Under a Black Rainbow

I try to avoid submitting completed stories to the same publications over and over again unless I really like the publication. The Poydras Review is one such publication. The first time I had something published by them, it was "Racking Focus," a story from the most recently published collection, back in September of 2015. They appreciate the quirkiness of my style (and that of other writers), so I tend to like submitting new stuff to them. It's nice when that particular kind of strange aesthetic is embraced at the linguistic and narrative level. Recently, my story "Into Dust" was published on their site. It's from the collection currently in progress and it's something of a good initial barometer for just how weird things will get in Under a Black Rainbow . It's just weird enough to be unsettling, but also tame enough to make the unsettled reader wish for that level of normality once they reach the middle of the collection. You can read "

Back in the early 2000's, I began a love affair with vinyl and DJing and turntables and gigs in dark, nasty venues and big, loud clubs. And I enjoyed the hell out of it, collecting over 5,000 records during my 9 years pre-San Francisco doing it. It took me several weeks to get rid of all of my records before moving to the west coast, and it's a decision I still regret today. Not so much because of the financial value of the records, but instead for their sentimental value and their playability. Because of the hours I spent looking for those records, both online and in person at record stores that no longer exist here in Kansas City. And it's weird to think all four of those places are gone now, having been replaced by newer upstarts and used bookstore bins. And this past weekend, I went record shopping with my friend Shannon. I kept a few records from my old collection - some original Miles Davis, some old punk records, some picture discs that go for entirely too

The Stove-Junker Little Feather Books, Inc.  Released 4/21/2015 350 pages *     *    * My dear friend and author, Surya K. Kalsi, has released the audio book version of his debut novel, The Stove-Junker . The book itself is beautifully written; it is dark, it is lovely, it is haunting. It is one of my favorites from the last several years and not just because I know him and am fortunate to call him my friend. The writing is incredibly strong; the story, completely engrossing. Surya and I come from two different styles of writing. Where I am more firmly on the experimental/surrealist side of things, he comes from a more grounded school of maximalism. His literary heroes make up some of the greatest foundations of literature: William Faulkner, Cormac McCarthy, William Maxwell, so on. The authors that paint a detailed scene rather than throw color every which way upon it. So, too, does my friend paint a story in great detail. So it's with some excitemen

I have lived three full lives in the span of my 40 years and still, I feel like I know nothing, save for knowing that there is more out there for me to learn and know. I am a heart of gold wrapped up in tin foil, I am the one reaching out into the dark to see what's willing to come out and play. I am both the friendly shoulder and the cranky introvert. I'm the reader and the rager, the drunkard, the pervert, the lout, the absurd uncle, the writer with the strong opinions, the one willing to lend a hand when asked, I am a number of things contradictory to each other. I am a lifetime of learning music. The radio gave birth to the violin gave birth to the bass guitar gave birth to the turntable. I am the nasty bassline from a funk song, I am the looped drum break of the hip hop record, I am the buoyancy of house music, I am the nostalgia from the 80s one-hit wonders. I am the culmination of all the books I've ever read, each word another drop in the well of my own c