…Tales from the Green room…Devil-May-Care Lines…Chill-Rips…Moments, Memories & Madness...You can Read all of my Wrecked-Out & Romantic Trips…From High Peaks, to Lowland Swamps, Big Cities,To Nowhere Towns, Tromps in A Desolate Wilderness; Lots of Lust, Episodes that took Guts and Dead Minutes, When I thought my Blood would Rust...And Other Weird Tales of Americana, From the Bro-Migo side of the Grind….Nicholas Viglietti
a writer, Sentence Slinger, and a Waggish Line-ripper of a chill-migo poet…Livin’ on the slim side of large in Sac-Town, CA.
After Katrina ravaged the gulf coast, he rebuilt homes there for 2 years. Up in Mon-tucky, he cut trails in the wilderness. Overall, Nicholas worked 3 years Under the Americrops Service Program.
In Humboldt , He bucked Hay, Carved Waves, And Earned a Degree Despite All the Haze, Behind the redwood Curtain. He pedaled from the cap-city to S.D. He’s a seventh-life party-hack, attempting to rip chill lines in the madness….
…A genuine pro, when it comes to Stayin’ chill, the empty end of planks, Brazen Guts & Nail Biters…Thanks for scrollin’ my world and rippin’ a Read of my warped rambles….
…hopefully, on the Sling of these sentences, there’s a line that strikes you like a lighting Bolt, and it gets ya through those moments that make you linger & mope, lose hope, and come to the edge of barely Able to Cope…
…All it takes is a Phrase…the cadence of Words, the stroke of the flow that alters the perceptions that had Gave up on the day.
Wastrel Rips & Devil-May-Care madness
Snag a Copy…Rip-A-Read…..
…just enjoy the cadence, like river-banks and beer-floatin’ radiance…some snips have got meaning…other rips are meant for dreaming…and, to be honest, some of the rambles are just plain funny reading.
What’s the worst that can happen…Repine fun & reading…
Purchase a copy….scroll down, shoot me a line and tell me about it…the good, The Rough, the Sublime…stay chill, babe-a-citas & Bro-migos.
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Shoot Nicholas a Query, A Line, Rhymes, Compliments, Talk Shit, Get Ripe Words; Ask for Personally Written Messages, Collaboration, or just Holla at a Playa?
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“...At the root of our guts
We are faded chances
In the end...”
“...that frigid river floats, and there are hearts that struggle to pump a purpose of a beat, out on the rotten stretch of cement, scabbed top of flatland streets... ”
“He would go to the bar with us, but his liver didn’t have our stamina.”
“It runs fresh, straight off infamous slopes of cannibalistic mountains.”
