“Syntagm” at Moon Milk Review


My short story, “Syntagm” is now up at Moon Milk Review. This was a difficult one to write, based on the events that inspired it, and I’m pleased that the strangeness of it relies neither on typical genre conventions nor magical realist conceits—both of which are my go-to weird-tools.

In our first language, things come to mean otherwise. When we say Are you guys ready?, which means, primarily, “. . . to do something,” we are saying, now, (especially now) We are all for one, which is a thing long-haired adolescents among the post oaks and greenbrier in the undeveloped acreage against Veterans’ Park, twenty feet above the creek bottom, fists and rope-swings, around illicit sleepover campfires, and the rites of our first secret society, and over film canisters of pilfered loose-leaf tobacco curling smoke in pilfered fathers’ pipes, and thoughts like small secrets of the girls we don’t speak to, say to each other. It is a thing we say to each other. We create our first language from our first language, altering it into something that appeals to us. And now we mean “Are you guys ready?”

Release party restrospective

Noise, recommendations

Last night, a few of us here in Denton celebrated the release of Noise. We laughed, we cried—I gave away some books. Here are a few pictures for the curious.

But, free music!

Several acts accompanied me last night because, let’s face it, sitting around listening to some bookworm read for hours on end is about as fun as a tapeworm infestation. Dim Locator started us off with a bang. He plays slide folk/rock on electric guitar:


Dim Locator | MySpace Music Videos

After I read, Ryan Thomas Becker really elevated the quality of the evening. It was just Mr. Becker and his guitar. Go here, be amazed:

<a href="http://ryanthomasbecker.com/album/neighborhoof">Neighborhoof by Ryan Thomas Becker</a>

And nobody headlines a night of liquor and literature like The Jakeys, my favorite neo-folk celtic punk band.

Sorry I missed some of you at old Dan’s. Next time, my friends . . .