Three poems for your hot summer nights courtesy of DEAD SNAKES. My process was as follows: the poems started off in different forms than the published form that you will read. They were longer. I worked to trim away unnecessary words while still retaining the core of what I wanted to express with each piece. In this sense, they are experiments for me, but I think they work. There is always more that can be done with a piece of work and new ways that it can be re-imagined, so the form presented here is probably not “final,” but, to use Valery’s way of thinking, “abandoned.” There comes a point when you just have to let them go. I’m not sure where that sense comes from, but it seems to have something to do with the interpretation of “completeness.” Thank you again to Stephen at Dead Snakes. This is my third time to be up there. 

Thank you to Shawn Misener for selecting this piece for publication at his Clutching at Straws site. He has an intense collection of “unusual poetry” published there and I’m honored to be a part of it. This one skirts the edge of being vulgar, but perhaps, ends up being slightly disgusting instead. Maybe there is not much of a difference. Is it a matter of perception? One’s tastes? I think so, but could be wrong. Often am. At any rate, it is certainly about mutation and growth and the experience of a bizarre transfiguration. It’s short. Please read it. Thank you. 

A pulpy night of revenge and celebration: This story was originally workshopped in a class with Dr. Stephen Graham Jones, so hopefully it has some essential elements of what makes a good story: an ease of knowing who is doing what and where, hook lines, effective dialogue, etc. As per the assignment, the content was inspired by a list of questions posed by writer/reviewer/columnist, Richard Thomas. That list fell to me to craft into a story and this piece, “A Cauldron for Angelo,” is the result. Thank you to Pulp Metal Magazine. This is my second story with them and it’s always a pleasure to see my work in the context of other contemporary pulp stories. To the reader: thank you for your attention. Also, of course, Dr. Jones and Mr. Thomas, thanks for your support and advice.

Zack Wentz, thank you for teaching me much about good books and the craft of writing, about perseverance and possibilities. I came across NDF last spring and devoured every issue with enthusiasm. They are worth savoring. Issue Five has pieces from myself, Barry N. Malzberg, and Cameron Pierce among others whose work I am not yet familiar with, but soon will be. My contribution is quite bizarre and would not exist were it not for time spent in the current city where I find myself: Beijing. In that respect, it makes all of the frustration of living in this city of confusion worth the daily effort. Thank you for reading.   

Thank you, First Stop Fiction, for making this story available. My intentions with this piece was to tap into noir/science-fiction territory, but instead of focusing on the pulpier side of things, keep my nose to the ground and capture that father/son relationship, which doubles into those times when we do our best to help, but that help just keeps mucking up the situation. We seem to enter these things with the best of intentions, though. That said, maybe I should simply dub this one a tragedy. Thank you! 

Thank you, Joe Jablonski, editor of Three Minute Plastic, for jumping on this weird story. This is a “sword & sorcery” world condensed, populated with surreal oddness: “Squalchor the Squandering Magus,” “pig-witches,” “Owldoom Temple,” etc. Not to mention that our hero is not much of a hero given his antics at the story’s end. Or, are we experiencing the story through the villain’s eyes? If you like this, I recommend my short story for Pulp Metal Magazine: Night of the Cannibal Priestess. Thank you, Joe, and thank you all for reading. 

Three poems via Counterexample Poetics: “Orange Alders” is an anti-Cioranian meditation on the creation of the symbol-using animal. “Shinjuku” is a paroxysm of a story refined into free verse, mixed in a blender, and laced with desire. “A New Way of Brushing Teeth” could be everything you think it is, wide open: a heart-beating non-ritual celebration. Thank you, dear reader, for lending me your ears. 

My second poem for the poetry journal, Dead Snakes. There is a hint of joyousness in this piece and yet, a hopeful longing. The images and flow of the poem are personal, based on happenings in my own life, the ebb and flow of circumstance and Fortune, family and choices. That said, this one is from the heart. As always, thank you for reading my work. 

365 Tomorrows, the science fiction site, is hosting this odd story of an alternate reality consisting of a messy room made of brains where horrific things happen or seemed to have happened. The “red curtain” scenes from Twin Peaks kept crossing my mind as I was writing this one and, perhaps, there is some David Lynch influence that leaked into it. Otherwise, again, this one came out of the Stephen Graham Jones workshop I did and want to thank him again for his teachings.

For this piece, attention to the power of certain words, has been intentionally repeated to a hopefully hypnotizing effect. There is a story here, but it is drenched in blood. Also, it was quite inspired by an afternoon drive down the gravel roads of northern Michigan, away from my wife, while surrounded by old memories and future hopes. Thank you to Spittoon Magazine for picking this up and for seeing a beauty in it. The issue it appears in (2.1) features many wonderful writers and artists. Please have a look.

File this one under the “post-apocalyptic-backwoods-supernatural-grotesque-undead” category. I’m stoked that The Carnage Conservatory is hosting this one and I hope the more visceral moments of the piece fit with the overall aesthetic of the story. That shack was just all too real for me. It hearkens me back to those days in the ravine wandering among dilapidated foundations, abandoned mills, and gutted-out houses. I had a lot of fun writing this story and hope you enjoy it. 

I wrote this piece while deep in a Stephen Graham Jones workshop, but kept this one private—wrote it on the side. Years ago, fresh out of high school, I delivered furniture, spent time (with permission) dropping things off at important people’s houses when they weren’t home and always wondered what if something was in there waiting for me … what if that innocent boss of mine was hiding something. The result of that paranoid delusion is this story. Thank you, Mustache Factor. I grow my mustache for you.

I have to dedicate this one to Rudolph of Runzelstirn and Gurgelstock, whose inspiration has been with me since day one—walking around the house and dropping things at just the right height, shoving the recorder in mouth and so on. Years later, sitting with Rudolph at his home listening to some Live “Aktion” in Taiwan. Priceless, that memory. I hope you like this story. Long live The Carnage Conservatory. 

Thank you, Dead Snakes. A poem for you, for the Chinese New Year with all of its incessant firecrackers, the sky like waves of pink, a fog of noise. We eat dumplings and wait for the spring to wash these welts from our skin. 

Bartleby Snopes picked this one up. Thank you, Nathaniel. I’m honored. A student of mine confessed to me that his worst fear was being attacked by a group of women and that’s exactly what goes down for poor Ben in the story. This one gets quite surreal. Also, I had a lot of Italian horror tropes floating around in my mind that needed release (cue the title). I hope this is a great read for you.