Artist In Residence for Winter 2009 is RD Armstrong. In addition to wearing the hats of editor of Lummox Press, including online zines The Lummox Journal and Dufus, RD is a prolific writer of poetry and prose. His recent books Fire and Rain, On/Off the Beaten Path & El Pagano and Other Twisted Tales are available now from the Lummox Bookstore, CreateSpace and Amazon.
It all began rather innocently; at least that's how I saw it, in my befuddled brain. I had a blister on my foot which, for some reason, was taking its own sweet time healing. In actuality the blister was more like a crater, a quarter inch thick chunk of skin a little bit bigger across than a 25 cent piece. It kept oozing pus and blood, no matter how much Neosporin I put on it. As I was working on a job, and couldn't afford to stop, I just kept changing the dressing and hobbled around on my toes, hoping it would get better.
This is when the Stupid White Man's disease kicked in.
After about a week of this foolish behavior, I noticed my foot had started to swell up. This was followed by my lower leg and then my knee, which became so swollen it resembled a reddish brown grapefruit half. And still I hobbled on, thinking that it would go away (perhaps by magic). Finally when my knee began to get dime sized purple and blue splotches on it, I knew I had to go see the doc.
At the walk-in place on Willow, the doc looked at my foot and said it looked funky but was fixable. He kept asking me if I was diabetic and I kept saying I didn't know. But when I showed him my knee he kinda freaked out and said I was gonna have to go to the ER. I told him I didn't have that kind of money or insurance he said I'd have to go to the dreaded Harbor General (the place where all the po folks go…where you could catch more diseases in the waiting room than you could just about anywhere else + the 12 hour wait to see a doctor).
So I screwed up my courage and drove myself over to Torrance to HG. I think I still thought they'd check me out and give me some antibiotics and some anti-inflamitorys and send me home. I had a bad case of SWMD. I got there at 3:30 PM on 11/24. It wasn't until 6:30 AM until I finally got someone to tell me what was going on. I was cranky from lack of sleep and food and (what seemed to me) follow thru by the staff. I practically pinned a Dr. against the wall and said, "Either you tell me what's going on or I'm out of here!" That's when he dropped the bomb on my skinny white ass… he said you're a raging diabetic with a blood sugar rate of 320 (out of a possible 400 – normal is around 110); your blood pressure is 189 over 90 (now its 121 over 60); you've got a septic infection in your knee; there might be a blood clot in your leg; and there's a distinct possibility that you might lose your foot! He said I was going to be admitted to the hospital in an hour or so and that I should go back to the waiting room and wait like a good little guy.
Well needless to say, I was dumbfounded. I'd never been in a hospital before and I knew if I didn't go now there was a strong possibility that the next time I came thru the front door I'd be wearing a toe-tag and a black zippered bag.
I made a few calls to let my mom and a few of my friends know where I'd disappeared to and waited for my name to be called. Soon I was in the main ER wearing a gown and on a gurney with monitoring devices and a drip of potassium fluids and antibiotics going into me. A string of docs came by, each saying the same thing as the one before, some trying to assure me that it would all be ok, some making me think that I was a living pariah ruining their morning. I soon lost track of the time and would only know if it was day or night by the changing light (tho the first 25 hours I had no clue). They xrayed me and checked me for blood clots (which was kind of cool – they used an ultra-sound device and I could hear my blood flow – it sounded like some Pink Floyd special effects). Good news, no blood clot…just a swollen leg. Then I was parked in an exam room for 6 hours or so before being told that I'd have to go to another hospital since there were no rooms available. In my minds eye a little calculator was guesstimating how much all this was going to cost, but there wasn't anything I could do about it. I was playing on their court now, so I had to play by their rules.
Their rules suck, btw.
So, I ended up in Rancho Los Amigos, a county hospital in Downey. I came to call it The Circus. I was in a room with 3 other guys. Two Hispanics, myself and a guy from Somalia with around the clock supervision by some homeland security guards. While the rest of us were on a diabetic regime, he was eating 3000 + calories a day. His guards used to sit up all night watching TV, eating burgers and fries and talking a blue streak while we tried to exist on our 2000 calorie a day diets and suffered thru our various pains. I had my right foot, but the two Hispanic guys had already lost theirs.
Imagine a room with TVs blaring Spanish language shows and 60s reruns of get smart and star trek. Then add the beeping of drip monitors and chattering nurses. Finally mix into that being awakened every so often so they can change out your IVs, check your blood sugar and shoot you with insulin. I don't think I got more than four hours of sleep a night for the first 5 nights. The food was luke warm, over cooked and bland.
My Dr., a Sikh named Dr. S, had said to me on my first morning, "you have two options, I can cut off your foot or put you on antibiotics…" and the way he looked at me, I thought he was going to whip out a Scimitar and cut it right off, there and then, on the bed. So I quickly said something like, please sir could I have door number two? Thus began my adventure with the medical business. It started on 11/25 and ended on 12/09, almost two weeks exactly.
Now, I'm taking high blood pressure meds, vitamins and two kinds of Insulin that I have to shoot into myself after every meal and before I go to bed. I'm on a 2000 calorie a day diet and I've had to quit drinking alcohol (the least of my worries at this point). My heel is mending quite well and the incision that Dr. C made in my knee last week (to drain the infected fluid – all 16 or so ounces of it – another exciting story which I'll save for another time) is also healing quite well. I have a removable cast that looks like a boot, that I have to wear 24/7 (including while I sleep), except when I'm changing my dressings and/or bathing.
I checked my blood sugar, made my first meal tonight and shot my Insulin for the first time by myself. In a while I will check my blood sugar again, have a snack and give myself another shot, all before trying to go to sleep without the cacophony I have come to know in the last two weeks. It'll be weird not being poked and stabbed by nurses, but I hope I'll make the transition, eventually.
Visit thenervousbreakdown (look for RD Armstrong) or facebakersfield (click on "nonfiction" and look for Raindog) to read about my further hospital experiences.
RD has released Fire And Rain, the first of a two volume collection of poems (1993 - 1998). The second volume is forthcoming. RD has also recently put out On/Off the Beaten Path & El Pagano And Other Twisted Tales - a collection of short stories. Both books are available through the Lummox Bookstore or through Amazon.
RD has graciously agreed to share samples from all three publications with us here.
ANGRY POETS
Angry poets, like Cholo Gangsta's cruisin' low and mean lookin' for any excuse to go off on anyone and beat them into submission; angry poets lurking in the wings cursing everyone else's fifteen minutes damning any deviation from the norm as dictated by the anger of their own immediacy — their own self-involved pathos AS IF they had a corner on the market of pain or anguish AS IF their wrongs could never be righted by the tender mercies of time and forgetfulness AS IF they could steel their hearts against the gentle hand of forgiveness and forever block even the murmurings of the little savage beast that beats within their rib cages.
Ease off, little one ease off and let it go even the black bird sings a beautiful song
JOHNNY
four days in country bawling in pain AK-47 shrapnel ricocheting through his torso like a steel ball in a pachinko machine
Johnny in a war that he didn't understand Johnny with his gun ready to kick some Gook ass instead getting his ass kicked. Johnny a regular at the V.A. keeps the bits of shrapnel they continue to remove in a jar with the lid screwed down tight. Sometimes at night the shrapnel calls to him pleading with him to finish the job that was started years ago. He sucks on the muzzle of his pretty blue gun driving his girlfriend crazy. He is disabled and has learned to live in that system has learned to live with his disability with his pain with his slow death by surrender Johnny is already dead laying down waiting for some words and a handful of dirt.
JESUS DIED
I lay on the bed like Jesus making a left hand turn It's hot and dark here in my cell the fleas are moving slowly creeping towards insanity the sun cracks through the seams of my ego leaving me penniless Jesus died jet black and homeless forsaken his god no more apparent than now
I lay on the bed breathless in the dark waiting listening passionless in this brave new world.
INSTINCT
"Just what the hell is with you? Don't you ever get enough? Quit poking me with that thing!" It's early for us only 9:30 in the morning I'm laying beside her in the morning warmth the covers pulled up to our noses Her skin lightly scented with almond oil innocently calls to me promising adventure hinting at the pleasures that can be found with the secret word the right combination that will unlock the door The scent rises up to greet the day with arms spread wide even though she is "Not a morning person!" Her scent awakens me and draws me to her hungry It pulls me towards her exciting and stimulating me beckoning me to enter her promising delights previously unknown She's got the gun but I've got the bullet! "I can't help it, baby!" It's like the salmon returning or the humpbacks heading south or that business with the swallows They don't know why they do it either! It's instinct! Pure and simple just instinct
GAZE
She pierces me with her stare: two perfect puddles of ink I imagine I look like a deer caught in the headlights of a late-model destiny Go on, then hit me
MOZART AT 22
"My life sucks, man!" He was 22 His hair was cut like the Dutch Boy and dyed jet black His overcoat covered ragged jeans and jackboots Leaning against the lamppost bumming cigarettes from passersby A group of young men milled around him muttering their agreement with his wisdom and profound insight he was 22 and life was passing him by He looked dejectedly at me "Why can't I be like you, man?" 22 and he wanted to double his grief In parts of Eastern Europe old men of 22 were manning the barricades right now even as we stood on a corner in the midday sun Mozart at 22 had already lived two thirds of his life Rimbaud at 22 had given up poetry, been shot by his ex-lover and taken up gun-running (better profit to cheap-thrill ratio, I guess) "My whole life is totally fucked up, man!" He lived in a small, neat, studio apartment just down the street When I was 22 I lived in a roach infested hole of an apartment in Oakland My girlfriend was two-timing me with a baseball player and booking herself on an all-expenses paid trip around the bend The Blue Meanies were gassing kids on Telegraph Ave. whilst Nixon and Company were looting Vietnam raping our faith in authority and pillaging the federal government
Now this kid this 22 year-old this angst-ridden lost soul wants to be like me living the "easy" life? One tenth of my entire life equals his "adult" life His life is a little fart compared to the brown crusty foot-long floater of a turd that is mine 22 years old and its all over except for the screaming and crying "Rest easy kid, it's always darkest right before it goes completely black."
LOST SOUL
A Mexican on a bike is trying to proposition the crazy girl as she cowers in the corner of the bus stop at Fourth and Pacific She walks with a limp and one hand is not much good just kinda hangs there as if she had a stroke or some type of palsy She's certainly been damaged by some facet of life
I've seen her before around town Once I saw her hitching in front of my house with two boxes of laundry soap She was not doing too well
I would have given her a ride but I'd heard that she was a hooker of sorts from some friends and I just didn't want to be so closely involved in her life
Her hair is sometimes really messed up as if something had been sprayed on it and left to dry I pause to consider the dangers but the thought of yielding to my carnal desires is easily tempered by imagining her drooling mouth poised over me and me grabbing a handful of dark hair matted and crusty This never fails
The Mexican gives up and rides away The crazy girl extends her hand thumb up into traffic as the light changes I put the '54 in gear and lumber forward into the wilderness
"On/Off The Beaten Path: The Road Poems is, hands down, one of the best reads that I have had in a while.
The poems in this collection weave in and out of their narratives and speak with clean narrative. This is a bang-up job for those of you who like your poetry strong and without all that hidden academic bullshit that seems to be filtering its way through every urban open mic in America. With Armstrong you don't have to ask "where are the poets?" because here is a writer that will not pull his punches or play foolish games with words or some needless old form that other poets like to hide behind.
I have enjoyed RD Armstrong's poems in the past, but now I am a captive fan of the poet and his work. On/Off The Beaten Path is a must-have for any lover of contemporary American poetry. So, I don't care how you go about doing it, but get yourself a copy of this very cool book."
B.L. Kennedy
Driving up 101 found myself drifting into the memory lane on more than one occasion. Many treks up and down this highway -- this stretch of road in the fine company of the comrades of youth -- friends and lovers companions of those daze so many years / miles ago and now I fly solo (so low). Funny how certain landscape features trigger certain memories like dreams re-activated by the piano roll of time the subconscious mind tips open the dusty old photo album and out tumbles pictures from another time -- Karen and her ‘58 Chevy four door bruising tank of a car riding north through Paso Robles in the heat of that summer 101 a two-lane country road in those days Karen long gone now. Thought of her much this first time on 101 in a dozen years easy. Look forward to the sad dumb beauty of these memories as trip unfolds after house uncurls itself and the coffee pot is empty.
ROUTE ONE
Two lanes winding out of desolate coast lined with sheer cliffs flat gray drops into sheetmetal patina sea cliffs topped with scrub and bush and wild grasses wildly rioting at roadside or freshly mowed and baled like a KS wheatfield. Little towns of Davenport Pescadero, Half Moon Maltera and Venice Beach “Where’s the sunglasses?” Even San Pedro (park) “Am I going south or north?” Pass a gutted and wind-blasted concrete shell of a house -- it has no access no explanation just stands on the weathered pedestal of sandstone perched on top of a hill over-looking Half Moon Bay. This stretch winding up to the outskirts of SanFran’s suburbs leads a caravan away from the isolation of the rugged coastline and into Daly City’s “little boxes” made of ticky-tack once a novelty now the common denominator.
El Pagano and Other Twisted tales is out and available from www.lummoxpress.com or at Amazon.com. Order direct if you want a signed copy . It's just $17.99 plus $3 postage from Lummox. Go to the website for more info and an excerpt from one of the stories. As you can see by the cover (painted by Tareq Swenson), the book probably contains some strange stories (and it does!).
Hey Elmo Get A Loada This Or how I Forgot the Horrors of 9-11
When the façade was vaporized off our little Norman Rockwell world, that is to say, when nine eleven happened, I was visiting friends in Washington State some thirteen hundred miles from home. I remember being glued to their TV set watching hour after hour of raw video being beamed into living rooms all over America on that first day. It was hypnotizing and horrible all at the same time, much the way a traffic accident draws so many rubber-neckers – you feel compelled to look, even if you don't want to see anything. The whole country gawked at New York City, in all of its murky devastation. And I gawked right along, from the second tower sporting an unseasonable orange chrysanthemum to the blizzard of ash and confetti to the search for the wounded to the search for survivors to the eerie sense that things would never be the same again.
Every time I closed my eyes for the next six months, a parade of images from those initial fifteen hours, cascaded through my mind's eye. It was frightful. I knew that there were others who felt the same way, because I'd had conversation with them. And then, one day in March 2002, something happened to change all that.
I received an invitation to have dinner with a friend at her mother's house one Sunday evening and out of guilt I accepted. See, I was trying to get 'chummy' with my friend and she had indicated that this would happen a lot faster if I went with her and pretended I was her beau (a sort of stunt-boyfriend). My friend, Priscilla, didn't see her mom very often because, as she told me, frankly, she was kind of hard to take in large doses (ironic, because her mother wasn't very big, but when it came to outlandish behavior, she was a giant!). But I'm jumping ahead of the story.
My own mother was slowly dying of cancer at a famous doctor's hospital (where she was receiving excellent care – at least until her insurance ran out), and I was down visiting her from my central California home.
My friend's mom, Karen, lives in a coastal town west of Los Angeles, in the same house that Pris (as I call her) grew up in. She got it as a prize for putting up with her husband's philandering ways, if you know what I mean. She lives there with her boyfriend Floyd. Pris tells me they have been living together for over twenty years! For some reason her mom will never set foot in a church again, at least not for her own wedding. Like Tom Waits says, "I don't mind weddings, as long as they're not my own!"
They make quite a pair, Karen and Floyd. They've been living together so long that they operate like a tag team. Floyd'll start a sentence and Karen will finish it. She tells a story and Floyd does 'color commentary.' Floyd tells a joke and she tells the punch line. It's a very down-home, yet eclectic atmosphere.
As we sat in the dining room just off the kitchen, I looked around. Her mom had a fondness for contact paper (you used to be able to buy it at Target or the Akron…it came in all these bright colors or looked like "authentic" wood grain – we used to call it hillbilly wallpaper) and she used it extensively. Oddly though, she also made a mean flower arrangement and apparently picked up some folding money doing arrangements for some of her friends and events down at the Bingo Center. Yeah, she's a regular at the center a few towns over, and the way Pris tells it she's practically the belle of the ball. Truth be told her mom talks like Longshoreman…but the gals at Bingo would never know, 'cause Karen leads a double life.
Oh yeah, did I mention that she drinks? She's been putting the booze away for quite some time…and Floyd ain't no slouch in that department either. In fact, every year for at least the last fifteen or so, Floyd and some of his friends have made their own wine. They drive a couple of pickups up to the wine country and bring back a couple of tons of the grape and mash 'em, bottle 'em and put them up in her mom's garage to ferment. It's quite an operation. Just picture that episode of I Love Lucy where she decides to go native on a trip to Italy and ends up brawling in the wine vat with one of the local gals. The only difference here is that if there's any brawlin', it's over who gets first taste.
So, on the occasion of our little party, the vino was ready for sampling and we commenced to sampling. I have to say also, that homebrewed wine packs a wallop since it is usually at least five percent higher in alcohol than the store bought stuff. So two glasses is like drinking three or four, depending on your tolerance. Pris told me later that you need a lot of tolerance to sit through a dinner at her mom's house, hence you need a couple of glasses of wine, or gin, or whatever it is that allows you to sit numbly by while Floyd tells his racist jokes and Karen tells her stories about how screwed up the country is.
Well, by the time dinner was started, we were a pretty happy crew, feeling no pain as the saying goes. Pris is usually pretty jovial. She has a contagious laugh which causes her to jiggle a bit when she gets going; and, by this I mean that like most women who reach a certain age, they tend to end up on the round side, what I'd call zaftig. We all tend to get a little thicker around the middle and I'm no exception.
I was filling Pris in on my mom's condition, which was pretty serious, when Floyd headed out to see if he could put the meat on the grill. In this case it was steak, a nice thick cut too, served with salad and potatoes and, you guessed it, another glass of wine. Karen just sat there like a bump on a log while Pris and I calmly discussed the impending departure of my mother. It'd been a drawn out process and we were both (Mom and I) looking forward to its end. At some point in the conversation Karen started relating a story about one of her friends who was suffering the same fate and as she droned on I found myself drifting off into my own little world of thoughts. I couldn't close my eyes and rest because when I did that, there was that damned tower with its orange "flower" suddenly blooming…
Fortunately, Floyd brought the steaks in from the BBQ and dinner began. The conversation moved away from death and dying and became more irreverent. As Pris had warned me, her mom began her litany of people who'd disappointed her, with her kids being at the top of the list. I wanted to protest and get on Pris' good side, but said nothing because I knew from my own mother that it was pointless. I'd been down this path before and knew that my sibs weren't worth the effort required to defend, either. Besides the steak was great and the wine was providing a cotton candy-like layer of tolerance, so I just let 'er rip. And rip she did. She ripped Pris (who just smiled politely), she ripped Floyd (who chuckled and said "it's true"), and she even ripped me for "settling" for someone like her daughter (I thought I saw just a glint of anger in Pris' eyes but she kept on smiling). She went on and on like a little kid having a tantrum and we sat there like hostages, wondering when the axe would come down.
Eventually, Karen ran out of steam and slumped into her chair. I asked Priscilla her day went (me artfully pretending to be her boyfriend) and she gladly took charge of the conversation, but again I found myself drifting off. She's very active and does a lot of traveling for her job, so she's always coming home late. I know this bothers her, but she takes it all in stride (which is probably how she handles her mom's outbursts) and smiles through it all. She's a sly one, old Priscilla. God, I love her.
Somewhere during this chatter, maybe after dessert and coffee, we got to talking about this fellow who has a show on the local PBS TV channel, called Travels With Elmo. He sounds a lot like a cross between Gomer Pyle (a character from an old TV show who had a big smile, a back-woods drawl that just wouldn't quit and a fondness for saying "Shazzam!" when he was impressed by something) and Floyd. He's got this persona that just seems arcane in our "modern" world. It's "golly this" and "golly that" and "gee whiz" etc. Elmo travels around the state and does little puff pieces on towns and people that are off the beaten path. His show is interesting sometimes, but he's so over-the-top that you almost need a big, old, glass of "tolerance" to watch him.
There we sat, relating our favorite episodes, mine being the one where Elmo and his intrepid cameraman Luigi ("Golly, Luigi, look at that!") go to a borax mine and see these huge dump trucks and I did my best impression of Elmo drawling "Golly Luigi, look at the size of those tires!" Floyd chimed in, "They's huge!" And we all started cackling with laughter. This went on for a while until Karen got that devilish look in her eye. She nodded her head towards the doorway behind me and said to no one in particular, "You know what I'd do if Elmo was standing over there?" She leaned back in her chair, puffed out her chest and, to my horror, started bobbling her boobs up and down, saying excitedly, "Hey Elmo, get a loada this!"
You know how time slows down when you're in peril, like during a car accident? That's what this was like. Try to imagine the sight of an old lady cackling her ass off and bobbling her tits, which are really just sacks of skin so they don't really bounce anymore, but really just go flap, flap, flap. Now add to that the fact that this old lady is the mother of someone you desperately want to get close to and you get some idea of the shock I was in…I wanted to scream, but Pris beat me to it; "GEEZUS H. CHRIST, MOM WHAT ARE YOU THINKING!?!"
So, as she kept flipping those things, I turned to Pris with a look that was pure "Silent Scream" and mouthed the words "you owe me." But old Priscilla just smiled that Cheshire cat smile back at me and arched her eyebrows just slightly as if to say, "hey, this is my family, deal with it!" I knew she was right and it dawned on me that if I played this right, I'd be collecting from Pris for quite some time.
This went on for no more than twenty seconds, but it seemed like a lifetime. A moment later, after the hysterical laughter died down, I made my move.
"Geeze, look at the time!" I blurted as I jumped out of my chair; "We've got to get going!"
I kissed Pris' mom on the cheek and waved goodbye to Floyd, and before Pris could protest, had grabbed her by the arm and was heading out the door towards the car. The drive back to Priscilla's house was very quiet, neither of us saying anything, especially about what had just transpired. But as soon as I got inside her front door, Pris showed me how grateful she was that I had been there to take some of the heat.
After a few days, when the shock had finally worn off, I told a few people about this incident and I soon discovered that most found it both disturbing and hilarious. This was interesting to me, so I began to study it. I studied it for about a week and that's when I discovered something else. I noticed that now every time I closed my eyes, I no longer saw that damned tower coming down. Instead…you guessed it, I saw Karen's things flapping up and down. 9/11 was now just a crappy memory (and like any memory, it comes and goes according to its own timetable).
I still find myself laughing sometimes when I hear her words, "Hey Elmo! Get a loada this!"
There’s a new ezine called Epic Rites and they’ve been kind enuf to allow me to be there featured poet. There are interviews and poems by yours truly; but there is also a lot of good stuff by other writers too. Check out this Canadian zine run by the ever diligent Wolfgang Carstens. http://www.epicrites.net/
LUMMOX PRESS has just published Todd Moore’s The Riddle of the Wooden Gun and you can order your copy on line by going to this URL: http://www.geocities.com/lumoxraindog/riddle.html or if you just can’t bring yourself to use Pay Pal, you can send concealed cash or money order to LUMMOX, c/o PO Box 5301 San Pedro, CA 90733. For orders within the USA please send $18 (ppd); orders from outside the US – WORLD – send $25 (ppd). You can also get it at http://www.createspace.com/3360613 or Amazon.com.
This 144 page poem is another section from Todd’s epic poem about John Dillinger, the American outlaw. Todd has been exploring the mythological prominence that Dillinger has held in the American imagination since the 70s. Read a slice of the poem and some of Todd’s thoughts on the poem itself at http://members.tripod.com/raindog/RiddleExcerpt.html
And if you are a fan of his writing, you’ll be able to see him read from this masterpiece coming in May. We’ll be hitting Book Soup in LA and the Bay area/Sacramento & Santa Cruz. It’ll be EPIC, just like Todd’s poem! I’ll announce the dates in the future.
BTW this is Todd’s second Dillinger piece published by Lummox (the first was The Corpse is Dreaming, LRB # 20)
And speaking of the Little Red Books, March will see the publication of The Long Way Home – ten years of the Little Red Book series 1999-2009 This collection features poems from almost every LRB published. Over 160 pages long and featuring the work of RD Armstrong, Pris Campbell, Alan Catlin, Patricia Cherin, Leonard J. Cirino, Glenn Cooper, Hugh Fox, Bill Gainer, Scott Holstad, Edward Jamieson Jr., Larry Jaffe, Marie Lecrivain, Frances LeMoine, Linda Lerner, Lyn Lifshin, Gerald Locklin, Philomene Long, Laura Joy Lustig, Errol Miller, Terry McCarty, Angela C. Mankiewicz, Todd Moore, Rebecca Morrison, BZ Niditch, normal, nila northSun, Rob Plath, Bill Shields, Rick Smith, Belinda Subraman, William Taylor Jr., John Thomas, Scott Wannberg, Patricia Wellingham-Jones, Mark Weber, Lawrence Welsh, Harry R. Wilkens, Lindsay Wilson, AD Winans, and Anita Wynn. It’s a helluva bargain at only$15 (again, that’s $18 for the US and $25 for WORLD orders). I’m taking reservations for copies now.
Join us at Beyond Baroque (681 Venice Blvd. Venice, CA) on June 27th at 7:30 pm for a reading by some of the many outstanding poets featured in this series…including Angela C. Mankiewicz, Bill Gainer, Ed Jamieson Jr., Terry McCarty, Marie Lecrivain, myself and Will Taylor Jr. There may be a few others added as time goes on. Books will be on sale at BB.
John Yamrus’ book NEW AND SELECTED POEMS is still available. If you are unfamiliar with his poetry, here’s what Gerald Locklin thinks: “Two major qualities prevail in his recent work: economy and punch. No word is unnecessary or out of place; the timing is impeccable; and, most difficult of all, the endings hit just the right balance of summation, revelation, and surprise.” Yours for $15 ($18 US & $25 WORLD) via Lummox or at http://www.createspace.com/3356999
Just a reminder… the Essential Raindog Reader: Fire and Rain Vols. 1&2, On/Off the Beaten Path, and El Pagano and Other Twisted Tales are still available through the Lummox Press. In fact, I’m offering a special deal…get all four volumes for $60 (US) - $80 (WORLD) – you’ll save $26 if you buy directly from the website!!! You can buy them individually, too. They’re also available from Create Space or Amazon.
And finally, here’s an update on my health scare of a few months ago: basically my foot and leg have healed up very nicely, in fact my doctor has been amazed at my speedy recovery! I’m still trying to get a handle on the Diabetes and what all I have to do to deal with it (the fist full of pills is confusing enough – thank god for those little pill organizers!). The docs down at the County clinic took me off liquid Insulin and put me on the pill form about four weeks ago. No more needles!!! I’m doing my best to stay on the 2000 calorie a day diet – already lost about 12 pounds…only 40 to go. And for my AA buddies, I’ve been sober since the Sunday before Thanksgiving and I feel FINE!
Again I want to thank all of the wonderful people on this list that sent me donations to help me get through the last few months. Now I must get back to work!
PS if you have a website, please send the URL so I can update my bookmarks (one of the victims of my recent computer death).
RD Armstrong 58 years young as of Monday, Feb 2nd 2009
ER: When did you start writing? What were you writing? Why were you writing? Was there a certain event that preceded your decision to start writing?
RD: I started writing a long time ago. For years I kept a journal and it was my only solace as I navigated the stormy seas of my youth. Growing up during Vietnam and the whole hippie-free love era was no walk in the park, it was a time of great confusion and upheaval; a time of rebellion and questioning authority. My journal documented my doubts and concerns, the wranglings of a young man in love. It was both my salvation and my curse. Although I did write the occasional bad poem, mostly I wrote about my world. I kept that up for nearly fifteen years. It was a great source of therapy, or so I thought. Eventually I came to believe that I couldn’t trust what I was writing. I began to see that my journal writing had become part of a personal conspiracy to blind me to my problems. I know this sounds weird but what happened was that I basically conned myself into thinking that everything was okay, when it was so obviously not. So I stopped writing. It lasted for almost a decade. And then, in the early nineties, I started writing again; but this time I was writing mostly poetry. Somehow it was different…my writing voice had matured, as if I had grown up and my writing style had grown too. I think getting my first computer also helped me because I could edit while I wrote (even though I’m not a big fan of editing, I still make adjustments as I go along).
ER: What were you reading at the time? Which books/authors inspired you? Do these same books/authors inspire you today?
RD: I’ve always been inspired by Bukowski (except for the crap that’s being published now by ECCO – which is mostly rejected work from the past). But I also dig Braughtigan and Snyder, and a whole slew of poets that nobody has heard of outside the alternative small press like Will Taylor, Jr. and Rebecca Morrison and Scott Wannberg and J. Alamares and Philomene Long and Todd Moore and normal and LA Bogen and Rick Smith and Rob Plath and Pris Campbell and Antonieta Villamil and Marie Lecrivain and John Sweet and CC Russell and Bren Petrokas and on and on. You can pretty much gauge who I like by looking at who I have published over the years.
ER: What do you hope to achieve with your writing? Have you achieved your goal yet? In what ways, if any, do your early literary goals differ from your literary goals today?
RD: My goals? I don’t think of writing in those terms. I write because it’s a form of expression. Maybe I should start looking at it as a means to making a living, but for now, it’s just something that I do.
ER: Is there an RD piece that defines your work? Your literary vision?
RD: No, I don’t think there is. The reason I say that is because I’m continually changing. So, while there might be high points during the course of my “career” as a writer, there is no single point to which I can point to and say, “this is my finest hour.”
ER: What can you tell us about the creative process as it happens for you? Do you write in different mediums? At the computer? Pen and paper? Voice recorder? Etc.
RD: 90 % of my writing occurs at the computer. And as to a process, I pretty much write as the mood strikes me. Sometimes I’ll get an idea while I’m watching TV or something will occur to me while I’m out and about and I’ll have to bring it back home to get it down on the computer. I recently wrote a poem while I was in the hospital. I had the title in my head for a few days and was just waiting for the idea to catch up with me. Eventually I wrote it down. Usually I can get a poem onto ‘paper’ within minutes.
(part two)
ER: I understand that you were writing & submitting work to magazines & were unhappy w/ how you were being treated.
RD: That was only in the beginning of my writing period. Mostly I was unhappy because I couldn't get into any local poetry mags (L.A. area mostly – but there weren't very many that I knew about back then – the internet was still pretty virginal).
ER: What can you tell me about the birth of lummox press?
RD: Well it was pretty simple. It started with the Lummox Journal, which I started with the idea that I could publish just about anything I wanted, because it was MY mag. It was a reaction to the few punks that I'd done "business" with. Todd Moore had said to me that if I wanted something done a certain way, then I'd better do it myself. So I did.
Eventually I published a poetry anthology (trade paper) and the start of the Little Red Book series. The anthology, called DUFUS, was a dud even though it had some top notch poets in it. There were a lot errors in it – the learning curve on that one was very steep.
But I was off and running and I hardly ever look back.
ER: Was lummox initially created as a vanity press to put out yr own works?
RD: Kind of… back in the early 90s I wanted to put together a couple of chapbooks for my poems and a friend of mine, Andrea Kowalski, helped me put out two nicely presented chapbooks which I sold at readings. But it wasn't until later that I decided to use Lummox to publish books of my own. So, technically, I'd already put out books for other people. The first two Little Red Books were by me, but I really hadn't considered them to be a series, it just worked out that way.
ER: What happened between the first lrb's (yr work) & when did you decide to publish works by others?
RD: Nothing happened. I realized that it was a cool format and would be easy to make and relatively cheap. As you know, a lot of people do this with a "labor of love" mentality. The bottom line of that approach is you tend to lose money on what you do, in fact, you're lucky to break even. It's not like buying groceries or paying the rent, because you reap a temporary benefit from your expenditure.
For me, it's always been about breaking even. I can squander my time making it work, but the 'parts' have to pay for themselves. I found that in the Little Red Books and the Lummox Journal.
As to when I decided to publish others, it came down to luck. I had some manuscripts from some poets that I didn't know what I was gonna do with. They weren't very long and I thought, what the hell? Scott Wannberg gave me some poems and that's how Equal Opportunity Sledgehammer became the fourth LRB. Next I was going to publish a book by Catfish McDaris and one by Alan Kaufman, but both flaked on me at the last minute (Catfish had mental problems and Kaufman was, well, Kaufman – I never did figure out what his problem was). Fortunately, I had two more manuscripts on deck, so I just put them in instead. Scar Tissue by AD Winans and Meat Eater by Bill Shields became the next books. And so it began.
ER: How did yr new role as publisher affect yr life?
RD: It's funny…AD Winans once told me in a letter, "You'll know who your friends are when you quit publishing." What he failed to tell me was how many friends (so-called)would become your enemy, way before you quit publishing. Winans was dissed by Bukowski, I was dissed by Winans (though we later became nicer to each other – I'm not sure friend is the right word).
As I have already said, I've pissed off quite a few people in this business, mostly it has been inadvertently. I have always tried to work it out, but sometimes you just have to let go and leave it up to fate. It's not an easy lesson. Fortunately, most of my 'enemies' live outside my area, so I don't have to deal with them face to face – most of them don't operate that way anyway. Most of them prefer to hurl invectives from behind a rock. They are too chicken shit to face me like a man. There is very little honor amongst these people.
ER: What changes (if any) did you make?
RD: I stopped trying to figure out the people I just described. In fact, I pretty much stopped associating with them. Sure, I lost a few potential friends this way, but I could still walk into a room with my dignity intact.
It's taken quite a few years to figure out how to walk through the fire without wincing. I'm getting there, slowly.
Now if I could just get some cherry readings… I'd be set.
ER: How were your lrb's received & how did that make you feel?
RD: That's an odd question. When they are selling, I'm happy. If the poets are doing their job, and pushing their books, then I know it was worth my time. I'm glad for the poet and me…we've done our jobs. I work hard on each book and it's hard work putting them together. So be it.
I guess when I get tired of the hard work, or I reach that point (and I know it's coming) when I can't do the hard work anymore, then I'll have to quit. That will not be easy.
(to be continued)
Check out an interview with RD in second epic rites journal.
Watch video footage of RD reading poetry at the Nevada Center for the Arts here.
Watch video footage of RD reading his poem, Eyes Like Mingus, here.
Watch video footage of a recent interview with RD here.
Listen to an interview with RD on The Jane Crown Show here.
Listen to an interview with RD on Rob & Jack America here.
Once again Raindog (RD Armstrong) raises the level of expectation for his vision as a poet and writer, with the publication of FIRE AND RAIN (his first major collection, and the first of a two volume set). Fire and Rain can be purchased directly through Lummox press via PAYPAL. If you want it signed, please indicate when I email you confirmation of purchase.
On/Off the Beaten Path by RD Armstrong is the second book in a series of four that showcases the poet's craft. It is a collection of three long poems describing Armstrong's adventures during successive trips to San Francisco (1999), Albuquerque (2000) and Seattle (2001). Each trip has it's own pivotal moment upon which the journey is defined...the most precipitous being the final poem (RoadKill) which occurred during Sept. 11, 2001 (the Baby-boomer's Pearl Harbor).
A signed copy of On/Off the Beaten Path may be purchased directly from LUMMOX PRESS by clicking the "BUY NOW" button for $19 (postage paid). Or it can be purchased through Amazon or at the E-STORE for 15.99 plus shipping.
Tales from the dark side of the street, this is the first major collection of short stories by RD Armstrong ever published. It is chock full of “noir” characters set in a “dime novel” world. It includes micro (flash) fiction from the Manx Tales, Art Fag (previously published in LAST CALL), and many other stories. In the vein of Bukowski or Jim Thompson, El Pagano is a hot beef injection for your soul!
Where to Purchase: for a signed copy, order from Lummox Press - $21 (includes shipping)
Also available at www.createspace.com/3347333 or through Amazon.com - $17.99 (plus shipping)
Artist In Residence for Winter 2009 is RD Armstrong. In addition to wearing the hats of editor of Lummox Press, including online zines 
It all began rather innocently; at least that's how I saw it, in my befuddled brain. I had a blister on my foot which, for some reason, was taking its own sweet time healing. In actuality the blister was more like a crater, a quarter inch thick chunk of skin a little bit bigger across than a 25 cent piece. It kept oozing pus and blood, no matter how much Neosporin I put on it. As I was working on a job, and couldn't afford to stop, I just kept changing the dressing and hobbled around on my toes, hoping it would get better. 
RD has released Fire And Rain, the first of a two volume collection of poems (1993 - 1998). The second volume is forthcoming. RD has also recently put out On/Off the Beaten Path & El Pagano And Other Twisted Tales - a collection of short stories. Both books are available through the Lummox Bookstore or through Amazon.
"On/Off The Beaten Path: The Road Poems is, hands down, one of the best reads that I have had in a while. 
El Pagano and Other Twisted tales is out and available from www.lummoxpress.com or at Amazon.com. Order direct if you want a signed copy . It's just $17.99 plus $3 postage from Lummox. Go to the website for more info and an excerpt from one of the stories. As you can see by the cover (painted by Tareq Swenson), the book probably contains some strange stories (and it does!).
I have a hospital poem in the new issue of The Orange Room Review
