Monday, June 13, 2016

Buried in Books - My New Precioussssess

Because I can't possibly read every single book that finds its way into my home IMMEDIATELY, though I fully intend to die trying, allow me to show off our most recently acquired precioussssess...

For Review

Brandon Courtney
YesYes Books
June 2016

from Inadequate Grave

In the Arabian Gulf, the sea is green and grey. The skin-walls of the drowned are white and so thin you can see through them down to their lungs, bluing like young milk, and into the black mansion of the ocean. Do you remember it: the spring green and gunmetal grey, the thinly dead floating up from the dark?

* From Publisher  / Love their poetry books

Aricka Foreman
YesYes Books
March 2016

Poetry. "The elegy which weaves the poems in DREAM WITH A GLASS CHAMBER lives in threshold: In the rooms of dream, in the change of season. And what lingers is the conversation between the living and the beloved. A tender, moody and resilient collection." francine j. harris"

*From Publisher / Love their poetry books

William Luvaas
Spuyten Duyvil
September 2016

Beneath The Coyote Hills explores the influence of choice and chance in our lives. Do we control our own destiny or is it dictated in part by mysterious forces beyond our control? Tommy Aristophanos is a luckless man, homeless freegan, fiction writer, and epileptic, who is haunted by grotesque "spell visions" and by his abusive father who returns, quite literally, from the dead. When Tommy's fictional creation, wealthy and successful V.C. Hoffstatter, emerges from the pages of Tommy's novel to harass him, plucky Tommy has to fight back. Hoffstatter believes that we author our own destiny, while Tommy's many reverses and ailment teach him that we control far less than we imagine. In the book's final narrative twist, we are left wondering who is the true Pygmalion-Tommy or Hoffstatter? 

*From Author / Sounds interesting

Jonterri Gadson
YesYes Books
June 2016

from Rapture

On a Saturday morning in Palm Beach, middle-aged poets read stanzas of grief.
Now I know it will always be too soon for my mother to die. It will happen
too slow, if not sudden. She might forget me first, might not see her own face in mine anymore, might sniff chamomile teabags and not remember the evening we sat at the dining room table, her bible open to its index, finger pacing over thin pages to find the perfect verse to help me understand that vengeance against boys who didn’t call was the Lord’s. How we laughed, that day, at the wrath of God!

*From Publisher / Love their poetry books

Aziza Barnes
YesYes Books
June 2016


As fresh garbage is. As dirt sucked out of a fingernail. As a wall clean of prostitutes. When I am this I am at the mercy of my nakedness. A pillar of undress whose power I do not know how to wield. I watch porn. I study the geometry of limbs splayed. Not the moan but the angle of a moan. I swallow. In this way I am a thief. Sometimes I forget my body & go untouched until I am touched & scream. Sometimes I want to eat my breasts down to their bitter rind & spit them out. I want to be the bitter rind without suck and easily thrown. Easily thrown I want to be the pebble thumbed & wished upon before enveloping the lake I sink in. I sink in you the lake & by lake I mean gutter a water that does not hold me well. Here we are not the bodies our mothers made. If you are to hold me hold me as a gun. Grip me & profit the dark. The unattended purse. The pair of heels darting from us in dull claps sharpening against the concrete as teeth against a stone.

*From Publisher / Love their poetry books

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