black coffee press update and brief history

black coffee press was founded on an idea, a thought. to find good writing, to let indie writers be heard in a sea of mediocrity. anytime i turn on the news and find out snookie from jersey shore has a book deal i know it’s a sign of the apocalypse and that all hope is lost as far as the rest of us are concerned. that being said, i want to put into perspective what is we do at black coffee press and how things get done, got started or ever see the light of day.

one of my favorite record labels is fat possum records and their motto for the longest time has been, “we’re trying our best” and the whole concept of that statement came from the two gentlemen who started the company, Matthew Johnson and Peter Redvers-Lee. they came up with it based on what they were trying to do, deliver mississippi blues music to the masses and be successful at it. that’s an impossible thing to do. it’s like trying to seal up a head wound with a band-aid, it’s just not gonna happen. but they went ahead and did it anyway, hoping someone on their label would make it big and help continue to fund what they do. and what they do is so important to the integrity of the blues and to music in general. anyway, the slogan came out of their desperation for trying to make things happen. it’s an uphill battle and struggle to continually light the dream and keep it lit no matter what.

when scott and i started this publishing label we had no illusions about what it would take, what it would do to us, our friendship or how stressful it would be. we knew it could be fun, that it would take time to build up and that life would get in the way, again and again. we also knew we were tired of standing on the sidelines watching shitty book after shitty book get published and no one ever seem to care or take notice. it’s been a roller coaster ride, one with great highs and great lows. we’ve learned who we can count on and who we can’t. we’ve gone through two press companies, published six books and have a long and talented list of writers we can’t wait to put into print.

all of this comes with hours of work and no pay. all of this comes with a cache of circulating dollars that just barely eek out enough money to keep going. we have never paid ourselves, never been in a position to sit back and hire help. bottom line, we do what we do because we love the written word. we both have 9-5 jobs, we both have kids, a family and life outside of black coffee press that ultimately causes both of us to work late into the evening and early into the morning trying to take care of and do the one thing we’ve always wanted to do. and that’s run black coffee press and make it successful in every way possible.

and we’ve seen great successes. most of them have been through lip service, a few noteworthy articles and worthy praise every time we release a new writer. a wise man once said, “do what you love and love what you do.”. There’s a reason for that, life is long, brutal and can be in many ways unfair, but if you find something you believe in, hold on to, make it happen and push it into reality. we’re trying to do that. for all of us, for some of us, for anyone willing to believe in a small press and indie writers and good words. that’s what we want at black coffee press and that’s what we continue to keep pushing for.

we are currently looking for new writers, new submissions and new people who are interested in screaming out to the world. we are putting together an anthology of work, entitled project x. this will have anywhere from 40 to 70 writers, poets and wordsmiths in it. if you feel like you have something to say and would like to submit then by all means, feel free. submit at www.blackcoffeepress.net via our submissions area, please make sure to place project x in the subject line. those that have already submitted for project x and heard back from us you are already taken care of and need not worry. life is good.

thank you for reading, for listening, for being a fan or for just basically sticking around,

sincerely,

thomas michael
black coffee press

grandpa.

your bones
are upright

with two people holding you
a walker for guidance
an the absolute nothingness

of sadness
in every step
that has now become

a permanent struggle

with your gown open
skin translucent

bandages
bruised
and bloody

what a mess

and the diaper
that has been on you all day
is ready to fall off

but whatever pride you had
whatever ego was once there
is now stripped away

held together

with the humble reminders
of what old age
and final days

weeks
months
you might have left

can do to a person’s soul

as tears roll down my face
wiped away
quickly

and replaced with my heart
punctured a thousand times over

like a straw
going into a sippy cup

one last time.

and i have given up so much
to be with you
but you still sit there

telling me everything i’ve done wrong
reopening old wounds
and finding new ones

as if i have been placed on waivers
or injured reserve
and just barely been making it

as if i have been sentenced to life imprisonment
without possibility of parole

but you point your finger at me
giving me words i’m already familiar with

failure
loss
hatred
anger

while our son sleeps in the other room
dreaming of angels and butterflies
you open up hell’s door

and release every form of suffering you know how

but it doesn’t matter anymore
what you say
or how you say it

i’m not the same person you married eight years ago
with death rattle slowing crawling towards nine

i am calm
i am aware

i am not yours

to play with
to incite
to upset
or place blame upon

i am better now
better then i ever was
ever will be

i have no illusions of grandeur
no misunderstanding of time
or place

i am as i need to be

but you go on and yell
you go on making your mistakes
i will shake my head

open my heart
and wait

but if you don’t come
if you never show up
that’s fine too
it’s your loss

not mine.

it’s in these places
these corners of my mind
that i retreat to

wood table
permeated with spilled beer
cigarettes

and soft soul memories

of people
places
and sorrow

love
lust
muse

these things make my pen move
across an empty page

that fill word for word
pound for pound

as i turn
finishing my guinness
and lighting another cigarette

before i call it a night
and let go of all inspiration
not yet exited my body

only mentioned in the event of my own demise

next to a full ashtray
a perfect stout
and a constant companion

of paper
words
and memory

sewn together
to make a book.

i found a photo of you yesterday
pressed between pages
moveable feast

you were up north
winter
i proposed on that trip

you were so happy
that was the closest i’ve ever felt to another human being

you were amazing
like sunlight in the summertime
or sunflowers in an empty field

i didn’t know
i didn’t know it was gonna collapse in on me
on us

like a supernova

i didn’t know six months later
i would be saying goodbye to you

i didn’t know
i never knew

what i wouldn’t give
to be with you
to be near you
to kiss you

one last time

found your photo
pressed between pages
moveable feast

truer words were never spoken.

ode to the body of a goddess
that i would make love to you
and that it would be perfect

and if it wasn’t
that you would forgive me

let go all things
under earth
sky

and provincial rain

as i wrap legs
around the thought of you

and try to remember
my own name
after midnight

when heaven keeps calling
and i fail

to answer.

i have no interest in who you were
as i am told over and over again
what a horrible father you made

not being there
for your kids

as you worked two to three jobs
to put food on a table

eight kids
no life of your own
just work

just wake up
go
and keep going

until you slept
ate
and did the whole thing over again

for 30 plus years

every thing being taken up
by time
energy
and making sure

your family was clothed
fed
and housed

so i have no interest
when the youngest paces the hallway
30 years my senior

acting like a two year old at christmas
not getting enough toys
announcing you’ll go into a “home”
before you go anywhere else

you are who you are
a man of 94 years
who stuck by his family

friends
and wife

caring for her
no matter what
nurturing as best you knew how

through the great depression
through world war two
through hard times
struggled economies

and failed livelihoods

you were a mechanic
an arch welder
and a plant manager

you were a dad
a husband
a father
and a man

through and through

you liked bacon
black coffee
and good westerns

you liked trains
and were fascinated
with all the moving parts

you were a grandpa
a grandfather
a good person

and a well intended human being

who struggled with life
just as much
as anyone else

so i sit next to you
in the hospital
listening to nurses chatter and laugh

listening to people
come and go

doctors
check charts
check paperwork
check health coverage

and then frown
grimace
and walk out

as i sit here
discussing life
and all things that encompass failure

but you still smile
laugh
and make jokes

wires coming and going
out of your body
a few beeps
noises

and the occasional random sigh

you are still the same person i remember
as a child
trying desperately
to understand you

love you
and care for you

you were
and still are
my grandfather

so i say again

i have no interest in who you were
i already know
and that’s

why i’m sitting here
right next to you.

tonight is quiet
with the sound of rain
hitting against the glass

keys moving words into the distance

as i sit here
black coffee
simple phrases

and voices in my head
echoing a cadence of retreat
until there’s nowhere left to go

but i push back against my own soul

mixing blood
with the darkness
of my past sins

carving out new niches
new displaced music
that leave roses on my grave

and subtle visions of beauty
desperate to be heard

in amongst sounds of faint thunder
midnight calling
and the simple silences that reside

from the empty contents i leave
on a blank page.

I.
i kneel bedside
holding his hand
and talking to him

about grandma
heaven

and when he sees her
to give her a big kiss
from me

i kneel bedside
talking about my son
my life
teaching

and being a father

i kneel bedside
laughing about the ridiculous

of family
friends
people we both know

he is 94
he is tired
he is ready

i am not

but i kneel
bedside

listening
talking
and praying

knowing full well
soon he will be gone
and i will miss him
just as i have missed

everyone
whose has come and gone
in my life.

II.
he tells me about ice skating
and how much he loved it

how it was perfect
and it made him smile

ear to ear
life to life

and he says
if you ever get the chance
go ice skating

and do it fully
all out
and smile

with cold air in your lungs
with lifetimes behind you
and worlds in front of you

he tells me about ice skating
and how much

he loved it.

i don’t have answers for death
just silence
just sadness

as my grandfather rolls over in his bed
refuses food
and asks to be left alone

so he can die
quietly
peacefully

if there is such a thing

as i sit
in an old rocking chair
he once built
with his own hands

and watch
as death stares from the window

smiling
waiting
patiently

for my grandfather’s time
to finally come

and go.