tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44556864358827468352024-03-12T23:11:48.959-07:00ACHILLES CHAPBOOK SERIESlet no man forget how menacing we are. we are lions.PAPER HERO PRESShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00767269771521483734noreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4455686435882746835.post-6121296093656900832014-04-24T06:52:00.003-07:002014-04-24T07:13:16.538-07:00DANIELLE ETIENNE - Straight to Hell & Astrology<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgchh5nnHRuhk1cGqeZkofptDkhOYCvBHO1dyGN_B56pnVsk7rERwEWuM0OYq_Zi3IyKm0NHiLE6NawatGEpl3N8Pbg5a9PjKKW3vKWe97oyeicBu2tu9Xhnl9fJkHsRuRY-D4x6q74fGJH/s1600/securedownload.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgchh5nnHRuhk1cGqeZkofptDkhOYCvBHO1dyGN_B56pnVsk7rERwEWuM0OYq_Zi3IyKm0NHiLE6NawatGEpl3N8Pbg5a9PjKKW3vKWe97oyeicBu2tu9Xhnl9fJkHsRuRY-D4x6q74fGJH/s1600/securedownload.jpg" height="640" width="411" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Danielle <span style="color: #e06666;">Etienne</span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Straight to <span style="color: #e06666;">Hell</span> and <span style="color: #e06666;">Astrology</span></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #e06666;">Perfect</span><span style="color: orange;"> </span>Bound</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">60 pgs.</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Excerpt: <span style="color: #e06666;">Kitchen</span><span style="color: orange;"> </span>Witch</span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"And when I press right here, see? That’s yer rib cage...You feel it?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He pushes down a little with the big hunting knife, on bone on skin. My lungs are really hot and exploding and making my eyes and nose water.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"It’s a fuckin set a lungs, under the goddamn breast plate, see?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"It’s not the breast plate."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"The fuck you talkin about girl, it’s RIGHT HERE."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">TAP</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Tap</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Gentle like my grandma handling a dandelion in the field outside the barn but I can still feel hollow, steel.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My inside doesn’t have anything inside it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"You’re on the sternum now...you don’t know shit about bones"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Well I ain’t a doctor but neither are you so were both wrong I guess"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When the handle grazes my neck I feel wood and I’m afraid I’ll get a splinter. A splinter in your neck. A big ol broomhandle of wood sticking out into the fog.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Because sailors are always losing their way, always in disaster.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Mermaids come from disaster, so do sirens and people that grow tentacles and fuck each other with em. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Human squid and that man that turned into a tree because of his genetic code. They get it in.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">India or Pakistan. Parasites.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Here they’ll burn your clit with a pall mall 100 if they catch you looking at an eclipse.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #e06666;">About</span> Danielle</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>Danielle <span style="color: #e06666;">Etienne</span></b> enjoys the occult, amputees, smoking, tarot, Phil Spector, and soft Pomeranian fur. She received her BA from Wayne State with a focus on playwriting and is currently working on her MA at Eastern Michigan University.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Her work has been featured in <i>Wayne Literary Review, Hobart, DOGZPLOT, bSpecter Magazine</i> (Brooklyn), and <i>Honeysuckle Magazine</i>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Her first chapbook, </span><i style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Straight To Hell Or Astrology</i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> will be released later this month through DOGZPLOT PRESS. You can contact her for readings, work, or to talk about anything you want.</span>PAPER HERO PRESShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00767269771521483734noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4455686435882746835.post-63918263939888409252012-05-30T09:08:00.001-07:002012-05-30T10:36:11.157-07:00BARRY GRAHAM - THIS ISN'T WHO WE ARE<br />
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<b><br /></b><br />
<b>Barry Graham</b></div>
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<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">This Isn't Who We Are</span></b></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">Short</span> <span class="Apple-style-span">Stories</span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><span class="Apple-style-span">70</span> pgs.</span></b></div>
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<b>October 2012</b></div>
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<b><span style="color: #ea9999;">Description</span>:</b><br />
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<i>This Isn't Who We Are</i> is a collection of fairy tales for an age of streetwise and demented youth. You are pimped by your brother, find your mother unconscious and naked on the lawn, or try having sex as part of a teenage girl's plot to become the Queen of England. And even if you are able to snatch a brief moment of elysian harmony from a thoroughly dystopian world, you'll get bored with it soon and crush it. Graham's characters are in search of their identities, with everyone and everything against them - and yet, with each sentence they push open doors into new stories, and we catch glimpses of beauty born of decay and destruction, of self-discovery at the expense of innocence and long-term mental stability. </div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ea9999;"><b>What people have said</b></span><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">:</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“<span style="font-size: x-small;">With its seamless juxtaposition of tenderness and violence, absurdity and cruelty, <i>Nothing or Next to Nothing</i> is a well executed experiment in 21st century American Naturalism.”</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">-- <i><b>The Examiner</b></i></span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">"...hurt imbues every word coursing through this smart, calculated, anti-fable. Graham's work offers a poignant, unflinching portrait of a life dedicated to an all-consuming love from which the narrator receives nothing - or next to nothing - in return."</span></div>
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<span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">-- <i><b>American Book Review</b></i>, <i>Andrea Kneeland</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“<span style="font-size: x-small;">Graham takes an unflinching look at the land Whitman once lauded, a land now pimpled with Golden Arches and populated by heads full of American Dreams turned rancid. No illusions, no redemption, either. Graham's distinctive prose illuminates those things usually left in the dark corners of American culture, places Uncle Walt could never have imagined.”<i><b></b></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">-- <i>Christopher Kennedy</i><i><b>, Trouble with the Machine</b></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“<span style="font-size: x-small;">A frenetic, jangled, edgy, tragic, disturbing joyride through angst-ridden Middle America, <em>The National Virginity Pledge f</em>eels like a cross between a David Lynch movie and a trip to your favorite dysfunctional uncle’s house — and I mean this in the best way possible.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><cite>– </cite><span style="font-size: x-small;"><cite><i><b>Small Press Reviews</b></i></cite><cite><span style="font-style: normal;">,</span></cite><cite> Marc Schuster</cite></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“…<span style="font-size: x-small;">with its clipped, achingly real dialogue, and its effortless and vivid description, it achieves a relentless undercurrent of: <i>Look closer: there is more</i>.”</span></span></blockquote>
<span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> <cite style="text-align: justify;">– </cite><span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><cite><i><b>5 Star Literary Stories</b></i></cite><cite><span style="font-style: normal;">, </span></cite><cite><i>Mary Lynn Reed</i></cite></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><em>“…</em><span style="font-size: x-small;"><em><span style="font-style: normal;">it remains a reckless, fast paced, and edgy voice from beginning to end.”</span></em></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><cite>–<span style="font-size: x-small;">Dan Wickett, </span></cite><span style="font-size: x-small;"><em><b>Dzanc Books</b></em></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“<span style="font-size: x-small;">It's very much worth reading the minutia of vileness, indeed, important and relevant to do so...”</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">-- <i><b>The Collagistt,</b></i><i> Paula Bomer</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><cite style="text-align: left;">“</cite><cite style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Graham’s stories are little cries for help from way in the corners and deep in the cracks of contemporary fiction.”</span></span></cite></span></div>
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<span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><cite style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">– Jeff Parker, </span></cite><em style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>Ovenman</b></span></em></span></div>
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<span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“<span style="font-size: x-small;">Graham’s writing hits hard because it is raw and honest. He will suck you in with equal parts everydayness and voyeurism.”</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">-- </span><i style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Aaron Burch, <b>Hobart</b></i></div>
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<span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“<span style="font-size: x-small;">Graham’s heroes want to love, yet bigger than their love for people and things is their capacity to destroy the objects of their affection. He doesn’t scorn them, though; he treats them with care and a loving tenderness. He turns grief, betrayal, and violence into something close to poetry, and finds beauty in places we should never wish to visit.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><cite>–<span style="font-size: x-small;">Stefan Kiesbye, </span></cite><span style="font-size: x-small;"><em><b>Next Door Lived a Girl</b></em></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><cite>“<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-style: normal;">In a world in which nothing or next to nothing matters anymore, Barry Graham's hero is doomed because he hasn't erased his last shred of decency yet. He suffers abuse, heartbreak, beatings, and ultimately the loss of the only person he ever cared for, because he can't believe in a world where a McDonald's restaurant might be the last church, and an okay BigMac our last prayer. Graham's book is an elegy to something we've lost without noticing or caring. It's a mean punch to the chin; it floors you, and still you'll be glad you took it.”</span></span></cite></span></div>
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<span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><cite>–<span style="font-size: x-small;">Stefan Kiesbye, </span></cite><span style="font-size: x-small;"><em><b>Next Door Lived a Girl</b></em></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">"This is a classic tale of trash... It is the story of a life unlived but still destructive."</span></div>
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<span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><em><span style="font-style: normal;">-- </span></em><em><span style="font-style: normal;">Jason Behrends, </span></em><em><i><b>Orange Alert</b></i></em></span></div>
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<span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><em>“<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-style: normal;">...doesn’t try to be too clever despite the non linear storytelling. It is as gentle-paced as amphetamine and inhabits a universe diametrically opposite from the Waltons.</span></span></em></span></div>
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<span style="color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><em><span style="font-style: normal;">-- </span></em><em><i>Martin Macaulay,</i></em><em><span style="font-style: normal;"><b> </b></span></em><em><i><b>PANK</b></i></em></span></div>
</div>PAPER HERO PRESShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00767269771521483734noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4455686435882746835.post-84573235179119809322010-02-09T19:24:00.000-08:002011-02-12T22:00:51.452-08:00<div align="justify"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Uo6LAH4Z8Fr3etpDX4mBJ-SGepkUsiIEwEEztpkhijbABlFFRRn-FRp2sIV-SEuISpbOKWPQarnOOUnHR0oMIW8QX_ApRWHMVrJnHdYa_BdsRLFeMFsKGP2U12zUHjVW0xdehhRVY1cJ/s1600-h/chapbook+cover+final.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 298px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5436450880278374450" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Uo6LAH4Z8Fr3etpDX4mBJ-SGepkUsiIEwEEztpkhijbABlFFRRn-FRp2sIV-SEuISpbOKWPQarnOOUnHR0oMIW8QX_ApRWHMVrJnHdYa_BdsRLFeMFsKGP2U12zUHjVW0xdehhRVY1cJ/s400/chapbook+cover+final.jpg" /></a><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"> <span style="color:#666666;">PETER SCHWARTZ</span><br />POEMS<br /><span style="color:#666666;">OLD MEN, GIRLS, AND MONSTERS<br /></span>34 PGS. </span></strong><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></strong><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span></strong>Excerpt from <em><strong><span style="color:#666666;">Old Men, Girls, and Monsters</span></strong></em>:<br /><br />I've always had a certain love for exits<br />you see a permanent immigrant to more bachelorhood<br />than strictly necessary, me giving in<br /><br />to the pollution like weak tea, me as chops and<br />giant blocks, a paperboy with the taste of ashes<br />in his friendly fingers or a<br /><br />reporter with no news, a robot of light<br />bicycling backwards from the gravity, shirt off<br />set to kill the haze: I see<br /><br />exits everywhere, library or restaurant<br />hospital or airport, roads already tilting towards their<br />sequels, regeneration in a<br /><br />black hole, reversed dollars, missing owls<br />I'm your meaty amnesia, your continuous<br />last chance, your fire escape:<br /><br />your super crutch.<br /><br /><br />Praise for <em><strong><span style="color:#666666;">Old Men, Girls, and Monsters</span></strong></em>:<br /><br />"Peter Schwartz's poems collect our hard-won confessions, our fragile constructions, our temporary homes and our more permanent losses, but not for the purpose of hoarding them away. Instead, Schwartz organizes these obsessions into new structures--complex and beautiful poems--inviting us to experience their transformations. He writes 'I've always had a certain love for exits,' and yet, what do we have here? Nothing more or less than a collection of intricate entrances, doorways through which to come in together, as celebrants, as mourners, as readers."<br />--<strong><span style="color:#666666;">Matt Bell</span></strong>, author of <em><strong><span style="color:#666666;">How They Were Found<br /></span></strong></em><br />“Restless and visceral -- the poems in Old Men, Girls, and Monsters howl like prisoners in dark cages as they mutate one's perception of reality from under their bandages and punctured-origami fragility. An intensely gripping collection."<br />--<strong><span style="color:#666666;">Arlene Ang<br /></span></strong><br />“The suffering which permeates this meticulously constructed collection of remembrances is truly haunting. Schwartz creates an unearthly world where one is embraced by the experience of wounding: if it hurts you, be glad that you can still feel.”<br />--<strong><span style="color:#666666;">Alexis Apfelbaum</span></strong><br /><br />“These poems seamlessly blend the dangerous landscapes of childhood and adulthood. Even when all seems hopeless, there is a pumping heart in Peter’s world view, offering glimpses of his remarkable pain and acceptance.”<br />--<strong><span style="color:#666666;">Meg Pokrass</span></strong></div>PAPER HERO PRESShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00767269771521483734noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4455686435882746835.post-64215564340458688462009-05-04T16:21:00.001-07:002012-02-16T09:52:45.601-08:00<div align="justify"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO3rn7V75GKwhwWijK6EF5u8OnLLphwlsit6y7QvI-lc1ynZpIbNcCqjZpKM5F_Mrj2DlBcxlBGIhPuLEd1-LFKHYFSHyKnGtug1B_4ZKBrYanX_YxuPZ1c6eOJ5smEGuzrjxqTKphXYHz/s1600/TAL_Tanzer_alt2.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 267px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573047617163223186" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO3rn7V75GKwhwWijK6EF5u8OnLLphwlsit6y7QvI-lc1ynZpIbNcCqjZpKM5F_Mrj2DlBcxlBGIhPuLEd1-LFKHYFSHyKnGtug1B_4ZKBrYanX_YxuPZ1c6eOJ5smEGuzrjxqTKphXYHz/s400/TAL_Tanzer_alt2.jpg" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span"><strong><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0); ">BEN TANZER</span></strong><br /><strong>THIS <span style="color:#cc0000;">AMERICAN</span> LIFE</strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#cc0000;">60</span> PGS</strong><br /><br />"If I want to think of sharply written stories that capture a humorous reality of the day-to-day I think of <strong><span style="color:#cc0000;">Ben Tanzer</span></strong>. Or if I just want to think about one of my favorite underappreciated writers, I think of <strong><span style="color:#cc0000;">Ben Tanzer</span></strong>."<br />- <strong><span style="color:#cc0000;">Josh Spilker</span></strong>, <strong><em>Deckfight</em></strong><br /><br />"Something that's always consistently impressed me about Ben's writing -- his willingness to dig under the polite layers of young middle-class life, to find the ugly and dark bits and hold them up for all of us to look at."<br />- <strong><span style="color:#cc0000;">Jason Pettus</span></strong>, <strong><em>CCLaP</em></strong><br /><br />"His writing is lovely. The words run across the page, smooth and effortless. They flow together so naturally. His transitions almost hypnotize you."<br />- <strong><span style="color:#cc0000;">Lori Hettler</span></strong>, <strong>TNBBC</strong>'s <strong><em>The Next Best Book Blog<br /></em></strong><br />"<span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0); "><strong>Ben Tanzer</strong></span> is a funny guy."<br />- <strong><span style="color:#cc0000;">Tim Frederick</span></strong>, <em>Baby Got Books</em><br /><br />"Tanzer, in a manner most mysterious to me, somehow harnesses the power of straight, conventional writing without the usual level of pandering or expositional obtuseness. The words say exactly what they mean, no more and no less, and thus his books drive us forward - we become propelled,"</span></div><div align="justify"><span class="Apple-style-span">- <span style="color:#cc0000;"><strong>J.A. Tyler</strong></span>, <em>Red Fez</em></span></div><div align="justify"><em><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></em></div><p style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>LISTEN TO BEN READ</b></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>IRA GLASS WANTS TO HIT ME </b>- <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 15px; "><a rel="nofollow" target="_blank" href="http://apostrophecast.com/2008/11/ben-tanzer.html" style="line-height: 1.2em; text-decoration: underline; color: rgb(0, 51, 153); outline-style: none; outline-width: initial; outline-color: initial; "><span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1307989032_2" style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial; outline-color: initial; ">http://apostrophecast.com/2008/11/ben-tanzer.html</span></a></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>NOTES FROM THE HONORARY OSCAR SPEECH I'LL NEVER GIVE </b>-<b> </b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 15px; "><a rel="nofollow" target="_blank" href="http://www.cclapcenter.com/2011/01/cclap_podcast_65_an_evening_wi.html" style="line-height: 1.2em; text-decoration: underline; color: rgb(0, 51, 153); outline-style: none; outline-width: initial; outline-color: initial; "><span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1307989032_3" style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial; outline-color: initial; ">http://www.cclapcenter.com/2011/01/cclap_podcast_65_an_evening_wi.html</span></a></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>IT'S ONLY ROCK N ROLL, BUT WE LIKE IT </b>-<b> </b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 15px; "> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 15px; "><span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1307989032_7" style="text-decoration: underline; color: rgb(0, 51, 153); line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial; outline-color: initial; "><a rel="nofollow" target="_blank" href="http://www.blogtalkradio.com/lynnalexander/2010/03/01/full-of-crow-weekly-poetry-hour" style="line-height: 1.2em; text-decoration: underline; color: rgb(0, 51, 153); outline-style: none; outline-width: initial; outline-color: initial; ">http://www.blogtalkradio.com/lynnalexander/2010/03/01/full-of-crow-weekly-poetry-hour</a></span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>JUST SAY NO</b> -<b> </b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 15px; "><a rel="nofollow" target="_blank" href="http://www.bentanzer.blogspot.com/2010/10/this-podcast-will-change-your-life.html" style="line-height: 1.2em; text-decoration: underline; color: rgb(0, 51, 153); outline-style: none; outline-width: initial; outline-color: initial; "><span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1307989032_5" style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial; outline-color: initial; ">http://www.bentanzer.blogspot.com/2010/10/this-podcast-will-change-your-life.html</span></a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 15px; "> </span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>DADDY DREARIEST</b> - <a href="http://www.youmethemeverybody.com/2011/05/16/episode-151-8x8-51011-at-the-hungry-brain/"><span class="Apple-style-span">http://www.youmethemeverybody.com/2011/05/16/episode-151-8x8-51011-at-the-hungry-brain/</span></a></span></p><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; "><strong><span style="color:#cc0000;">HERE'S AN EXCERPT</span></strong></span><p></p><p align="justify"><span class="Apple-style-span">I do not consider myself to be a stalker. Nor do I think of myself as much of a sycophant. I am a bit of a starfucker though and at one time anyway a lover of anything and everyone associated with Ira Glass and the radio show This American Life.<br /><br />It once seemed to me that my writing was perfect for the show, but you don’t have to take my word for it, many people told me so. No, you wouldn’t know them, but you can trust me. It also seemed to me that under the right circumstances Ira Glass and I could be great friends, and I knew this in the same way that so many of my single female friends know that they are perfect for John Cusack. How do they know this? They just do.<br /><br />But how does one get a piece on the show? Or even meet Ira Glass who I understand rests in a cryogenically sealed chamber between shows? I imagine one could lurk outside the studio or Ira’s home, though again please note that I am not a stalker, and that the charges to that affect filed by NPR’s legal office here in Chicago did not stick. One could also submit their work, which I have done, but how well does one’s actual work reflect their wit, timing, and ability to move the public to tears, joy, and maybe even arousal in the space of one sentence? Not well, not my work anyway.<br /><br />From "<strong>Ira Glass Wants to Hit Me</strong>" </span></p><br /><iframe width="520" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/kdCWSVeAtp8" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe>PAPER HERO PRESShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00767269771521483734noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4455686435882746835.post-14309043445400614462009-05-04T16:18:00.000-07:002009-05-04T16:50:00.479-07:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSWjkWha_znW3FZuvy4p1_aVXZWNxhwBAq_QjNEhOR__yKc59LADR2cKOGU42Q-ILJqkwS18mjK709mfT2Q37v_InNMNjRiEGLez4IMRuGi4AAjna8MgG1B2piI1XmeB0wpFI9nvtK6E5q/s1600-h/parko+pic.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 294px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332112427197348322" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSWjkWha_znW3FZuvy4p1_aVXZWNxhwBAq_QjNEhOR__yKc59LADR2cKOGU42Q-ILJqkwS18mjK709mfT2Q37v_InNMNjRiEGLez4IMRuGi4AAjna8MgG1B2piI1XmeB0wpFI9nvtK6E5q/s400/parko+pic.jpg" /></a><strong> THE <span style="color:#00cccc;">REST OF</span> THE <span style="color:#00cccc;">WORLD SEEMS</span> UNLIKELY<br /><br />KIM <span style="color:#00cccc;">PARKO</span><br /><br />FLASH <span style="color:#00cccc;">FICTION</span> / PROSE <span style="color:#00cccc;">POEMS<br /></span><br /><span style="color:#00cccc;">32</span> PGS. </strong><br /><p>from <em>The Rest <span style="color:#00cccc;">of the</span> World Seems <span style="color:#00cccc;">Unlikely</span>:</em></p><div align="justify"><br /><strong><span style="color:#00cccc;"><span style="font-size:130%;">S</span>ymbiotic</span> beast</strong><br /><br />Everywhere there is dirt. Crumbs. Growing balls of hair. And the visitor is due any day now. Our family has read about the symbiotic beast. It will trail a person, an animal, any organic creature, and eat what falls, sheds, emits, and flakes off of them. The symbiotic beast arrives at our home seven days later. The symbiotic beast is well dressed, sleek, and handsome in a beastly way, not at all what we expected. The symbiotic beast becomes very popular in our home. All our floors shine. Every crevice is immaculate. When the visitor arrives, she is pleased with the order of our home. She stays well past her welcome. She stops bathing. She rolls around in mud and dribbles food down her breast. Every night she is filthy, but when she emerges from her room in the morning, she gleams like a well-scrubbed kitchen.<br /><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">T</span>he <span style="color:#00cccc;">elkhood</span></strong><br /><br />The elkhood live in the glade behind our house. They like to chew, methodically, on the tough forest greens. Their top teeth are like pestles. Their bottom teeth like mortars. They grind seed and grain to flour in their mouths. My wife employs the elkhood as she would a gristmill. She allows the elkhood to consume one eighth of the food they process. The elkhood are slender and sinewy. Their jaws have biceps. The elkhood have a leader who has many rounded breasts and a large, open vagina that doubles as a nursery. The many elkhood children are often found playing within her. The walls of her vagina are covered in bright posters. The floor of her vagina is always vacuumed after snack time. The elkhood tower over us. We are small and plump and barely move. When I yell into my wife’s vagina, my voice circles around inside and comes back diminished in loneliness. But we own the elkhood and have many other wonderful possessions. </div>PAPER HERO PRESShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00767269771521483734noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4455686435882746835.post-69760501059028566282009-02-01T08:02:00.001-08:002009-02-04T17:57:15.114-08:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9fWtnRA5il6wjWsExPDPtaM4meVEFmvKAHaO-WhVlEzgAJ_89-XdElowqgBAXwKF2amj1vUh4DFw4u2lWFWkCpD1qwiB6iP5In7xddesye8FN9SLkGIOHsTzFgRLaeajKOXvPSMTKQ8MY/s1600-h/COPELAND+COVER.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5297860001303814722" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 357px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9fWtnRA5il6wjWsExPDPtaM4meVEFmvKAHaO-WhVlEzgAJ_89-XdElowqgBAXwKF2amj1vUh4DFw4u2lWFWkCpD1qwiB6iP5In7xddesye8FN9SLkGIOHsTzFgRLaeajKOXvPSMTKQ8MY/s400/COPELAND+COVER.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="color:#c0c0c0;"> </span><strong><span style="color:#c0c0c0;">HAIRCUT</span> STORIES</strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong>LYDIA <span style="color:#c0c0c0;">COPELAND</span></strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#c0c0c0;">FLASH</span> FICTION</strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong>20 <span style="color:#c0c0c0;">PGS</span>.</strong><br /><br /><div align="justify">"A joy to read. Each piece in this collection is its own world, beautifully wrought. Lydia Copeland's prose poetry shimmers off the page."</div><div align="justify">- <strong>Kathy <span style="color:#999999;">Fish</span></strong></div><div align="justify"><strong><span style="color:#000000;">HAIRCUT</span></strong></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">"I'm drawn to the strong, sensual voice in these lovely, visceral pieces by Lydia Copeland, for the way she loads her prose with physical details that become much greater than their sum. Her unsentimental observations are to be savored - visions of family life, family solidarity, and unexpected violence. She shows us how the living go about the impossible through characters that are equally delicate and strong. The driving rhythm in these prose poems create the effect of music on the reader- the cumulative effect is stunning."</div>- <strong><span style="color:#c0c0c0;">Meg</span> Pokrass</strong><br /><strong></strong><br />excerpt from<strong> <span style="color:#c0c0c0;">HAIRCUT </span>STORIES:</strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><div align="justify"><strong>SOMETIMES <span style="color:#c0c0c0;">BALLOONS<br /></span></strong><br />I undressed in front of the window without thinking and tied the gown on backwards so that it opened in the front. My husband was driving home to finish packing a bag. He would call his mother to ask for Blowpops and Chapstick. I’d said those were necessities. It was snowing. All over town, cars slid on black ice. I wore ballet slippers in the hospital bed, removed them during delivery, slipped them on again to and from the bathroom. I knew our baby’s cry down the hallway. I knew the night nurse had let me sleep when I’d asked her not to. Now we live in a different state. My husband talks about how our friends have it easy, how he wishes he’d become a paratrooper instead. Now our son is on his third haircut. And I work in a plain building, floors and floors above the city. Sometimes plastic shopping bags float by my window, sometimes balloons. I boil water for tea, and read and read and watch my bosses come in and out of the room. My hands are gray with carbon copy. My skin is always thirsty. Now my husband takes the night’s last train. He eats the dinner I left without reheating, turns pages of a magazine on the couch. When he comes to bed, he nuzzles my neck, but we sleep back to back.</div><strong></strong><br /><strong></strong>PAPER HERO PRESShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00767269771521483734noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4455686435882746835.post-57642883717621213762009-02-01T07:49:00.001-08:002009-02-01T08:01:52.872-08:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYCucFjdd2a_SPKCqQjCZ6iIOCQFfrwsZl4-RbWAbRioJu4YNxGSWQhwwcWeA5SNYwdraoTyD_jsRtAVvzl-sOZKMwDnlCj96GHe8g_Ttlk3VTkO0fIUcTjaStkzD5NBEmQbT12FleNW88/s1600-h/BIBLE+COVER.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5297856944749996898" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 248px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYCucFjdd2a_SPKCqQjCZ6iIOCQFfrwsZl4-RbWAbRioJu4YNxGSWQhwwcWeA5SNYwdraoTyD_jsRtAVvzl-sOZKMwDnlCj96GHe8g_Ttlk3VTkO0fIUcTjaStkzD5NBEmQbT12FleNW88/s400/BIBLE+COVER.jpg" border="0" /></a> <strong>MY <span style="color:#cc9933;">SECOND</span> BEST <span style="color:#cc9933;">BEAR</span> RUG</strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#cc9933;">MICHAEL</span> BIBLE</strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong>FLASH <span style="color:#cc9933;">FICTION</span></strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#cc9933;">20</span> PGS.</strong><br /><br /><div align="justify">"Here's the Bible that should be in every motel room in America. Makes me think of black coffee, a shot of whiskey, a piece of meat, apple pie with a slice of yellow cheese on it, more coffee, a cigarette. Doesn't make me think of dope, though there is a lot of dope in the stories. Bitterly funny, touchingly innocent. Words of love. Read your Bible!" </div><br />- <em>Jack Pendarvis<br /></em><br /><br /><em>excerpt from</em> <strong>MY <span style="color:#cc9933;">SECOND</span> BEST <span style="color:#cc9933;">BEAR</span> RUG</strong><em>:</em><br /><em><br /><br /></em><em></em><em></em><div align="justify"><strong></strong></div><div align="justify"><strong><span style="color:#cc9933;">LOVE</span> STORY<br /></strong><br />My wife's in love with our white Siberian tiger, Charlie. She spends all her time with him. We don't even play Tuesday-night charades with the Goldbergs, anymore. And you can forget Bingo down at the community center, or classic movie night at the drive in.<br /><br />"What's the deal?" I say one night after TV dinners. "I feel like I'm losing you to the tiger."<br />"Charlie and I have a special connection," she says. "You wouldn't understand it."<br />"But he can't even talk."<br />"That's the difference, Bob. Charlie listens."<br /><br />I can hear Charlie in the next room ripping into a zebra. She smiles at this, but I'm the one that'll scrub the blood out of the carpet when he's finished.<br /><br />That night she lets him sleep in our bed, right between us. I wake up and Charlie's spooning me, tiger drool running down my neck. I can't take it. I drive down to Opal’s and order a beer.<br /><br />"She's got him sleeping in our bed now," I tell Jimmy.<br />"Sounds to me like your woman needs some sugar."<br />Jimmy was in the navy. He’s knows.<br /><br />I drive like hell, ready to give it to her. But when I get home and flick on the lights I see Charlie's beat me to it. They do it like dogs. I slam the door, run outside and puke all over the driveway. I sit on the curb wiping the sick from my mouth. The moon is ugly in the sky and then I feel a hoof on my shoulder. It’s one of the zebras escaped from their pen. She snorts and licks my face. In her eyes I see the orange light from the gas lamps. She gestures something sexy, then puts her arms around my shoulders as if to say, "You ready for this, old boy?"</div>PAPER HERO PRESShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00767269771521483734noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4455686435882746835.post-37438489708695497372009-01-10T11:42:00.001-08:002009-01-10T11:42:32.120-08:00THANKS FOR FINDING YOUR WAY HERE. LOOK AROUND.PAPER HERO PRESShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00767269771521483734noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4455686435882746835.post-47754347454845616182009-01-10T11:23:00.000-08:002009-01-10T11:42:05.043-08:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQdJVLY19m_Hclc7lgtP6EJ-UxrZgZevxzbDpTf73ZvR6XFpKBPC-Q3yIrF8ZgbzQwlHF1h5GMMHz_LOd9bsYvMrW40e12Tf-bS983H1txzn496rLDVFK4gzyyoT4MVjVSB1oDOCQZRjwy/s1600-h/stars+cover.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5289748282854347522" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 254px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQdJVLY19m_Hclc7lgtP6EJ-UxrZgZevxzbDpTf73ZvR6XFpKBPC-Q3yIrF8ZgbzQwlHF1h5GMMHz_LOd9bsYvMrW40e12Tf-bS983H1txzn496rLDVFK4gzyyoT4MVjVSB1oDOCQZRjwy/s400/stars+cover.jpg" border="0" /></a> <strong><span style="font-size:130%;">BRIAN <span style="color:#ff6600;">BEISE</span></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">I <span style="color:#ff6600;">IMAGINE</span> THE <span style="color:#ff6600;">STARS </span>WISH <span style="color:#ff6600;">THAT</span> TOO</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">FLASH <span style="color:#ff6600;">FICTION</span> / PROSE <span style="color:#ff6600;">POEMS</span></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="color:#ff6600;">JANUARY</span> 2009</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">4.<span style="color:#ff6600;">00</span></span></strong><br /><br /><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">from <strong>CHAD <span style="color:#ff6600;">PREVOST</span></strong>:</div><div align="justify"><span style="color:#000000;">STARS</span></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">"The key requirement for the difficult form of the literary short-short is implication, which Brian Beise executes with great dexterity in story after story. His other gifts can be seen in his displays of humorous understatement, structure, and unusual comparisons. From topics relating to pop culture, marriage (and relationships in general), the joys and pains of writing, self-referential mythmaking, to the grief of suburban life, Brian Beise’s <strong><span style="color:#ff6600;">I Imagine the Stars Wish That Too</span></strong> is a varied and promising debut."</div><div align="justify"><span style="color:#000000;">STARS</span></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">from <strong><span style="color:#ff6600;">SEBASTIAN</span> MATTHEWS</strong>:</div><div align="justify"><span style="color:#000000;">STARS</span></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">"Brian Beise is poet enough to provide beautiful and surprising turns inside his images and sharp enough a writer to throw the scene up around us and let the scene play. Beise goes for it all in sharp grabs. His best stories are brave and true. I loved reading this chapbook."</div><div align="justify"><span style="color:#000000;">STARS</span></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">excerpt from <strong><span style="color:#ff6600;">I</span> IMAGINE <span style="color:#ff6600;">THE</span> STARS <span style="color:#ff6600;">WISH</span> THAT <span style="color:#ff6600;">TOO</span></strong>:</div><div align="justify"><span style="color:#000000;">STARS</span></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">"The walk to work is all dirt and regret. My sandal straps cut my feet. Because of this I spit in the palms of beggars. They growl after me and wipe their hands in the dirt. The sun stomps on my shoulders and on every clay roof. I hear vines hanging themselves. I hear the new bestselling gospel read aloud. My name is missing. Between errands I sneer at the population. My thumb is deep in my ear. My nose is not clean. I buy a toy from the temple steps. I break the bread unevenly and much of it crumbles. I spill wine on my master’s hands. His fist lands solid on the same ear a fisherman severed once." </div>PAPER HERO PRESShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00767269771521483734noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4455686435882746835.post-64756679397206584102009-01-09T04:52:00.000-08:002009-01-09T14:02:06.740-08:00<div align="justify"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgucA5lirag77h9AGTF6F7R9tCExpGDEQY5CyNCoxx-2FSro6Ca4emSCFZncM27gfk664krHXHUEr2FiK3r9gBC5r7eCOKpkCi6jP2N2DGdTWhLZO-yFNWgY-SiycnISZzHGV6lKxPruxUA/s1600-h/ATL.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5289358743105938850" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 276px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgucA5lirag77h9AGTF6F7R9tCExpGDEQY5CyNCoxx-2FSro6Ca4emSCFZncM27gfk664krHXHUEr2FiK3r9gBC5r7eCOKpkCi6jP2N2DGdTWhLZO-yFNWgY-SiycnISZzHGV6lKxPruxUA/s400/ATL.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>JAMES <span style="color:#3366ff;">IREDELL</span></strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#3366ff;">ATLANTA</span></strong><br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#3366ff;">JANUARY</span> 2009</strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong>STORIES / <span style="color:#3366ff;">PROSE </span><span style="color:#3366ff;">POEMS</span></strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#3366ff;">4</span>.00</strong><br /></span><br />excerpts from <strong><span style="color:#3366ff;">ATLANTA</span></strong>:<br /><br />"When I moved to Atlanta, thunderstorms blew through the afternoons. I’d tell my friends in Nevada that I’d moved to this tropical rainforest. Clouds of mosquitoes heaved hordes of citizens above skyscrapers, then dropped the husks of their bodies to Peachtree Street. The hulls of destroyed brick rows lurked underground, and above, fiberglass rocketed into the rain. Hardwood floors lined my apartment, and cockroaches scrawled notes across my chest. With the humidity, I inhabited the inside of a mouth, the space between ass cheeks. The cat wailed to go outside, forever and ever."<br /><br />"Years ago, armies had drug cannon and bodies through the pine needles and mud in these hills while Sherman was fixing to set everything ablaze. The tiny people driving their tiny cars in the tiny towns below grew tinier as we mounted the summit trail. The rocks sat bald as rocks, evidence that even before the North ravaged the South, glaciers had slithered through, eating everything and giving birth to boulders. Our sandwiches were lined with turkey we had not shot nor beheaded. Later, when we left the mountain, we did so in a Toyota made from and powered by paleobotanical remnants. Sarah’s pants, like all pants, modestly covered her ankles. She hummed and sighed when I fumbled through my past: my parents were Yankees, and I came from West to East, and I’d once smoked crack. Maybe more than once. “Just to lay everything out there,” I said. My fingers felt for skin to pick and instead pulled at a tree’s. “I’m only half-Southern,” Sarah said, and she explained that only her mama came from Georgia. That made me feel better."<br /><br />from <strong><span style="color:#3366ff;">BLAKE BUTLER</span></strong>:<br /><br />"If Mary Robison listened to more punk, grew up in Las Vegas in the 80s before the 80s sucked, did whippits while reading Ben Marcus and scrolling the alternative personals for golden lines to crib, she might have exploded into the post-post-Beat sentence index that is Atlanta. But she didn't. Jamie Iredell did, and in reading this lean but dense meat-eater of a sui generis prose poem cycle, one realizes there might still be a way for chapbooks to compete with porn."<br /><br />from <strong><span style="color:#3366ff;">MIKE DOCKINS</span></strong>:<br /><br />"What in the hell are these things? Stories? Poems? Stoems? Whatever they are, they have (lucky for us) catapulted from the brain, indeed the life, of this epicurean-poet-goon-maniac from Atlanta-via-Reno-via-northern-California. This book (much like the speaker himself) moves with a moody cat, and resolves amidst (and beyond) the sometimes seedy underbelly of Atlanta with its cavernous tavern dives, its ungodly cockroaches, its lust for excess. When you put down this book, you might suffer a hangover. But these pieces simultaneously achieve a sense of bildungsroman (think Joyce, not Sherwood Anderson). The consistency of voice and style here is remarkable, as is Iredell's knack for creative metaphors (think Richard Brautigan). James Iredell has the skillz to pay the billz. Wait, he's a poet so he can't pay his billz. What I mean to say is, he has the skills to throw out the mail and keep scribbling, which is something he is always doing, and doing well."</div>PAPER HERO PRESShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00767269771521483734noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4455686435882746835.post-54051659561414557092009-01-05T08:03:00.000-08:002009-01-09T05:05:13.040-08:00<div align="justify"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikJjmZIjegirZdkKnQQBSQ9aMYZ5KBrD5E8tCzFulnk3u7Jq9vPpwSO5uvAR9RhQCU3cJgRZy_tyP1I8QD9t-ip3qNJFDpsXiwPV1-fT2z-pxXUxbw7_prGgB9fqymmz03fUA08oX_qPyY/s1600-h/BELL+COVER+2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287843847543271778" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 308px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikJjmZIjegirZdkKnQQBSQ9aMYZ5KBrD5E8tCzFulnk3u7Jq9vPpwSO5uvAR9RhQCU3cJgRZy_tyP1I8QD9t-ip3qNJFDpsXiwPV1-fT2z-pxXUxbw7_prGgB9fqymmz03fUA08oX_qPyY/s400/BELL+COVER+2.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>FACTS OF COMBAT: if your <span style="color:#999999;">head was blown off</span> I would still know you from the <span style="color:#999999;">birthmark in the shape of your own shadow</span>, on your left hand<br /></strong><br /><br /><strong>HEATHER <span style="color:#999999;">BELL</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#999999;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">XX</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#999999;">FLASH</span> FICTIONY <span style="color:#999999;">PROSE</span> POEMY <span style="color:#999999;">THINGS</span></strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">XX</span></strong><br /><strong>JANUARY <span style="color:#999999;">2009</span></strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">XX</span></strong><br /></span><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">4.00<br /></span><span style="color:#000000;">XX</span><br /></strong><strong></strong><strong><span style="color:#000000;">XX</span></strong><br /><strong>excerpts from <span style="color:#999999;">FACTS OF COMBAT:</span></strong><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="justify">"Yesterday, I ordered a snuff film online. The room smells like directionless things or the scars across a woman's cervix. In six to eight weeks, I hope to see a girl in ropes or a boy in ropes get shot in the head. The point from alive to dead, where is it? I hope to see the air turn sensuous when everyone dies and I pretend to die and am falling and falling and the branches and trees have pools and hollows, and in each hole there is a place to put something important to you. You touch the lines of my face and call me your peeping tom and laugh at this joke."</div><br /><br /><br />"Aunt Marjorie, I think I love her, as she takes me behind the tub on wash day and washes my dirty violent parts. She says, don't tell anyone about this and cries and cries like she has no shame, or perhaps, too much of it. Aunt Marjorie's gut reminds me of fish and old maps and animal fur. She says, love is like this. Don't tell anyone. I am confused by this and angry at her bad armor. But I love Aunt Marjorie, the dark shallow water in her eyes, the scent of sycamore leaves in her old hair. I love Aunt Marjorie, mostly in the closet in my bedroom, where she says, don't tell anyone about this and I don't tell anyone about this, except once I told my mother, told her in the way you would talk about new green soap or the toes in your sandals."<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />from <strong><span style="color:#999999;">J.A.</span> TYLER</strong>:<br /><br /><br /><div align="justify">"<strong>HEATHER <span style="color:#999999;">BELL</span></strong>'S <strong>FACTS <span style="color:#999999;">OF COMBAT</span></strong> is a collection of physical and emotional violence, a seething bit of writing. she composes from inside, where raw honesty huddles next to blood. this is a book of bruising and symphonies." </div></div>PAPER HERO PRESShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00767269771521483734noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4455686435882746835.post-67036705573798152102008-12-24T14:02:00.000-08:002010-08-10T15:35:14.742-07:00Reviews of <strong><span style="color:#ff6600;">ACHILLES CHAPBOOKS</span></strong>:<br /><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong><a href="http://htmlgiant.com/author-spotlight/new-from-peter-schwartz-old-men-girls-and-monsters/#more-26588"><span style="color:#ff6600;">OLD MEN, GIRLS, AND MONSTERS</span></a></strong><br /><strong><a href="http://htmlgiant.com/author-spotlight/new-from-peter-schwartz-old-men-girls-and-monsters/#more-26588">Roxane Gay</a></strong><br /><strong><a href="http://htmlgiant.com/author-spotlight/new-from-peter-schwartz-old-men-girls-and-monsters/#more-26588">HTML Giant</a></strong><br /><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong><a href="http://www.orangealert.net/schwartz"><span style="color:#ff6600;">OLD MEN, GIRLS, AND MONSTERS</span></a></strong><br /><strong><a href="http://www.orangealert.net/schwartz">Jason Behrends</a></strong><br /><strong><a href="http://www.orangealert.net/schwartz">Orange Alert</a></strong><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://bigother.com/2010/02/10/peter-schwartzs-old-men-girls-and-monsters/"><strong><span style="color:#ff6600;">OLD MEN, GIRLS, AND MONSTERS</span></strong></a><br /><a href="http://bigother.com/2010/02/10/peter-schwartzs-old-men-girls-and-monsters/"><strong>Molly Gaudry</strong></a><br /><a href="http://bigother.com/2010/02/10/peter-schwartzs-old-men-girls-and-monsters/"><strong>Big Other</strong></a><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.pankmagazine.com/pankblog/?p=4284"><strong><span style="color:#ff6600;">OLD MEN, GIRLS, AND MONSTERS</span></strong></a><br /><a href="http://www.pankmagazine.com/pankblog/?p=4284"><strong>Nicelle Davis</strong></a><br /><a href="http://www.pankmagazine.com/pankblog/?p=4284"><strong>PANK</strong></a><br /><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong><a href="http://smallpressreviews.wordpress.com/2010/04/12/old-men-girls-and-monsters/"><span style="color:#ff6600;">OLD MEN, GIRLS, AND MONSTERS</span></a></strong><br /><strong><a href="http://smallpressreviews.wordpress.com/2010/04/12/old-men-girls-and-monsters/">Marc Schuster</a></strong><br /><strong><a href="http://smallpressreviews.wordpress.com/2010/04/12/old-men-girls-and-monsters/">Small Press Reviews<br /></a></strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong><a href="http://www.wordriot.org/archives/1589"><span style="color:#ff6600;">OLD MEN, GIRLS, AND MONSTERS<br /></span>Timmy Waldron</a></strong><br /><strong><a href="http://www.wordriot.org/archives/1589">Word Riot</a></strong><br /><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong><a href="http://www.prickofthespindle.com/reviews/2.4/small%20presses/achilles%20chapbook%20series/kalbach/the_zen_of_chainsaws.htm"><span style="color:#ff6600;">THE ZEN OF CHAINSAWS AND ENORMOUS CLIPPERS<br /></span>Cynthia Reeser<br />Prick of the Spindle </a><br /></strong><br /><br /><strong><a href="http://wearduringorangealert.blogspot.com/2008/12/orange-spotlight_14.html"><span style="color:#ff6600;">THE ZEN OF CHAINSAWS AND ENORMOUS CLIPPERS</span></a></strong><br /><strong><a href="http://wearduringorangealert.blogspot.com/2008/12/orange-spotlight_14.html">Jason Behrends</a></strong><br /><a href="http://wearduringorangealert.blogspot.com/2008/12/orange-spotlight_14.html"><strong>What To Wear During An Orange Alert</strong><br /></a><br /><br /><strong><a href="http://www.newpages.com/bookreviews/archive/2008_12/december2008_book_reviews.htm#zen"><span style="color:#ff6600;">THE ZEN OF CHAINSAWS AND ENORMOUS CLIPPERS<br /></span>Ryan Call<br />NewPages<br /></a></strong><br /><br /><a href="http://phmadore.wordpress.com/2008/09/11/review-the-zen-of-chainsaws-and-enormous-clippers-by-drew-kalbach/"><strong><span style="color:#ff6600;">THE ZEN OF CHAINSAWS AND ENORMOUS CLIPPERS</span><br />PH Madore<br /></strong></a><span style="color:#ffff00;"><br /></span><br /><a href="http://www.prickofthespindle.com/reviews/2.4/small%20presses/achilles%20chapbook%20series/graham/not_a_speck_of_light_is_showing.htm"><strong><span style="color:#ff6600;">NOT A SPECK OF LIGHT IS SHOWING</span><br />Cynthia Reeser</strong><br /><strong>Prick of the Spindle</strong><br /></a><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong><a href="http://www.newpages.com/bookreviews/archive/2008_12/december2008_book_reviews.htm#not_a_speck"><span style="color:#ff6600;">NOT A SPECK OF LIGHT IS SHOWING</span><br />Ryan Call<br />NewPages<br /></a><br /></strong><strong></strong><br /><a href="http://wearduringorangealert.blogspot.com/2008/12/orange-spotlight.html"><strong><span style="color:#ff6600;">NOT A SPECK OF LIGHT IS SHOWING</span></strong></a><br /><a href="http://wearduringorangealert.blogspot.com/2008/12/orange-spotlight.html"><strong>Jason Behrends<br />What To Wear During An Orange Alert </strong></a><br /><br /><br /><strong><a href="http://midwestpoet.wordpress.com/2008/11/18/interview-with-barry-graham-at-dogzplotcom/"><span style="color:#ff6600;">NOT A SPECK OF LIGHT IS SHOWING<br /></span>Midwest Poetry Forum<br />Scot Young<br /></a></strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong><a href="http://www.prickofthespindle.com/reviews/2.4/small%20presses/achilles%20chapbook%20series/good/tomorrowland.htm"><span style="color:#ff6600;">TOMORROWLAND</span></a></strong><br /><a href="http://www.prickofthespindle.com/reviews/2.4/small%20presses/achilles%20chapbook%20series/good/tomorrowland.htm"><strong>Cynthia Reeser</strong><br /></a><strong><a href="http://www.prickofthespindle.com/reviews/2.4/small%20presses/achilles%20chapbook%20series/good/tomorrowland.htm">Prick of the Spindle</a><br /><br /></strong><br /><strong><a href="http://smallpressreviews.blogspot.com/2008/12/tomorrowland.html"><span style="color:#ff6600;">TOMORROWLAND<br /></span>Small Press Reviews<br />Marc Shuster<br /></a></strong><br /><br /><strong><a href="http://wearduringorangealert.blogspot.com/2009/01/orange-spotlight_12.html"><span style="color:#ff6600;">TOMORROWLAND</span></a></strong><br /><a href="http://wearduringorangealert.blogspot.com/2009/01/orange-spotlight_12.html"><strong>Jason Behrends<br />What To Wear During An Orange Alert</strong><br /></a><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong><a href="http://roseandthornreviews.blogspot.com/2009/01/book-review-tomorrowland-by-howie-good.html"><span style="color:#ff6600;">TOMORROWLAND</span></a></strong><br /><strong><a href="http://roseandthornreviews.blogspot.com/2009/01/book-review-tomorrowland-by-howie-good.html">Kathryn Magendie<br />Roses and Thorns Review</a></strong>PAPER HERO PRESShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00767269771521483734noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4455686435882746835.post-10962034282870628242008-12-16T11:18:00.001-08:002009-01-09T05:06:29.714-08:00<div align="justify"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikyOStF7CSJz1gJEFR0tSUqXvRTNnbiJgjK7F0w3NtIOR2LeMznBxWUN3lL0T1_eUl4XkPWU5BkWcxsOoXvfhvYTM3ETCMDK-9Vsjy3XKojPVFQwKSPXj_HbTTqVBgRyP7QMso6snmrzLn/s1600-h/DYING+COVER+2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280469918062378978" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 296px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikyOStF7CSJz1gJEFR0tSUqXvRTNnbiJgjK7F0w3NtIOR2LeMznBxWUN3lL0T1_eUl4XkPWU5BkWcxsOoXvfhvYTM3ETCMDK-9Vsjy3XKojPVFQwKSPXj_HbTTqVBgRyP7QMso6snmrzLn/s400/DYING+COVER+2.jpg" border="0" /></a>“As its title makes clear, here is a book and here is a writer whose object is death and dying and oftentimes that death happens to be not a bad thing. What I find most exhilarating about these fictions is that as I read through them I found myself running along with the sentences to breathlessly catch up, reading along to catch up with the last breath of death itself. These stories will get your heart beating, racing to beat death to the finish line. If you are lucky enough to find this book before death finds you, this book will find you, like the characters themselves, "thinking about all the dead people in the world. Thinking about the snow and the cold. Thinking about the shape of hearts.”<br /><br /><span style="color:#cc0000;"><strong>Peter Markus</strong>, author of <em><strong>Bob, or Man on Boat</strong></em><br /></span><br /><br />“<strong><span style="color:#cc0000;">J.A. Tyler</span></strong> has a wizard's eye. In <em><strong><span style="color:#cc0000;">Everyone In This Is Either Dying Or Will Die Or Is Thinking of Death</span></strong></em>, Tyler spins tales so close to the bone we can feel the pulse of his magic. His stories are gothic, are spiritual and haunting. Most of all they are human and cut to the core.”<br /><br /><span style="color:#cc0000;"><strong>Steven Gillis</strong>, author of <em><strong>Temporary People</strong></em><br /><strong></strong></span><br /><strong></strong><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>J.A. TYLER</strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#cc0000;">EVERYONE IN THIS IS EITHER DYING OR WILL DIE OR IS THINKING OF DEATH</span></strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong>SHORT STORY FICTION</strong><br /><strong></strong><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="color:#cc0000;"><strong>28 PGS.</strong><br /><strong></strong></span><br /><strong>DEC. 08</strong></span></div>PAPER HERO PRESShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00767269771521483734noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4455686435882746835.post-26508701548932993002008-11-23T14:54:00.000-08:002009-01-09T05:06:01.831-08:00<div align="justify"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_7BArIEQxkTHtxPcbeYeEDLjZaYAEzwjHtdcu172jTEXpzYvEgU8UJZm_tU77jC768xal0BjxcbhOo3BOVlRqHzCylzJjbIEllbW70eTTQsq4xFXFcgbIxbPlscTSRpxN8ENH2HY2THz3/s1600-h/tomorrow+cover.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271990300616891426" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 256px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_7BArIEQxkTHtxPcbeYeEDLjZaYAEzwjHtdcu172jTEXpzYvEgU8UJZm_tU77jC768xal0BjxcbhOo3BOVlRqHzCylzJjbIEllbW70eTTQsq4xFXFcgbIxbPlscTSRpxN8ENH2HY2THz3/s400/tomorrow+cover.jpg" border="0" /></a>"<strong><span style="color:#009900;">Howie Good</span></strong>'s newest collection, <strong><span style="color:#009900;">Tomorrowland</span></strong>, offers the essential element of prose poetry: tight, moving language, and amazing imagery. From a firing squad who listens to the ball game on the radio to the heart's museum of stained glass and a wooden boardwalk, Good gives entire scenes in a matter of a few words. They are scenes of both starkness and beauty, or - to quote the poet, himself - "the birdsong, as sometimes happens, full of primitive grief."<br /><br />With both the mastery of storytelling and the dance of poetry, <span style="color:#009900;"><strong>Tomorrowland</strong></span> is a writer's envy and a reader's delight."<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">Susan Culver</span></strong><br /><p>"A fascinating series of vignettes, flashes, stories, each one incredibly focused, incredibly powerful, and surprising to the point of being scary."<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">Krishan Coupland</span></strong></p><strong><span style="color:#009900;"></span></strong><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong><span style="color:#009900;">HOWIE GOOD</span></strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong>TOMORROWLAND</strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">FLASH FICTION</span></strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong>24 PGS.</strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">12 - 1 - 2008</span></strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong>$4.00</strong></span><br /><br />excerpt from <strong>TOMORROWLAND</strong>:<br /><br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#009900;">THE PARABLE OF SUNLIGHT<br /></span></strong><br />It’s a rare sunny day, but the streets are strangely empty, as if arrests are about to be made, or already have been. Head down, heart revving, I start across the square. The fountain is dry, stained with dead leaves. An old man, with the drab, diligent face of a lifelong student of numbers, scatters bread crumbs for the pigeons. I pretend not to notice – it’s safer – and in seconds, reach the far side, where bodies in the early stages of decay hang like gray rags from the trees. I glance back at the old man. He’s watching me, and I wonder why and whether tomorrow is supposed to be just as nice as today.</div>PAPER HERO PRESShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00767269771521483734noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4455686435882746835.post-3396333321948837662008-08-03T18:42:00.000-07:002012-05-30T09:17:11.074-07:00BARRY GRAHAM - NOT A SPECK OF LIGHT IS SHOWING<div align="justify">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgofhqgHPLXC69aQDAHRaycSxmK9gNnHiXuQ-mEP7UYl-oPRAeXHRrPd3Uuq-i9P4wGyIfY-JPq03FmRXOBnFTpDpJw97jp43olpm2Eo4j6lZKw6nkI9FgT3xw9Q_w_vp2hcfMHLUnAA-KT/s1600/SPECK%252520COVER1.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5575895699305195810" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgofhqgHPLXC69aQDAHRaycSxmK9gNnHiXuQ-mEP7UYl-oPRAeXHRrPd3Uuq-i9P4wGyIfY-JPq03FmRXOBnFTpDpJw97jp43olpm2Eo4j6lZKw6nkI9FgT3xw9Q_w_vp2hcfMHLUnAA-KT/s400/SPECK%252520COVER1.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 290px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
<strong>BARRY <span style="color: #6633ff;">GRAHAM</span><br /><span style="color: #6633ff;">NOT</span> A SPECK OF <span style="color: #6633ff;">LIGHT</span> IS SHOWING<br />2ND <span style="color: #6633ff;">EDITION</span><br /><span style="color: #6633ff;">FLASH</span> FICTION<br />28 <span style="color: #6633ff;">PGS</span></strong></div>PAPER HERO PRESShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00767269771521483734noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4455686435882746835.post-56648141036559348312008-08-03T18:29:00.000-07:002009-01-09T05:03:07.147-08:00<div align="justify"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiFtKv6jNaBpPpk7DVHtYsc2yJ_xUfntTbPc4Pzvm1mxEL9N_9s1deWd_hsnHRlVF8AO447ciVBjbQLAlkJRP3rNcPsQeI5ePDfNfbzy5_DCWBX4OoNU4d-6CZ1vUzfcGB0bDNGQHX-BaG/s1600-h/CLIPCOVER-361x600.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230468852419829266" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiFtKv6jNaBpPpk7DVHtYsc2yJ_xUfntTbPc4Pzvm1mxEL9N_9s1deWd_hsnHRlVF8AO447ciVBjbQLAlkJRP3rNcPsQeI5ePDfNfbzy5_DCWBX4OoNU4d-6CZ1vUzfcGB0bDNGQHX-BaG/s400/CLIPCOVER-361x600.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">The <span style="color:#ff6600;">Zen</span> of <span style="color:#ff6600;">Chainsaws</span> and <span style="color:#ff6600;">Enormous</span> Clippers</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">drew <span style="color:#ff6600;">kalbach</span></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">excerpt from <em><span style="color:#ff6600;">Monotone</span></em>:</span></strong><br /><br />"The year starts and ends in winter. It's inaccurate to say our relationship is based on temperature, but lack of warmth is a huge aspect. Nothing changes our respect for vanity plates and porcelain mugs with racecar drivers in profile. Every day we walk up three steps and slip on the fourth, but take it as a good omen. When the snow starts in December, it's the staircase again, but in rain boots and carrying long black umbrellas. Hand gestures float across the dinner table like sign language in an attempt to convey mute sarcasm."<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">author's <span style="color:#ff6600;">note</span>:</span></strong><br /><br />"it's full of poems about your mother. i think it may border on copyright infringement. mel gibson said he hates it more than the jews. several children read the manuscript, but they started crying. one of my friends had an epileptic seizure reading it. my mother threatened to disown me if i go through with getting it published. one poem, if read backwards, will summon satan from the underworld. it is full of coded child pornography messages and websites. there is a full color glossy photo of me naked wrapped in a mink fur coat in the very middle. it will cost ten dollars plus a pint of blood, and the blood will go to my private blood collection. new zealand already banned it, and it was burned in idaho twice. my dad says it's the best thing ever, he said he is very proud of me, then he cried and divorced my mother. people say the first three poems are cursed. people have claimed to see the ghost of hitler after reading it. it is a tribute to the ninja turtles disguised as a marilyn manson song disguised as real poetry. it is so deep and layered that you can't read it, you must climb through it. there is no depth, i wrote it all in a word document in 24 hours, it's meaningless, just random words from television commercials strung together. it is actually sponsored by kellog's cereal and by trojan condoms. most people laugh when they read it but really i intended for them to say hmmm and have a very thoughtful and faroff look on their face. my girlfriend wrote two of the poems, she isn't really my girlfriend, he is actually a blind border collie, she is a dog. the last poem is about beastiality and bill clinton, not in that order. it is endorsed by ron jeremy."<br /><br /><br />"Drew Kalbach's poems are full of the best kind of danger, subverting our expectations of everyday situations until something else happens, some other unexpected, transformative experience. From their incantatory beginnings to their incongruous endings, these poems are capable of a deep magic where each line is a connection between unlikely dots, each poem revealing truths as terrible as they are beautiful, as revelatory as they are necessary."<br />- Matt Bell<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="color:#ff6600;">prose</span> poems</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">oct. <span style="color:#ff6600;">8th</span> 2008</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff6600;">4.00</span></strong></div>PAPER HERO PRESShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00767269771521483734noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4455686435882746835.post-47374802791338331522008-08-03T18:24:00.001-07:002013-02-16T11:18:57.707-08:00<strong><span style="color: #ff6600; font-size: 130%;">Manuscript submission guidelines:</span></strong><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 130%;">We're back. Accepting submissions for 2013</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 130%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 130%;">60 pages or so</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 130%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 130%;">Flash fiction / stories / prose poems</span> / short blurry things<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 130%;">Send your manuscript as a word attachment to: <span style="color: orange;">achilleschapbooks@yahoo.com</span></span><span style="font-size: 130%;">. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 130%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 130%;">Letters, bios, etc. I don't need any of that mess, just give me your name and contact info.</span>PAPER HERO PRESShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00767269771521483734noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4455686435882746835.post-24921014975414875492008-08-03T18:20:00.000-07:002009-05-04T16:17:40.264-07:00<div align="justify"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff6600;"><strong>What we're looking for:</strong></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">We want erratic, playful, honest, original, disgraceful, hopelessly optimistic, dirty, beautiful, ugly, over the top writing. We like description. We like voice. We are more interested in good storytelling than precision, than fancy words and metaphors and concepts that sound real pretty but don’t necessarily inform the reader. We like subtle, seemingly simplistic writing that blows your fucking head apart when you take the time to excavate below the surface. We like to dig in and get dirty. Publication schedule: Erratic. If I read something thats blows me away I'll print some chapbooks. If not, I won't. It's really that simple.</span></div>PAPER HERO PRESShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00767269771521483734noreply@blogger.com