Fans of digital/interactive literature.

Fans of digital/interactive literature. Check out the latest issue of The New River:

Fans of digital/interactive literature.

Fans of digital/interactive literature. Check out the latest issue of The New River:

“How to Time an Engine,” my videopoem

“How to Time an Engine,” my videopoem collaboration with R.W. Perkins–published today in the Atticus Review: goes live!, a digital literature project nearly three years in the making, is finally complete! All three interfaces are now fully functional and ready for interaction. We’ve given the site a bit of a send off (which includes a brief essay offering some of my very general ruminations on digital literature) over at the Atticus Review: Huge thanks to programmer Darik Hall for his collaboration.

“Highway Coda,” one of the interfaces on the lit-digital site is a digital literary extension of the flash fiction piece you’ll find in Three Ways of the Saw.  Ladies and gentlemen, the word has left the page.

An Epiphany for Saw

I’m fortunate to have three pieces in the Spring Summer ’12 issue of Epiphany, an excellent literary journal that publishes some pretty cutting edge stuff.  Of the three pieces, one is “Getting Beaten,” a visceral and hard-edged story from the Saw collection. The other two are new.  Of these, one is an essay/process piece solicited by the Epiphany editors.  It’s titled “The Process of Getting Beaten,” and it’s generally about how the story came to be, but it also veers into, among other things, kicking ass, getting your ass kicked, the nature or road rage, cowardice, automotive sabotage,  and knowing oneself.  The other piece, “The Roaring Engine of Here” is new–the title piece of the chapbook-length collection of prose-poem type things I’m going to start shopping around this fall.

Big thanks to Epiphany for supporting my work.

Sawing Away in Madison, IN.

Last weekend, I had the pleasure of reading at Village Lights Bookstore, a really cool indie bookstore in the sleepy river town of Madison, Indiana.

In addition to being a very kind and generous person with fantastic taste in books, the owner, Nathan, devoted an entire display window of Village Lights to promoting Saw, complete with chainsaw and a picture of Leatherface!


I think the display goes particularly well with the “Peace, Love, Books” poster behind my left shoulder.  Leatherface is hard to see, but he’s on the lower shelf, right next to the copy of Saw on the far left.

Thanks for having me down, Nathan.

 And thanks to everyone who came out to the reading.  It was an excellent time.



PANK speaks on SAW

A thoughtful review of “Three Ways of the Saw” in PANK from David Atkinson:


“There is a lot we are told in a short time, but there is also a lot we are not being told that we somehow also know.  In short, I find this to be compelling fiction.”

“In this collection Mullins tells us…that experimental fiction is not the only place to find new things in fiction.  No matter how many times we may have been over traditional grounds, there are still surprises to be had when you have the kind of range at your fingertips that Mullins appears to.”


R.W. Perkins Puts an Eye on the Saw

Filmmaker/poet R.W. Perkins and I recently finished collaborating on a videopoem for “How to Time an Engine,” one of the shorter pieces in Three Ways of the Saw.

You can find it (as well as more of R.W.’s wonderful work) here at R.W.’s  website.

And you can find it here, on Dave Bonta’s excellent videopoetry archive website

Up next:  Me and R.W. are kicking around the idea of doing some kind of adaptation of “Accepting Inner Change at the Grocery Store,” another short piece from my collection.  I’m definitely looking forward to that.

Big thanks to R.W.  for bringing for bringing “Engine” to life.  The man kicks ass.

Babies – Saw – Man!

A thoughtful and interesting article touching upon Three Ways of the Saw and other books that deal with “what it means to be a man.”

You’re on Fire!

One of the coolest and most popular tchotchkes up for grabs at AWP were the matchboxes featuring the covers of the Atticus titles at the Atticus Books table.

These little bad asses went like mad, and though lots of tables had your standard flipbooks of matches, Atticus was the only table rocking true wooden match matchboxes — with our book covers on the top, no less!  I mean there’s something about seeing your book cover on a book of matches.  Book on book.  Each match the story of what it will set alight.  Makes you think about kicking it in some damp alley where a Noir Dame asks you for a smoke.  You’re leaned up against the alley wall.  You pull out your pack of Lucky’s.  Shake one out.  She draws it slow, lips it.  You fire the match and knock back the alley shadows, revealing her to be just as beautiful as you’d thought.  She puts her hand on top of yours as you touch flame to the end of this beginning.

“What’s that on your matchbox?” she asks…

I’m thinking about such fires because later at the conference I had the good fortune to meet up with my old-soul buddies John Minichillo and Joe Gross, two friends I’ve known twenty years deep.  We got to talking up our past.  How we once put together the wryly named Cunning Linguists, an improvisational freak space fusion band that only played instrumentals.  Being young writer boys in our early 20’s we liked the attendant entendres, that sexual innuendo coupled with the fact of three writer-musicians clank feed-backing our way through a band where we’d utter nary a word.  We spent a lot of time in the dank smoke of John’s sweltering attic apartment working out our own weird groove.  Indeed, we were wringing all the dish water out of those wastrel salad days.

But what of matches you ask?  Here goes:  One time further down the road Joe and me went to visit John in Mississippi.  It had been a few years since the Linguists had jammed at this point, so we got a little session together.  We had the candles going, the buzz on.  We were working it out, man.  Wailing.  Joe sqwanking the funky Strat, John doing his crazy stutter shuffle. I’d recently started teaching myself harmonica, and so there I was hunched over and blowing bendy trills.

We were kicking things along, and I was totally into it, like I get, transported elsewhere, wearing my freaky paisley polyester jam shirt.  Then John looked over at me from across the kit, a serious furrow to his brow.  “You’re on fire!”  he shouted at me.  Hell yes, my man John could tell I was in deep.  I grinned.  I was on fire.  He was feeling me.  He was picking up what I was putting down.  I gave him the power fist and dug back in. Sent the moan up into the aether.

“No, man!  YOU’RE ON FIRE!” he screamed again.

Next thing I knew, Joe was on my back slapping at me as he ripped off that polyester jam shirt and started stomping that burning bastard out.  Apparently in my musical k-hole I had leaned back into a candle and lit myself up in a different way.  I lost a good jam shirt, which we then tacked to the wall of the room in honor of every dying note in the world.  But I didn’t have a singe.  It was one of my greatest rock and roll moments.  Right up there with that time some dude walked up to me while I was on stage with another band years later and handed me a folded up piece of paper (which I thought contained some kind of goodygoody) I later unfolded in a bathroom stall only to see it was a song request note that read, “Jimmy  Buffet for a blow job!”

It was great to be reminded of that old fire during a weekend where I felt a new fire.  The weekend when my book was released and I had the pleasure of being able to hand it to my good old friends.  So here’s to being on fire with music and words.  Here’s to tiny book covers on the tops of boxes of wooden matches!  Fire it up, people.  Fire it up.