Callaci’s second book is out a year shy of his previous book “100 Cassettes”. Hear him read a portion of one of the five stories below.
The fourth book on Bamboo Dart Press is due out on February 15th, and it is a stunner. Stephanie Barbe Hammer is a poet and novelist with a number of published books in each of these tributaries. Her new book, Rescue Plan is a book of longing. Its brief 45 pages serve as a tour de force study of the hearts of those that reside in her imagined town of Narrow Interior whose other occupants can be found in a myriad of stories by the author. This book serves as Bamboo Dart’s valentine for the mid February season. This is a bouquet from the writer of pining as opposed to flowers. It was built to last you well past the end of the season of hearts, out past the brambles of Spring and long after the inoculations of the summer of 2021. Rescue Plan fits neatly in hand when you go back out there into the real world. I daydream about turning its pages on the metro, the subway and the omnibus in Montclair California that I hope to occupy once more.
As economical and utilitarian as Barbe Hammer’s work is, she seldom fails to move me to tears, make me laugh out loud or more frequently, be haunted as I digest her poems or narratives. I have been tricked into thinking many of her works are small one act knee plays while reading them in real time, only to ponder their enormity for days afterwards. “Rescue Plan”, which is available for preorder at https://www.bamboodartpress.com/ and will be available at your finer independent brick and mortar book stores, Revolver, Grapefruit, Midheaven, Ingram, Amazon, Barnes & Noble among others on February 15th.
If you have not read any work by Stephanie Barbe Hammer, I strongly suggest you visit her blog Writing (Un) Real and read the short piece that she wrote about her mother just a few weeks back. It is a sublime piece and serves as a wonderful introduction to the magic she is capable of:
I stayed away from you across all of these platforms for all of these decades because I didn’t want to write about me. I never had a manager, a label liaison, no in house nothing. I mean, I will share with you my shortcomings and foibles. There is nothing there that would shock or awe anyone. Your life is rough around the bends, dog-eared and trying, and you have been kind to not place that weight on me. I appreciated that, so I in turn did this for you. We can confess to one another in person, have a drink or not, hell, those are some of the best and worst moments of my life. The best and worst, sure, but also worth every moment spent on them. I recall sitting in the round with one of my closest friends and a group of her pals that I had never met. One of those newly introduced to me over drinks confessed that she was a suicidal alcoholic. No one else at the table said a thing to that. This was not news to them. This was only news to me. I had nothing in my back pocket, I was taken aback. Like most of you, I have lost too many friends to one or the other of these maladies and it hurts me still, those ghosts and those memories.
I recall looking her in the eye, and telling her that the reason she was saying this in my company, my virgin company, was because she knew she had to do something about her life. I told her that I didn’t know her at all, but I knew her music, and so by default, I did know more about her than I rightly should. I asked her if she would get some help, not the help of a friend, or family, but of professionals. “Don’t let it get so horrific that you end up in county, half alive, half out of your mind. Get help now of a better kind.” I said, but certainly less succinctly and to the point. It will be lesser help that any of us will get in crisis mode. You are near crisis mode. I knew that from experience. “Do it now” I said then.
Silence fell. No one, not a thing. Her friends that were gathered around that thrift store bar pedestal table with me had all said this to her before, I am sure. They didn’t want to add anything. She didn’t want to address this reaction of mine. I couldn’t stop myself from having said it. I would say it again were I there now, even knowing it would serve no purpose. I wouldn’t just sit there having said that, like I did then. That was my mistake. I should have left. Ah, but the ego soapbox doesn’t work that way. You always have something more to say, don’t you? All bells, whistles and calls but no pick up, no delivery. I was a stranger. I had hoped to see her again. Again but changed. If I was one that prayed, I would also be on bended knee hoping that I would be more worldly, knowledgeable upon our next meeting to offer a true salve. To offer you something more than warmed over trite sounding advice that had landed at your feet on a monthly basis for years.
The artists and painters and writers that I know, so many of them have told me that they are happiest in their work when they are lost and don’t know where they are going. That the great reveal comes to them sometimes years after a work is completed. I don’t put myself in the category of any of them, those terms, but I know precisely that which they are speaking of. I wrote a book titled 100 Cassettes that came out earlier this year. I didn’t know it was going to be an autobiography. I didn’t see the reveal of all of my shortcomings and foibles, reflections as anything other than a piece of work about music. Then it came to me from the printing press, bound up instead of scribbles and fevered notes. Like that troubled drinker, it was only then that it blurted out what it was. Some off ramp autobiography, not largely about me so much as those and that which informed and shaped me. Those records. Those friends. Those conversations.
Five Ghost Stories is a book of five fictional short stories that I wrote. It is out on January 15th on http://www.bamboodartpress.com. I chose these five stories out of forty that I had written this calendar year with you in mind. Us at that table, the first and only time that I met you. You, shocked at the timbre and panic in your voicing to the five of us that night. You reminded me of my friends, my family, myself. When I was younger, I would have been horrified, but at that moment I was reminded of all those that we had lost. My circle, how many were gone and how many of us had mourned and continue to mourn those losses. I couldn’t save any of them, none of us could. Who was I to think I could save anyone? Do them justice, that is the best that I can deliver for the asking.
I thought of you when I put this one to bed. I am thinking still, of you and that night. I am hoping the best only for you, and I know that sounds like nothing, like less than praying, but it isn’t. Hope is harder to come by than prayer. I see people praying everywhere. I see just as much hopelessness. We were given these sternums, these vessels inside of vessels to hold near all of that memory. A heart to keep our loved ones chambered up and safe from the physical harm that will come to all of them in time. You probably don’t remember me, that one chance meeting, but I have been carrying you in there all of the eves since we sat in the round. Another smoke signal. Another slight movement. A little something from you to me to prove that you am still living. Ah, the rise of your chest as you inhale, you are still there. I exhale and watch my sternum pull my ribs down like pearls, gently, one by one.
What kind of gifts have your brought forth, Covid-19? I used to dig the dress up beaks of plague crows with their potpourri stuffed nostrils walking the streets of the fourteenth century. Those, of course, were archaic portraiture. It is hard to look at you now, though. “It’s not that funny, is it?” to quote Lindsey Buckingham, when it happens to you in real time. Nope. Multiple family members and friends of mine got sick, friends lost family members, so many of us sacrificed birthdays and halloweens and thanksgivings, high holidays all lower cased because it was us alone in our homes. Maybe a dog or cat keeping us company. Maybe our kids or our lover if we were lucky. Everyone is home. No one can come out. No one can find time to answer the phone. But I am calling you nonetheless from the back porch of Southern California with stacks of records from the vineyards out here piled up next to the stereo.
The harvest from the golden state was healthy in 2020, maybe the lack of smog this year, time on our hands. As if it weren’t enough that artists whose records I received for Christmas in the lean early years of the 80’s made records this year that were brilliant & on endless repeat in my home (cheers to you Sparks & X), there were also Southern California releases by my peers that grew up here or moved here that made me wonder if I would always stay in the minor leagues (Franklin Bruno & The Human Hearts, Falcon Eddy, The Mountain Goats) and those that are my SoCal juniors like Kevin Morby, David Herman Dune and So Many Wizards that inspired me.
Old dinosaurs don’t die, they become fuel. Tom Petty’s west coast transplant success “Wildflowers” box set took root. Los Angeles recordings by Prince that surfaced on his “Sign O’ the Times” boxset allow his inclusion here. That song about “Wally” on that 6 or 7 disc set, I imagine what it was then before Suzanne was forced to erase it. What about new artist? AzSwaye’s minimal Hip Hop killed it. “Real Movie” by him reverberated with it’s manufactured snow flocked tree of disease. BH “Trap Pac”, we don’t care if you don’t like traps you bearded fifty somethings – go lissen’ to Eric Clapton or Frank Zappa. Stroke that pepper and salt rug hanging off of yer’ chin until it cums all over Van Morrison’s anti-mask. This one slays it. And Vi Redd, on her alto sax, I heard her calling me through the citrus groves, beckoning me to get back home in a dream.
I could rattle on about more music from this 60 square mile radius that made my year, but you get the point. Grown in sharper, the wealth of sound from around the globe over the last twelve months was far too much for me to digest. What a banner of a mother it was musically. Thank you non musicians, embarrassed to be called artist artists and all points in between for the salvation.
Covid-19, it wasn’t you that meant to take so much from us. It is just that your make up and ours can’t coexist so well together. You are a terrible room mate. I see your maskless proponets on my dazed winds by foot, welcoming sickness. Someone has to do it, so why not them? The end of the worlders, sandwich boarders, conspiracy fornicators pushing out new tubes of sour cream Crest from them vacant anuses and armpits, I am calling, wishing even them the happiest of new years. I say this aloud as I type, then pardon myself as I shit my pants and plastic bag my clothing. It is rude to leave your shit everywhere. My mom taught me that. Merry Christmas, Baby. Happy Hanukkah Darling. Here’s to bringing back all of them upper cases in 2021.
The term local legend has a negative connotation to it, a “could have been a contender” flavor that does not fit writer John Brantingham. His work in poetry, fiction and art is not dissimilar to his public work in the classroom, heading up workshops or at the gallery that he runs with his wife, noted artist, Ann Brantingham. There are doors on hinges at that gallery, and may you be so lucky in your life to meet two artists in your community that are always opening doors for others and welcoming them in like the Brantinghams. John Brantingham’s new book on Bamboo Dart, “Life, Orange to Pear” is a character study of time. What it does to families, the dynamics that time uses to bend and change the arc of one generation coming into its own after the stewardship of flawed adults. The idiosyncratic ways our families have shaped each of us, all here on display in “Life, Orange to Pear”. Bamboo Dart Press is thrilled to be issuing this as the second book on our imprint. The following conversation with John took place at the beginning of November. The book is available direct from us at Bamboo Dart http://www.bamboodartpress.com via the myriad of finer book stores and distributors now. Check out the trailer below featuring John reading from the book coupled with illustrations by his wife Ann.
There is an interesting divide in your work as both a poet and writer between the natural world and that of steel and glass. The tenderness in even some of the most hardened characters in your stories strikes me as the closest to that duality.
Certainly in “Life, Orange to Pear” the father walks both of these lines with his daughter. These are some of the ideas that interest me the most. There are a series of interesting false dilemmas that most people set up for themselves. I go to the term false dilemma first because I teach critical thinking and the false dilemma is one of the fallacies that I talk about a lot, but we do this naturally. One of them is that we think the world of people and nature are two different things. I find that kind of fascinating, and it makes people think that nature is foreign to them, and when they venture into a national park or purely wild space they think it is a place of danger, and it is to some degree, but no more so than an urban environment. All those wild elements of the forest exist in the city and all the wild elements of the city exist outside of it and all the truth and beauty does too. All of that lives inside of us as well. As we are both wild and urban, we are good and evil too. It’s important to understand this. I am a confirmed pacifist because I know that just below the surface is a good deal of violence that I am certainly capable of. I want to keep that down. It is part of who I am, and I don’t want it to be. That’s why it’s important to write my characters, especially those like this one who is so similar to me, with a clear vision of those parts of him that are failings. It’s important for us to see ourselves as we are.
Your other new work, “Inland Empire Afternoon” is a character study of the region of Southern California that we both live in whose flavor and mapping is spread out over forty characters, a cut-up among well defined characters instead of ideas. Did that concept come into play prior to writing this piece or in the midst of it?
I’m a huge fan of Richard Linklater, and what I did there was try to do what he did for the city of Austin in Slackers, where he bounced for five minutes from character to character building up a vision of the city and a particular group of people who lived there. It was a critical look at that urban space, but it was also a kind of love letter to it. I have lived most of my life in or around the Inland Empire and I’ve really begun to see why it is a beautiful place. It’s one of those spaces that’s ill-defined in the American conscious. Angelinos often see it as a kind ugly step-brother, but that’s just provincialism. There is beauty in all places occupied by people because there is beauty in people. I wanted to draw that out.
In your teaching (both in the classroom and in workshops) you use prompts and I have seen your ability to be lightning fast in crystalizing an idea for a writer. Did childhood role play (Dungeons & Dragons) serve as an early introduction to this technique for you?
Yes, and what I love about Dungeons and Dragons when it is played well is that it is all about bizarre improvisation. In that moment it becomes surreal and fun. Some people like to play it in a constrained way that follows strict rules and it becomes almost like a slow motion video game. If you take out the improvisation and the surreality, if you stick to slow moving rules, then it replicates reality, and there is a kind of safety and tedium to that. Like improv, it is often funny, but like improv, it doesn’t need to be. But if you take that improv element out of it, it just becomes as restrictive as reality. In my classes, which are almost never funny, I want to have that kind of movement. They need to because the people before me are different than any group of students have ever been. They have their own desires and needs, and I need to pivot to meet those needs. Creative spaces, in classrooms, writing rooms, or gaming rooms are sacred, and they need to be approached in that way.
What was the seed of the original concept that drove you and your wife Ann to start your California Imagism Gallery? Besides the obvious, what are your hopes in the years ahead for this space?
Ann and I have been talking about this a lot lately. What has marked so much of this time in the world is a kind of festering cynicism. Our goal is to move away from that. People are angry now. People often act in evil ways, but if you look through the veneer of that anger, you can perhaps find kindness and potential in all people. The motto of our gallery is “Be Kind Humans.” I told someone that, and she immediately equated kindness with weakness. My goal is to move beyond that simplistic conception of kindness, which again is a false dilemma. Those two things are not synonymous. Those two things do not even exist on the same spectrum, but we have been told again and again that they are. I disagree. That is the goal of the gallery, and I hope that it makes money, but I won’t be bothered if it doesn’t. I will be bothered if it is not a voice in a growing revolution for compassion and complexity of thought. We will host readings and artists. We will be a part of conversation and salons. We will move toward that place of humanity.
You more recent forays into flash fiction are a nice bridge between your short stories and poems. Do you find some poems morphing into fiction or the more economical flash fiction?
I think it does that to some degree, but I generally am in a flash fiction mood or a poetry mood. They are different things in my mind although they help to develop each other. In flash, I am trying to understand a character and his/her/their moment of epiphany. In my poetry, I am having the epiphany. It is autobiographical while the flash is fictional.
Recorded over a three day weekend in July of 2019, “Arches & Pathways” finds The Folk Implosion’s John Davis and Refrigerator’s Dennis Callaci reuniting following their “Room For Space” LP from twenty five years back. That first record was improvised and recorded in one afternoon live to a one track. The new record has the luxury of being recorded over three days by engineer Steve Folta in the Callaci living room. The improvised collection features brand new songs written and recorded over those three days by the two of them building upon a live take of piano and drums, or dueling guitars and layering the new baby with overdubs immediately afterward to capture all that was in the room at the time. Expertly mixed by Scott Solter, it is a modern day minimal psych score whose guts are pushed into the skin of songs. Songs of minimal expanse, and you can quote us on that I tell the under assistant west coast promotion man.
The record is available as a 160 gram standard black vinyl edition w/ a download card & lyric sheet or download via Revolver and at your finer independent record stores on November 20th. A strictly limited edition of 100 on swirled orange vinyl includes all of the above as well as a unique signed and numbered poem by John Davis as well as one by Dennis Callaci, and a download card for the 200 poems that Davis and Callaci wrote that are married to this project (a hundred apiece by each of them). Preorder it at Grapefruit https://grapefruitrecordclub.com/products/archespathways. Check out the first track they recorded that Friday and the first song on side 1 “An Alley Opened It’s Mouth and Roared”.
…and here are two of the two hundred poems:
The Home Shopping Network
Caught me again
I, like a thief, bright red handed
Wanting to want
Like a stimulus check
That never arrives,
Except as a promise
You told me in a taxicab –
But I only heard the bolts
Of the bridge that the axles were rattling
I saw the sun, right through the windows,
But only a dozen of the things
That it moistened, like a wave,
One that crawls across a beach,
You told me you saw five of your words
Crawl right out of my left ear
After you blew them in
To my right one
There they are, on the window,
Madison Square Garden Bowl Lounge (D. Callaci)
I know all of the places you been to before
I been there myself
Their shitty sound guy with the bowler hat on
And the rayon vest
It didn’t work
It wasn’t sci-fi
It was no-fi
I couldn’t get in
In past the $15 bouncer
And the two-toned hair polizi
And the dog haired collars
James Brolin vacuous Merv Griffinned couch yawn
It all seemed OK until the dawn
Until I awoke
Cum in my coke
Blood on my pillow
And I awoke
And there were all these lesions on me
Begging to be released from my malnourished body
Can we please?
Can we leave?
Can we please?
Can we leave?
Them velvet ropes spun with human hair
That soy sauce made of blood
The dude in the cowboy hat that stands behind you with arms folded as you play
What did he say?
What did he say after the show?
That he couldn’t understand a word
That he couldn’t make out a thing
Madison Square Garden Bowl Lounge
I never found a place to hide in you
You were too skinny
There was no fat for me to tuck myself into
So instead we did drugs all night
Mama drugs that we were told not to do
We tried to fuck, but only soft on soft blues
Emanating from our room
Over the PA
To the crowd assembled to hiss and boo
Fuck, and I tried to love you
Fuck, after I had tried so hard to love you
yeah, but you did it all wrong
at the wrong time
in the wrong venues
you got it all wrong
everywhere you went to
Don Everly opines in some op ed
I’ll never attempt to love anyone again
Peyote buttons. Bread infused with chia seeds and wheat germ. Home jail tattoos of your annoying parrot. That is what has occupied so much of our Covid-19 lockdown time. In the curious case of Jeff Fuccillo and Allen Callaci, they spent those early halcyon days of the lockdown finding odd places in their homes to record and pass files to one another as they pieced together a set of covers from the 1980’s. The Shrimper/Union Pole co-release sees the fellas turn songs by Pavement, Quarterflash, Crowded House, Prince and others inside out. You may know Fuccillo as the head honcho of Union Pole, a member of The Irving Klaw Trio or for that collaborative record he did with John Fahey. Allen’s work outside of his band Refrigerator has included collaborations with Adam Lipman, Falcon Eddy and a forthcoming team up for a song with Shrimper stalwarts Goosewind.
The cover art features a spectacular drawing of our two lads being led out of the wasteland by Tina Turner as drawn by Allen Callaci. A more fitting cover for these times, I can’t properly imagine. Check out the video for their version of “We Don’t Need Another Hero” below. The cassette is available November 7th from Revolver, Grapefruit and Midheaven. Links are at the top of the page to order upon release date.
If you have not read any work by Meg Pokrass, take two minutes and read one of her flash fiction 2 page stories, or maybe the two poems that I have stapled to the end of the interview below. Her nimbleness as an editor in choosing what to leave out and what to delve into is an art. I often find myself rereading her pieces after the first pass and looking at them like magic tricks. How did she get the house to levitate? Make the rings pass through Mt. Rushmore? Land a helicopter on the head of a needle?
“The Loss Detector” is written in her economical style, but is an expansive piece in her canon at fifty pages. The arc of time passing in the story is dreamlike as characters come and go, some just falling away one day as do relations in our own lives.. Will they be back? Where exactly did they go?
I am thrilled to be working with Mark Givens in our pursuit of issuing top drawer works of this nature on our new imprint Bamboo Dart Press. Prouder still to come out of the gate with a bang of a story that haunts me months after reading it. Meg’s “The Loss Detector” is out now via Bamboo Dart Press direct bamboodartpress.com and everywhere on October 22nd. This work strikes me as an epic song that feels like it is 9 minutes long, when in fact it times in at 3:30.
The unquiet mind of mine was thrilled as expectations and cliches were substituted with a realism, unmoved by the possibility of easily dialing up the grandeur or drama in this moving piece. I shit you not, dear reader as I have invested money that I didn’t have in order to put out records for over thirty years that hit at a truth that needed to be taken from the ghostly to the physical, this book does the same for that want. The high of discovery, nothing beats that.
Meg is founding editor of the beloved flash fiction magazine New Flash Fiction Review, founded in 2014. Below is an interview I conducted with Meg a few weeks back.
I see your talent in the arena of editing as your great unsung weapon in relation to your writing. Do you spend much time editing your work, is it second nature to you? It seems to me like such an incredibly unique part of your style, the unsaid.
Thank you so much Dennis. Yes, I’m an obsessive editor but that’s because my stories need it. They’re never right after just one or two drafts. My first drafts can take anywhere from 20 minutes to two hours to write, but the editing part can (unfortunately) take months and sometimes years to perfect. I’m one of those writers that really has to put a story away and come back to it with new eyes and new eyes and… new eyes.
When editing, is sequencing the flow of pieces important to you or does the stand alone nature of them not require that kind of attention?
The sequencing for a flash novella is quite a fascinating and completely different skillset to writing stories, closer to making a playlist or what I imagine to be true when putting together a record album. It’s like how songs are changed by what comes before and after each one. In this way, the feeling about chapters and their emotional impact are changed by where they are situated and for me, experimentation is the name of the game. I wrote an essay on the craft of sequencing in the anthology My Very End of the Universe, Five Novellas in Flash and a Study of the Form (Rose Metal Press, 2014). It was reprinted and you can read it here in full at Talking Writing.
If you look at the order of the songs on a great album, it’s clear how the impact of a particular song is changed by the song that has come before it or that follows. This is, for me, why records are so addictive. It’s the order of songs and the emotional narrative created by juxtaposition. What that takes us through and how each one changes because of the other. I love how you never quite know exactly how you’re going to feel, no matter how many times you hear a great album, because of that contrast, and how we, as listeners, come to it new at different times in our lives.
As a reader, there is to me a musicality in many of your poems and fiction, does that hold true for you as the writer of these?
I’m a music addict. I can’t write without it. I can’t ride a bike or take walks without music either. I’m afraid I live inside music, perhaps that’s an okay thing. As far as playing an instrument, I never learned one. That is so unfortunate. I can sing (a bit).
Moments of “The Loss Detector” read as memoir, to clarify, memoir for the possible reader. Some of your descriptions of older Southern California hit me right through the sternum.
The similarities between this novella and my own life are clear. I grew up in Santa Barbara, a very long time ago, when it was a very different place (and time). I grew up with a single, working mother and one of my sisters was a film actress. The novella is based on my life, however loosely. The character “Josh”, however, is completely fictional, drawn from my imagination. The funny part is that “Josh” somehow feels more real to me than anyone else in the novella. This was one of the really interesting aspects of writing this piece, how I came to care about this imaginary person so much. The California connection is what drew me to want to work with Bamboo Dart press. I feel that the novella belongs with a California publisher.
I will let Meg Pokrass close with two poems of hers. I sincerely look forward to you reading her work, if you haven’t already, and moving through the next five decades with her.
Extra Terrestrial (originally published in Gone Lawn)
There are no signs of extra-terrestrial life: Only two itchy dogs in the garden. One dog carries a blanket, lies down on it. Ma is sure she saw a spaceship float down into the neglected orchard after martinis last night. I’m on security patrol. My branch of the oak will be comfortable to sit with a pomegranate and an orange. Carrying them in my pockets up to the lookout, scouting for aliens in the leaves. We’ll move as the rent increases, but for now; sour wood sorrel invades our grass, fleas terrorize the dogs, Ma stays in, and I imagine this house belonging to creatures who know what to do about life on Earth.
AMERICA (originally published in RATTLE)
I drive a hummer in America
because it is mighty.
A mighty woman in
a mountainous car.
Nobody can faze me or tousle
my spirit in that impossible thing.
Dreams are primitive pests,
laughable and like stick figure
insects. I swat them away
while reciting the names of African countries.
I imagine speeding over land lumps
with my very best friend,
the two of us laughing about
childish things. I am a child
in America. Later, the phone rings,
it is a telemarketer, the kitchen
is a mess, she has a solution to something.
There are marks up and down my body,
welts like little dead kisses.
Friends think I am sad,
but they don’t know about my plans.
They have never lived in my house,
with that husband, or that friend,
or felt that breeze,
the one that keeps me awake.
Nima Kazerouni is a busy guy. Besides being in So Many Wizards (first Shrimper appearance on the double CD “Smooth Sounds” six years back), he is also in the bands Nectarines and Crown Plaza. What is striking to me about Kazerouni and the projects he is involved in is his unique style of singing, his twist of a phrase and his lack in this day and age of adding digital whip cream all over everything. I ordered the pancakes, sure, but I am an adult. Please don’t blueberry smiley face, coat them in powdered sugar nor chemical lick the back of their faces as you prepare my plate. I ordered three, face down. I am going to pour this gin on them, so save your syrup for Sufjan Stevens or what’s her name. Hey, nothing against them, nothing against them at all, I am only just saying I ain’t into confectioner sugar.
Nima’s latest song is one of them home recordings with him alone at the board. Those are the kind of final exams I love. You get to see every aspect of the artist in plain sight, wholly, in that light. They are writing the script, casting the actors, directing the movie, scoring the piece. The kid just supple wristed my high score on Defender with this song, it is a bruiser. Nima is at work on a full length release due in the new year on Shrimper. The Pancakes you ask? well I hop, I Denny’s, I drilled a hole in my coffee cup with my car keys as a trick on this here waiter for an endless refill. I had time. That waiter, he hated me. He checked on my coffee after forty minutes, asked if I was interested in buying the restaurant, then disappeared again. I was unsurprised when it became another boarded up building in a bored old world. This tape by Nima, it will fit in your one hot little hand in the sweaty little city that we reside in come 2021.
I have seventh heavened myself to death knowing that flash fiction trailblazer Meg Pokrass jumped on board to be the first train out of the station for Bamboo Dart Press, a new publishing arm that Mark Givens and I have partnered on. Pokrass’ book “The Loss Detector” is out this Friday. You can pick up the book this Friday direct from Bamboo Dart or at brick and mortar shops as well as large distributors/online portals Revolver USA, Grapefruit, Ingram, Amazon, Mid Heaven et al starting October 22nd. The trailer below features script from the book and images of the author over a bed of music by Callaci.