Bill, Bill, Bill… Where is Bill? Wait! Not that Bill. Bill Friday, of course. The poet! Though, it wouldn’t surprise me all that much if he knew Kung Fu too. Anywho, this is another shameless friend promotion. Have you read any of Bill’s poems before? You should. I believe I’ve shared them before. He has a knack for capturing a moment and then twisting on its head to make you think or to hit you in the feels or both. Get his books. Read them. Expand your mind and your world.
A Death on Skunk Street is the first stand-alone book by Los Angeles poet William S. Friday. Subtitled, “…a life in poems”, the book is both a remembrance, and a look forward, at what Bernard Malamud (“The Natural”) called, “The life we learn with… and the life we live after that”. Skunk Street is a work of visions, written by a blue-collar college drop-out with the eloquence of an angry Psalmist. Parts neon and noir, full moon and sunsets, and the words that come from feelings too often unexpressed. From loneliness in a sea of humanity to, comfort in the company of self. There’s blood, and brains, printed on every page. In the author’s own words… “Somewhere along the way, after all the years and all the experiences, you realize that the only thing you have to show for them is your recollection of them. And then, you write. So I guess I’d have to say that I’m the guy who writes what he remembers.”