Raindog was born Stephen Armstrong in Lafayette, Indiana on Ground Hog's Day in 1951. He came west to California soon afterwards, where he continues to live (except for brief stint in Texas).
Raised in a middle class family with all the expectations of college, wife and children, home and career, he came of age during the tumultuous 60s and never quite recovered. He was politically active during high school, working for the United Farm Workers union, as well as participating in numerous anti-war activities. He was classified as a Conscientious Objector, but was never drafted. None of this sat well with his parents. Left to his own devices, he left home at eighteen and drifted away from his family and friends, never entering college or doing any of the things that were expected of him.
In 1971, after the Sylmar earthquake, he moved to Berkeley, California with his girlfriend and lived there in the chaos of the times for almost two years. He then, came back to Los Angeles and has continued to explore the beach communities from Venice Beach to Long Beach ever since.
Being somewhat rough around the edges, RD has held a variety of jobs over the years, including Handy Man, Painter, Night-Manager at a Coffee House, Dishwasher, Janitor, Teacher's aid, and Lay Counselor.
He began writing poetry in high school, where he also began keeping a journal. He wrote poetry sporadically through the late sixties and into the nineties, when he finally 'found his voice' and began to seriously pursue the craft. He kept the journals going and still jots down thoughts and pet-peeves to this day.
In 1993, just prior to the death of Charles Bukowski (a life-long inspiration for him), Raindog began to write in earnest. It was as if someone had opened a tap. Around this time he began to submit his work to magazines, the "littles" as Bukowski had dubbed them, and he became aware of the blossoming poetry scene in and around Los Angeles. It was reminiscent of the pre-1968 hip scene, full of hope and creativity. Soon, he would discover the world of the small press and claim it as his own.
Because of his disconnect with the "real" world, Raindog (as he became known in the mid-nineties whilst living in San Pedro, California…it's a Tom Waits reference, another inspiration to RD), became adept as a Do It Yourselfer. Since he had no formal education, he made it up as he went along. This kept him out of trouble, mostly, but it also made him open to finding creative solutions to the problems that would crop up. For this reason, he has not had an extensive amount of his work published by others, except in magazines and ezines. He self-publishes his work because he can control the outcome. Of his 15 or so chapbooks, only two, RoadKill (12 Gauge Press, 2002) and Pedro Blue (Vinegar Hill Press, 1996) were published by someone else (in both cases the results were less than satisfactory).
In late 1995, after an involvement with an ill-planned poetry festival, Raindog began publishing the Lummox Journal on a monthly basis. He also began publishing a poetry chapbook series called the Little Red Books (LRB for short). The Lummox Journal lasted for eleven years. He's still publishing the LRB series, as well as an on-line poetry zine called Dufus. In addition he has also published The Wren Notebook by Rick Smith (2000), Last Call: The Legacy of Charles Bukowski (2004, a 41 contributor anthology which was voted Best Poetry Anthology of 2005 by Muses Review), The San Pedro Poems by RD Armstrong (2002), The Manx Tales, micro-fiction, by RD Armstrong (1999), GRIT, the Journal of Abrasive Literature edited by RD Armstrong (2000) and POPE LINKED TO SATANIC COMMIES - a pamphlet - by Raindog (1995).
He has been published in nearly 100 magazines and anthologies including Drinking With Bukowski (Thunder's Mouth Press, 2000); Poesy Magazine (several different issues); An Eye for an Eye - poets on 9-11 (Regent Press, 2002); ArtLife Vol. 20 #1 & #3 (2000) and The Louisiana Review (2001). His work has also been published on-line at various websites including Abalone Moon; The Ragged Edge; Sacramento Poetry Art and Music; Thunder Sandwich; St. Vitus Dance; Yoni (Australia); The 365 Project; Big City Lit; Poetic Diversity; and The Hold.
Chopin What I remember most Is this feeling of Holiday Knowing that It would end And the drudgery of The world would Soon return So I savored the Moments as best I could Knowing that I was Somewhat handicapped By my lack of sophistication In certain realms We labored Loved and Lived within the walls Of our respective hearts Citadels really and I do miss you Miss your playing the piano most So delicate and alive A common thing for you For me The sweetest pleasure Like a ray of light in the murkiest catacomb or A soft hand caressing my grizzled cheek My God It was a sound that touched me The clod As deeply as possible Making me want to climb Mountains in your name To worship you by Loving you in the sweetest way To lay at your feet The sum total of my wealth Your laughter Your kisses Your Chopin This is what I miss Eyes Like Mingus (For Steve Fowler) Eyes like flint like flecks of coal like shiny bits of starless sky trapped in the ruins of a slag heap Eyes like molten steel sullen and angry piercing -- a bullet finding its mark like a jaguar passionate and alive yet hating the trap pacing behind the bars bars like a skeleton trapped inside the mind behind Eyes like Mingus like notes caught in the net like the grid of notation like Mingus in shamanic Mexico trapped in a chair no strength to grip no fingers to coax notes with no feet to stand up and count with no time -- no signature Eyes like concrete -- shattering like glass -- splintering like the wrecking ball's slap like voltage -- unregulated like a passion laid bare to the gallery's scrutiny like the madman's frothing nightmare like the inexplicable accuracy of random fate like a shot to the belly like Coltrane's "Favorite Things" like your fingers -- stilled Eyes like an empty glass staring bug-eyed into space upturned and dispassionate like a dream -- lost in the stars Eyes like Mingus silent but never silenced. The Chicken Dance In his defense, Virgil Butler Was just trying to make a living. Killing was in his blood (he'd Already done time for shoot Ing a man outside Bob's Booze Hut on the outskirts of Montgomery) So the job at Tyson was a Natural. Every night M through F Virgil would cut the Throats of chickens (millions of Them) as they swung past him Hanging from the conveyor belt That snaked through the factory like a giant Clanking runway. The chickens with Wings a-flapping and their squawks Of terror adding to the cacop Hony of machinery made them Appear to be engaged in some Wild pagan dance ritual, Dancing up to him full of life To the fevered pitch of This weird metallic music thumping And rattling and reverberating with Their cries on this crimson dance floor Somewhere in time Virgil's dance card Finally filled up and he could no longer Dispatch any more souls Chicken or otherwise In the name of Tyson. But in the wee wee Hours when sleep Comes haltingly and Nightmares interweave With the waking world As the chickens begin their dance His hand forms (as if by instinct) The live or die gesture Made so famous by Caesar It never gives the 'Live' sign.