all Julie really wanted was some genuine regard for something about her. it was her essence she spent too much time trying to define. essence? what the fuck is it anyway? anything overthought lacked style anyway. any attraction is lost in the translation when overly concerned with self. but she had an ounce of pride left in her. she figured maybe if someone else saw something in her, she would find out where she was lacking and if she was evil or not. Paul was not a good enough parameter. she knew he adored her but he was never clear in articulating what it was that he appreciated. his quiet assurance was like a debt sometimes---it lent nothing. but really, who did she think she should be? and in thes circles; with these corpses hiding in a meat locker? vampires looked at every soul with a crooked eye. not a fair base for seeking validation. realizing this, she got up abrubtly and saw herself out the door. the boys lingered at her disappearing figure. they were confused. "we make party, tomorrow, Liege" the one said. they looked at each other as if to say "what did she come here for if she didn't want any drugs?" Julie was elusive like that. no one ever understood her motivation when she would leave or enter a room.....hell, she didn't even understand half the time.

she treaded some rain drenched sut in the alley. her feet got filthy. stones ground themselves into her platform shoe. she almost gave in. she was on the verge. she was going to cry but she didn't. that would have been the end of her journey and she did not want that.

at Avenue Wilmak, she went underground, into the subway. she had never taken the subway before. not in Belgium anyway. the "C" train went to Liege. she heard the boy announce the party tomorrow. it wouldn't be so terrible to go. maybe there would be other people there, of the non-vampire variety. she purchased a ticket at the checkpoint booth. the checkpoint Charlie was a grumpy guy. an arab guy with a turban. he didn't smile at Julie when she requested a one way for the "C". in fact, he didn't even look at her. he crunched his face, chewing some tobacco or beetlenut. this saddened her. really shot her down. once again, she goes unnoticed, unappreciated. she is noone.

the train ride was a quick thirty minutes. it moved faster and smoother than the regional from Brussels. that didn't prevent the accident Julie had encountered in her car. a lesbian, made blatent by her oversexed approach to Julie, got on at Druche and walked directly toward Julie without diversion. she was not bad looking. very curvy, big build, small waist, birthing hips. how ironic. she had a red mop of hair on top of her head. the only thing was that she wore too much makeup. it gave her a Lon Chaney effect. black eyeliner, white powder and pink lips artufully shaped like a tulip. it was creepy. "can i help you miss?" she got two inches from Julie's face. "i go get somezhing, i be back". her english was fragmented. she went to another car. Julie was slightly amused. it was possible. she liked that the girl smelled like oranges when she got close and she imagined her breasts would be comfortable to lay in. finally, at least she had been noticed. the lesbian came back to the car with a cup of coffee for Julie. she winked. "my name Franka." that was all she said. she stood above Julie, seething, frustrated, hurting sexually. it was deviant almost. Julie was aroused. danger and uncertainty were a cure for boredom too.

at the next stop, the trains brakes jarred and the coffee jumped out of Franka's bearish paw and onto Julie's front. Julie screamed a quiver and yelp, followed by uncontrollable tears. she had been scalded. some much for her unconcerned, aloof persona. all had been revealed. Franka obviously took it as an opportunity to grope her, molest her through her clothes. Julie put up no resistance. each stroke across her tit from Franks seemed to quell the sting of having been burned. "i am evil" she thought. "if i can be everyone's whore so easily, i must have ill-will. the lights flickered on and then off in the car. was that a sign? Franka's tulip mouth moved all over Julie's diminutive face. Julie pushed her hips up to meet Franka's. Julie grabbed onto her haunch. it was a feature men lacked. they were swaying in the same seat. Franka virtually giving Julie her first lap dance. it stayed dark in there but the few straggling passengers got disgusted and cleared the area. one pervert, a shrunken elf with shriveled hands, stayed put to watch.

last stop was Liege. the lights came on. Julie pulled away with shame. lights always made Julie self-conscious. Paul had failed to grasp that. Franka got up before her and raced to the platform without even saying goodbye. quite the surreal encounter.

Julie emerged onto the street. there was no sign of Franka. it was not impossible that she was a phantom lesbian. it was daylight already. the vampires were alseep and the self-mades were out galavanting. it was an equal trade-off but certaintly not a fair one. this was really the way she saw things. it was tragic to be Julie.

she had to piss unbelievably. the coffee that spilled was now forming a cold wet sheath over her body. the cloth insulated the cold that was in the air. she made a mad sprint for the public restroom at the library across the street. crossing the street, she comes perpendicular with a motor scooter. the scooter halted but tapped Julie in such a way that she was twisting her legs and hit the ground with her tiny ass. she ust sat there, in the middle of a boulevard. her cocyx ached. the pressure got worse when she tried to get up. she could get up, she just was more comfortable like that, in the middle of the boulevard. she had sucessfully stopped traffic. the bloke got off his scooter, helped her up. she got a real good look at him. he was a joke of a man. or, he looked like that to Julie. early twenties, poly coordinated track suit, serious trainers and a sideways baseball cap. then to top that, a gold medallion hanging like a fluke from his skinny neck. Julie laughed right in his face. she couldn't help it. the sight of him in that outfit that resembled that of a toddler dressed by his mother, just made her lose it. she lost her bladder too. she had pissed herself. the bloke recovered himself and sped away in humiliation. she had had enough. she was tired, cold, dirty, mentally, physically and emotionally. blah, blah, blah. godammit Julie, get over it already.

it was 7am. she got a sinking feeling; the kind brought on by lonliness or a sudden lost connection. she missed Paul. she wanted to go back. if she went back now, he may never know she left. he didn't have to get up until 11 today. she knew there was probably more she could do...another step that required actually doing something instead of waiting for something to come her way, expecting things to be different each time. but she wasn't ready. she wanted only to go back to Paul. she did the detour again.

the 8:10, "C" pulled into Bruges. Julie crucified herself with her own malaise. she was a demoralized victim. she stood there on the platform. she wondered how she stood there without falling over by this point. surivival was funny that way, you exist even when you are soaked with piss and coffee and don't want to exist. she caught sight of a woman panhandeling. she wasn't the only victim.

back at Paul's she showered and threw her twelve times soiled clothes in the laundry. she looked at Paul asleep. he was a victim too. beautiful women had left him. she wasn't alone. everyone was digging their own graveyard until they figured it out. whatever "it" was. she felt more grounded in reality as this thought passed. she felt cohesive with society for a brief moment. that was philisophic jargon picked up by Nietzche.....a borrowed feeling.

Paul's alarm sounded at 9:30. he sat right up. Julie had reassumed the position in the awful rataan chair, book in hand. it was a prop this time. "reading?" Paul smiled. "yeah" she smiled back. he had no idea that she had even left. she had no idea that in a while, she would be planning her next escape.



-- Devon Waters
published short story 4/12/03- the melancholy series
MDJ Press; Brooklyn N.Y.

Editor's Review of Devon Waters

This young woman is plagued and amused that most people in this world are jackasses. She has enough character and wit to find some of them endearing. It's the counterfeit brand of jackass that she seems to have no tolerance for. Through her straightfoward and sometimes irreverant narrative, she makes a careful study of both.

Her words are suprisingly perspicuous.....combining elements of realism, reason and street with jaunty and sophisticated poeticism. With every insoucient observation she throws your way, there underlies a deeply sensitive and painfully conscious tone. This is a brilliant juxtosposition that is both refreshing and inspiring.

I am happy to sponser her work on this site!

-- Till Dempsey - -
publisher; MDJ Press, Brooklyn N.Y.