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 Jason Hardung is a late bloomer. After years of getting his hands dirty in manly jobs, he decided to go back to school where he doesn't get sawdust in his pants. While digging in the cushions of the red velvet couch for change, he found the passion for writing he lost in 1994. He always wondered where it went. Wrapped in cat hair and lint he found the weird amber glow of poetry shining it's words like a penny at the bottom of a hotel fountain. He embraced it and hasn't looked back. He decided that Bukowski was more interesting than Little Tony down at the cabinet factory.
To contact Jason, email
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