Somewhere between the flickering reels of Reservoir Dogs and the ashes of a half-burned poem, Michael Madsen slipped through the cracks of the American mythos—outlaw, poet, trickster, father, ghost-in-the-making.

We at Rare Bird weren’t there for many of the early verses, other than signings at Book Soup and late-night stumbles at the newsstand, but we’ve had the honor of working with Michael closely on his forthcoming memoir. It isn’t a memoir, really. More like a confession booth set on fire. A transmission from the underworld. Raw, ragged, funny, dangerous—exactly like the man himself.

Now the channel’s gone quiet.

But the pages and voicemails remain.

End scene, Michael. You deserved a more uncomplicated exit. Or maybe that was never in the cards.