Coming Soon: “Forty-Five Minutes of Unstoppable Rock”


A collection of my fiction will be published in August by the fiercely independent Tortoise Books out of Chicago, Illinois.

Proofs should be in my hands tomorrow and in no time at all the book will be actually on sale. “Forty-Five …” contains fifteen stories and in there among ’em is some new/never-released fiction. You might want to start hitting the gym now so your glutes are firm enough to grip you firmly to your seat when you first crack it open.

“Shit’s getting real” as they say.

I thought I’d put a sneak peak of the cover up – I love it.

Stay cool,


Ulysses, King of Hearts

James Joyce with Eye Patch

Man and woman, love, what is it? A cork and a bottle – James Joyce, Ulysses

My short story “Ulysses, King of Hearts” is up at Storgy today.  Click Here to read it.

Much thanks to the super editorial crew at Storgy for their kind acceptance of the piece.

It’s always kind of dreadful to have to summarize a piece or describe “where the idea” came from but I’ll say this much: The story is an “inverse” re-imagining of Charles Bukowski’s The Most Beautiful Woman in Town with some references to both James Joyce’s Ulysses and savage beatings by nuns.

Confession: I have never finished Ulysses – I have made it about 1/3 of the way in a couple of times.

Read and enjoy – and keep an eye out for those pesky nuns –  I’ll be back.


Snake Fight at the Temple of the Dog

Snakeskin image for Temple of the Dog

I have a new short story up at Arcturus today (Arcturus is the literary supplement to the Chicago Review of Books.) It’s called “Temple of the Dog” and you can read it Here.

Much thanks to Rachel and Amy at Arcturus for the editing help and for putting this story out there.

In case you ever wonder how I research my stories maybe read this one and ask yourself: Do you really want to know?

Stay frost comrades, and I do mean frosty. There’s a heatwave here and I go to a gym with no a/c and no windows – I think I sweated off a viable fetus today already.

Over and out,


Love and Rain/Out on the Eastern Slopes

I have a pair of short prose pieces (under a thousand words each) up at Vending Machine Press Today – “Love and Rain” and “Out on the Eastern Slopes.”

You can read them Here

Standard disclaimer: Neither piece is autobiographical in any sense. None. Nada. Zip. No way Jose’, it wasn’t me, I was at a friend’s house, the check is in the mail. Pure fiction.

Vending Machine Press and Editor-in-Chief Mike Lafontaine are a treat to work with.

Give ’em a read and let me know what you think.


Sue and Labor

The cover photo is by Lindsay McLeod of Point Claire, Quebec.

My story “Sue and Labor” is up in the Montreal-based Bloody Key Society Periodical’s issue #3. You can read it Here.

Remember: Everyone gets something they want, but no one gets everything they want.

Much thanks to Adam Kelley Morton and the BKS crew for the honor.

Give ‘er a read and let me know what you think. I’ll be back with more stories shortly.


The Two People You Meet in Every Creative Writing Class


Johnny Greatness Demands That You Acknowledge His Greatness. Greatly.

There are two people you are guaranteed to meet in every creative writing class you take. Now, it’s important to note that I’m not talking about MFA programs – I’ve never attended one and dislike the implicit “workshop everything to a middle common denominator” I fear may be contained therein.  (Like everyone who writes who doesn’t have an MFA I suffer from a strange kind of pride/inferiority complex in regards to MFA’s because no one would ever lend me that kind of tuition money to spend eleven years writing a shitty novel I’ll never finish while working days for minimum wage in an insurance company call-center.) No – I’m talking about evening non-credit courses offered by your local institution of higher learning. Take one of these (or two, or even three or four) and you will meet A) “Johnny Greatness” and B) “Jenny Book Club”.

Johnny is recognizable by his excessive output, both written and verbal, and his feverish need to take over the class and point it towards … himself. His cheerful willingness to offer suggestion/critique/blah-blah-blah that will somehow, always reference his own work. ‘Well, what I do in my writing … ” prefaces a lot of what comes out of him after his hand shoots up. Johnny is usually under twenty-five, can’t do five push-ups, and has staked his entire (inflated) sense of self-worth as being the guy in his social group who is absolutely convinced that he’s the most creative of them all. His ambition? To write something Lord of the Ring-ish meets Blood Meridian-ish. His Achilles heel? Incoherence – a lot of it written in the second person. Johnny doesn’t edit or brook suggestions of any sort. He doesn’t need that kind of negativity in his life.

What I most admire about Johnny Greatness? I wish I had that kind of confidence.

Jenny is almost always a middle-aged woman with limited output but a whole lot of opinions – almost all of which are negative.  Her catch phrase is “I’m sorry but … ” i.e “I’m sorry but some of Hemingway’s stuff is shit. I’m sorry but it is.” One of Jenny’s hallmarks is her unwillingness to present her own materiel for workshopping, discussion. It’s beneath her and she fears reprisal. If she has to present something it’ll be: A) incomplete, and B) she’ll attempt to limit critique by saying things like “I don’t want line edits” or “I just want to know if the main character is interesting enough to proceed with.” She’s not there to participate, she’s there to kvetch about other writers, especially if you like them. You can bait Jenny by tossing out random writer’s names to hear her passive aggressive take-downs. “She’s OK but I didn’t like …” she’ll say or something like that. You can sometimes bait Jenny by making up a fake author name just to watch her say “Meh” and shrug her shoulders dismissively. Her ambition? To be agreed with. This is why she’s been uninvited from more than a few book clubs she’s joined after three meetings. She doesn’t actually write and may not actually read. Not her thing.

What I most admire about Jenny? I wish I had that kind of confidence.

What they both have in common is that they think of writer as “destination” i.e. Declare yourself “a writer” and watch the checks roll in and the interview requests pile up. They like their “ideas” praised but don’t have any actual work to show.

I’d like to declare myself a “lottery winner” and I think I will. We’ll see how that goes.

Stay salty comrades, I’l be back with more sassy-ass back-sass when I feel like it.


On Muses and Shakespeare’s Fire

O! For a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest invention of heaven!

Wm. Shakespeare

There is a general assumption in the arts that a muse comes in the form of a woman, close enough to aspire to, but no so close as to actually reach, and that great art is created while in a state of great longing. The inference is of course, that one cannot make great art except out of love. I don’t believe this to be a universal truth. What muse then to women who make art? (There seem to be few male muses.) Or, conversely, what muse to the writing of Whitman and Wilde and others going back to antiquity? Note too that the muse comes as much from loss as longing – artist HR Giger’s Li for example. (I have no doubt that loss can beget longing, possibly more strongly than presence.) Is the muse then the longing for something that can never be had?

I would think that the muse is that which is there at the inception of the work but sometimes not at the end. I say only sometimes because what work is ever really complete? Who would not remake something, who would not reorder the words and even the world, if only given the chance?

A man told once that there is an alternative translation of the first words of the Book of Genesis that say “In the beginning, God spoke a word upon the water and the world was created.” I have not been able to find that translation since I was first told of it, but I have thought often upon it and that, in it’s own way is a muse. Enigmatic and pure, the beginning for creation in conceptual thought (where the word stands for the thing) a corollary of a sort of the ontological argument for God.

I imagine that along time ago, in some cave not far from the particular blue waters of Mediterranean, a creature once an animal stared into a fire and then, moved by something they could not articulate, placed their henna-colored hand-print upon the wall. There, in between the light of Shakespeare’s fire, and the drying dye, was the muse. Something comes and was seen in the light of the fire, if only for a moment, and someone else marks its passing with something else.

I also think it possible, in the Socratic way where each statement implies it’s own antithesis, that with the exception of that first pure word spoken upon the still waters of the primordial, that muses come not to create but to destroy. The artist then must make something out of the ashes left in the fire of the their passing. Creation and recreation, fire and clay. Who builds until they have to?

Heavy Shit.

Someone beer me,