somewhere else

Bob Hudson
4 Min Read

‘Twas the night before Christmas, 1977, and if some goofball in a Santa suit had’ve walked through the door, I probably would’ve clocked him with a candlestick, drug him out back, and delivered one kick to the ribs for each of the twelve days of…

Bob Hudson, Poetry

Bob Reads

Bob Hudson
1 Min Read

Bob recently fractured his femur and wrist while in the Bahamas during his latest money-making scheme, The Bob Hudson Poetry Cruise.  He was whisked from the cruise ship to a secret underground medical facility where they rebuilt him and made him better.  His collections include the majesty of the past, into the cold wind, the train, women not my wife, trance of paranoia, she lets me and no gunshots right now.

Bob Hudson, Poetry

the ascension

Bob Hudson
2 Min Read

Dear Readers,

The precarious meter clicked down a notch this week as “photographic anomaly” was chosen over “spot on the lung,” and the invisible spear lodged in my wife’s back got labeled “chest wall pain.”  That’s doctor speak for “We don’t have a clue.”  (See last week’s entry.)

She is better now.

The sun shines.

Bob Hudson, Poetry

Precarious

Bob Hudson
1 Min Read

This morning, while waiting on a call from the daytime radiologist, who would give me his take on the cat scan my wife got last night – the night shift radiologist must be second string – and tell us if it was a “spot on her lung,” or some kind of photographic anomaly – we tried to buy a heart attack.  They want to sell us cancer.  Several thoughts revolved through my head.

One thought was, “Great!  What a perfect excuse to go from occasional over-indulger to full time drunk.  What unbelievable quantities of slack I’d be cut.”

Bob Hudson, Poetry
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