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Publisher, editor and poet, RD Armstrong aka Raindog writes poetry and fiction when he can find the time. Mostly, he's either working on his many Lummox projects: the Lummox Journal, a bi-monthly magazine, started in 1995, sent out internationally, the Little Red Book series (44 titles to date) which is published by the Lummox Press and the LSW Newsletter, a specialized "poets market" type of newsletter. The Little Red Book series gives unknown poets, as well as established poets a chance without having to self-publish. Another series, started in Jan 2000, the LRB Master series (perfect bound) featured Rick Smith's The Wren Notebook. The next collection in that series will be Last Call: the Legacy of Charles Bukowski, featuring writers from all over the world. Following that book, another is planned: TNT (Poetry from East of the Rio Grande). RD has several books of his own in print, including The San Pedro Poems and Paper Heart #4. His most recent book, ROADKILL, is being hailed as the ultimate California road journal prose poem, gutsy and rhythmic.

Not the people so much as the lonely
Spots on the road that I crave the way
An old fence might struggle up the side
Of a hill or the way a cloud stands out in a 
Storm as if itís taking a solo the way
The sea looks off of Point Sur like molten
Lead curling in from its trans-Pacific
Journey the way hiway one seems to
Steer clear of the effects of manís
Western rim of the continent the way
It passes through all the little burgs
From Half Moon Bay Santa Cruz with
That strange fallen lighthouse just
North of town all the way down through
Carmel Big Sur Lucia Gorda San Simeon
Cambria Harmony Cayucos Morro Bay
Before hopping inland again to San Luis
Obispo all of this incessant speed in
Search of what
What
The perfect stretch of road

from Road Kill
© 2004 RD Armstrong


Without  

TV speaks to anyone but
I don't understand the message
There is a reason for all this
but I don't want to remember.
I think instead of the desert.
Or a pile of rusting debris
or a bleached bony thing
with feathers torn
from an oblivious sky
or of riverbeds laid barren
robbed of life by merciless fate.
Change tugs at my sleeve
begging me for mercy
but mercy has run away
with the circus.
The desert returns to my thoughts
a bullet riddled shack
the light spilling through
a shower of meteorites.
The miracle of high noon.
I want to lie down and sleep
through summer.
Birds of prey circle overhead
waiting for a foolish mistake.
Perhaps the circus will
come back to town 
once more.

from Bone, a Little Red Book series
© 1999 RD Armstrong

 


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