Kamby Bolongo Mean River named one of 25 Important Books of the 2000s by HTML Giant
Monday, December 27, 2010
Stefanie is the author of the short story collection Feeding Strays (Lost Horse Press) and the flash fiction chapbook MOTEL (Bannock Street Books). She is the Fiction Editor of the Los Angeles Review. www.stefaniefreele.com
Monday, December 20, 2010
No white people were shot off jet skis by fledgling members of a pirate force. Busted brains did not drift in the brown waters of Falcon Lake. Though $4.4 million dollars of cocaine was seized at Anzalduas Bridge.
I’ve not done cocaine in some time. The summer of my 18th year I did a mess of it. We had a friend named Fast Eddy who was awarded $22,000 in a lawsuit after having fallen from a diving board at a municipal swimming pool and splitting his head open. He got $11,000 of it the day he turned 18 and the remaining $11,000 was to be awarded on his 21st birthday. We spent a summer drawing lines the length of baseball bats across kitchen tables owned by out-of-town parents. I saw the sun rise 30 times in two months and lost a taste for it.
I’ve not crossed a border bridge for over 200 days, but I drive by the river often, the green water still, wide as a motor home between the waist high grass. It’s thicker further west, but it’s siphoned off here to feed the citrus groves. William S. Burroughs used to own one of those groves a couple miles from my home. His wife would set grapefruits on her head, and Burroughs would shoot them off. He wasn’t as good at aiming at Martini glasses. I read Queer and don’t recognize his Mexico. Now there are soldiers in the squares, automatic machine guns around their necks. They searched me once, “Drogas? Drogas?” they screamed and rifled through my wallet, placed their barrel mouths against me. Their faces clean and steady. This was many years ago. The let me go unharmed. Didn’t even take my money. I’ve been across many times since then. Most likely those men are dead.
Brian Allen Carr lives on the Texas/Mexico border. Short Bus, his first collection, is forthcoming from Texas Review Press. He can be found online at www.brianallencarr.com.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Yesterday was the anniversary of the assassination of President John F. Kennedy, but there is no news today. Yesterday, a blue moon filled the night sky. Yesterday, a bomb fell, a door opened, a soup cooled on the table. Yesterday, power was seized and relinquished in coups both bloody and peaceful. Yesterday, food was abundant/scare and we feasted/starved. Yesterday, colonists dressed as Indians dumped tea into the harbor. Yesterday, a mighty civilization ended and though it went nearly unnoticed, one family thoughtfully left a group of tools and clay pots arranged around a fire pit for posterity. Yesterday, a pair of feet stepped onto a new continent for the first time. Yesterday, a species diverged; one group climbed down from the trees and moved into an uncertain savannah, the other stayed in the branches, near the food. Yesterday, there was no awareness, no blurring of the lines between the known and the unknown. Yesterday, the Earth’s surface bubbled and roiled, the atmosphere a vast swirl of sulfur and methane. Yesterday, in a segment of time so infinitesimal, the big bang banged out all that is and would ever be. Yesterday was a good day, certainly, but there is no news today.
Clark Knowles teaches writing at The University of New Hampshire. He writes short stories that can be found in Glimmer Train and Pank. He has a novel, The Aurora Project, that is patiently awaiting a home. He can be found at www.clarkknowles.com
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
In Chile, they’re loading straws full of poems into the ground. And food capsules. NASA and Neruda, dense as shit. But you don’t want to hear that.
Today I did my duty: filled bubbles with a ballpoint pen; peed on a stick; took five types of pills and rubbed spearmint on my neck. Also ate the seeds of an apple. Also waited. Also wrote it down.
Yesterday, the microwave beeped at the same time I should have left the house--or stirred something or flipped something or put whites in the dryer. It beeped but I was tiling and dirty. I was making something. Churning sand into the color of my wrists and pressing it into place. Listening to Beckett. And remembering that time in college when I thought I was pregnant. Meanwhile, something was sticking to the bottom of a pan.
Back then, Steve would use anything to roll a joint, the Book of Mormon or a Chinese menu. Religious texts are best, he said. God, I get itchy just thinking of that van.
I’m itchy in general. My pulse is 116. You want nothing to happen? Here’s a vein of paper that cannot be mined. Something charred no one will eat. A scattering of seeds on my mid-term ballot. Here: everything’s small so you can swallow it.
Jill Leininger's poems have appeared in Shenandoah, Crab Creek Review, Seattle Review, and are forthcoming in Harvard Review. She’s currently mutating stories, battening down the hatches, and not writing a play in Johnson, Vermont.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
If I call, don't think someone has died. That's not the only reason I call. Oh but guess what is dying? The universe. The universe is more than halfway through its lifespan. I would have called you if this was news.
What kind of news is death to you. If the universe is dying, then everything in it is dying. This death is not news. Look how the sun droops, it's dark at 4:30!
Oh but guess what's good for depression in the winter? Cat videos. There has never been a cat that has not had dying on its mind while being hilarious on YouTube.
I would have called you if there was news of the cat. I didn't have anything to report is why I didn't call.
What I have been doing is watching television and cat videos on YouTube. If you wanted to call you could have called. But if you call you will wake the cat.
The cat is dependent on the sun the same way as you. When the sun is gone, the cat sleeps under the radiator. The radiator is not so hot, don't get hysterical. The radiator will not hurt the cat the way it hurts cats on television. You shouldn't believe everything you think.
I would have called you if the cat had news. If I call, don't think someone has died. That's not the only reason i call. But look how the sun cools, it's dark at noon! This death is not news. If you want to talk to me, you have a phone.
But the cat is sleeping is why you shouldn't call. The cat is contemplating its death through sleep which is a rehearsal of eternal blank. Guess what else is eternal? Nothing. I would have called you if this was news.
Kathryn Regina lives in Chicago and blogs at http://this-is-not-poetry.blogspot.com/.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
barry graham is the author of the national virginity pledge and nothing or next to nothing (atlantic city blues), look for him online at www.barrygfunk.blogspot.com
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Jesús Ángel García is the author of “badbadbad,” a transmedia novel (forthcoming in May 2011 on New Pulp Press). 3xbad stories, songs and a trailer for the first in a five-part series of interconnected short films based on themes of the book can be found here: http://badbadbad.net/.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Today is Veteran's Day and I wish there was no news. Or if not no news then some news other than that which we have: today, Veteran's Day, and the news is that more veterans are committing suicide than ever before. That they are twice as likely as non-veterans to commit suicide. That in 2005 (the one year for which we have relatively solid data, data that the VA has been very careful never ever to compile and release) at least 6256 veterans killed themselves.
That's 521 per month. 120 per week. 17 per day.
My family is rich in veterans, my friends and acquaintances richer still and I love them and do not want this to happen to them, or to anyone, and do not misunderstand me. I know that Once more unto the breach, dear friends, et cetera, and I also know that i sing of Olaf glad and big, et cetera, and I know of the pit between them. I know that defeat brings worse things, et cetera, and I believe that, I do, but I also know that that's what Dick Cheney sang to every kid headed to boot camp, not those words exactly maybe but that same song, and it was the wrong song, and Dick Cheney knew it, and those kids went to boot camp and then on to Iraq, and came back, and knew, too, that it had been the wrong song.
So maybe instead of no news or current news we could instead today have the news that someone accidentally waterboarded Dick Cheney while raping him to death with a rusty bayonet.
That's some news I could get behind.
That's some news I could drink me some coffee over.
Roy Kesey's debut novel Pacazo will be published by Dzanc Books in February 2011. His work has been widely published and anthologized, with stories appearing in Best American Short Stories, The Robert Olen Butler Prize Anthology and New Sudden Fiction, among other places. He currently lives in Peru with his wife and children. (www.roykesey.com)
elizabeth ellen never really graduated college and thus has no idea when really it is appropriate to use things like "i.e." she does her best with her limited knowledge of the english language. don't hate.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
When we get home next from some UNIQLO Realism, Bobby gets an e-mail, someone calling him a homo. This after the deterritorializing of housecleaning. The doggie won’t stop peeing in the house. So no more runner in the kitchen. Carpet Men Stretch What They Lay, says one t-shirt not sported today. Rather, Heather Gray: On My Way to Movies & More. He’s pouring red wine. I’m not purring or ready for it yet, being an asshole trying to get this thing writ at kitchen table. Tonight we’ll watch Episode 520 of Dark Shadows--get as far as we can before falling to sleep. By this point, Adam has been taught to speak. (If Adam lives, then B. does too, but if Adam dies...) First, Charlie is coming over for dinner. If that’s OK with me. You know what 10/11 is? I mean, besides Bill Clegg’s birthday.
Douglas A. Martin is the author most recently of a novel, ONCE YOU GO BACK (Seven Stories Press), and a lyric narrative, YOUR BODY FIGURED (Nightboat Books).
Friday, October 29, 2010
Awoke. Kissed wife. Whispered, “I love you. It’s 8:02.” Removed covers. Grabbed glasses from bookshelf and put them on face. Stepped out of bed. Walked to kitchen. Fed kitty. Returned to bedroom. Entered bathroom. Urinated. Showered. Dried off. Put on underwear and white t-shirt. Returned to kitchen. Poured glass of water. Started coffeemaker. Drank water. Went to dining room table. Turned on laptop computer. Checked email. Checked certain websites. Checked site counter for Bright Stupid Confetti. Returned to kitchen. Poured coffee, added sugar and cream. Opened cupboard, reached in and retracted box of oat squares. Took coffee and oat squares back to dining room table, back to laptop. Ate breakfast of oat squares and coffee while checking Facebook. Finished coffee. Returned oat squares to cupboard. Returned to bedroom. Returned to bathroom. Brushed teeth. Applied lotion to face. Styled hair. Brushed beard. Put on dress shirt, tie, and slacks. Whispered to wife, “I’ll see you in a little bit.” Kissed wife on forehead. Put on shoes. Returned to dining room. Put Italo Calvino book and green notebook in backpack. Grabbed wallet, keys, and cell phone. Unlocked front door. Opened front door. Stepped out front door. Exploded.
Christopher Higgs gave authorship to a belletristic novel entitled The Complete Works of Marvin K. Mooney, available now from Sator Press.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
leigh newman's work has appeared in Tin House, One Story, New York Tyrant, Fiction and the National Public Radio's The Sound of Writing. Her memoir about growing up on the Alaskan tundra is coming out next year from Dial.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
What remains? What predates? What will come to fill this yawning chasm? The Internet. Boys. Empty barstools next to no one. Robert Lopez, not a gentleman. The books that line these walls, the shade of purple she painted her bedroom. The cat, obese and dying.
No veterinarian. No Hudson River. No implements for cleaning the wax from your ears. We are doomed to deafness. We are doomed to abandon our bridges and walk across silt to New Jersey. Our animals will suffer. We, too.
Alex Samets rocks, steady. She holds an Irrelevant Degree in Something Intangible from Sarah Lawrence College. Actually, two. As she is from Vermont, one ought never offer her a sweetener pretending to be maple syrup, as humans from colder regions can taste falsity--it's something in the down, the fleece, the wool they have to wear. Alex Samets protects herself. Publish her work, if you want. Someone should.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Lindsay Hunter lives in Chicago, where she co-hosts the flash fiction reading series, Quickies! Her collection of stories, Daddy's, is out now from featherproof books. Find her at lindsayhunter.com.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
No news today is how I make my coffee. No news today is how I fuck in the morning. (No news.) No news today is what I say to the dolphin parading down the side of the street. To the fucking dolphin I say, “No news today” and “You need a fucking permit to parade.” No news is how I make my lunch. No news is how I smear on the mayonnaise (mayonnaise). No news is the music playing in my head, and I’m not too happy about it.
Other news in No News Daily: Zilch.
Nadxieli Nieto Hall is a writer and visual artist. She is the co-author of Carteles Contra Una Guerra (Gustavo Gili, 2004), and the former editor of Salt Hill Journal. Her work has most recently appeared in New York Tyrant.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
I call for the appetite, the destruction of all.
I don’t want to know what we have in each other; we are animals.
Someone threw a man face down in a lime pit today and no one seems to care
And later, somewhere down Kumquat Lane, a forgotten kid
Will pull off a round in an old oak tree
Producing funeral processions of Spanish moss
Hanging death and the spooky mortality of insects.
But we don’t care about moss.
We are humans whining ourselves back to life
And songs we haven’t written haunt us
And one day, we will all be tortured
With want of more and the constant crow
Of people that can’t see beyond their own suffering.
But then, there is always a superhuman road to God that binds us
Young with dust and round in fear.
Just to put it in context, a toothless suicide is always
Across the hallway from your mother’s apartment.
Drinking turpentine, compiling the world around him.
Maybe he stopped using his toilet, used bags.
And one day that’s it. No mystery.
Just the living and the dead.
And we go on and even when we can’t as Beckett said.
We go on itching the grid with our whiskey-sharp perfume.
We live for hands and eyes
We are the webbed parts that gather in words
We are connected like the far hues of sun and sky
The rapture of all those exiting the swell of cloth and moon.
The notes we play together, the notes we first sing
When half-awake, the terribly rough suckling of a babe at tit
The fire-black broken heart of desire surviving another dayEyes pressed to the ear’s never-ending grass.
Laura Minor lives in Brooklyn as a poet, professor, and singer/songwriter. Her work has most recently appeared in Sixers Review, Lungfull, JMWW: A Journal of Quarterly Writing, and Mantis. She has released two critically acclaimed records, "Salesman's Girl" for Hightone Records (2002) and "Let Evening Come," (Ocean of Sound Recordings, 2009). Her second solo record is forthcoming spring 2011 on Ocean Sound Recordings. She is currently finishing her first manuscript of poems.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Brandon Hobson's fiction has appeared in NOON, New York Tyrant, Narrative Magazine, and elsewhere. His book, The Levitationist, is available at Ravenna Press.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
No good news is welcome to me.
Bad news is also hell come to me.
CHEERLEADERS (Same time as students)
Rah! Rah! Rah! Rah! Rah! Rah! Rah! Rah!
Rah! Rah! Rah! Rah! Rah! Rah! Rah!
The no news is first the bemusement of Achilles and then the happy family - either way, nothing to write home about. But Achilles wasn't the first guy to blow a gasket and he won't be the last. And Anna Karenina's broken aristocratic-hearted suicide wasn't exactly news, no more or less than Emma Bovary's bourgeois version of same. The no news is the best of times that is not also the worst of times. The nowcast is that I am an invisible woman, and that Mother just keeps on hacking. One day maybe she'll die and an Arab will get shot on the beach.
Meanwhile, Rupert, tell me something the Arabs and Mother and the other invisible women and I haven't known since the origin of the family, private property, and the state. Rah! Rah!
If only Generalissimo Francisco Franco had died and were still dead.
Alexandra Chasin is the author of Kissed By(FC2). Her work has appeared in Agni, Chain, Post Road, Denver Quarterly, Exquisite Corpse, and various cetera. She is the co-chair of Literary Studies of Eugene Lang College, The New School
Friday, September 10, 2010
Ken Baumann is. For more information, see kenbaumann.com
Monday, September 6, 2010
There is yeah no news today again
America's been rubbing my hurt apart with its special evenings
Do you want to come over and let's go shirt shopping
I feel like I could start soon to look good
Handwiches and wandwiches, Robert
What do you think of peace
I think it's a bunch of serious malarkey, and that's coming from a guy who's never been to Costco
I'd drink some snatch but there's no geese
I'd have a special day all alone here but the woman through the wall won't look me in the eye
I don't really have an eye
Fuckin shit Rob I'm starting to like how beer sounds now
When I was 19 I would have punched me today in the O
Fuck it, I'm coming up where you are
Go ahead start saying the line from the movie we both like now
Dogs are really something dude
Blake Butler sells shirts to the blind.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Where’s is that pointy thing that you hold over your head with ducks on it? Under the couch? Did I beat the postman with it? There—all splintery. We must’ve had quite a conversation. It must’ve been about Susan Daitch’s terrific post, about the zookeeper whose father (?) lets him keep a polar bear around the house and that makes him sensitive to animals in cages and there is this revolution in zoos. Talk about animal writes! Just like I was saying to the postman, do you think that my dog isn’t writing all over town, lifting his leg? Freedom of expression. Expressing freedom. Like my beau who spelled out my name that way in the snow. You don’t need Hallmark. He was an animal. And so was the postman, leaning in with beery breath to tell me I have to do something about my dog who had written on his pantleg a sort of cheery note Hello. I am sensitive to all kinds of writes is what I told him, and maybe a revolution is coming, especially in spelling. Lady! he said—I remember it clearly now because I haven’t been called Lady since I was a Little Lady—and he shook his pantleg and took a step into my house. That’s when the umbrella took a beating. How it looks like writing is going to fall out of the sky all afternoon.
Terese Svoboda's fifth book of prose, Pirate Talk or Mermalade, will be published in September a few days before Talk Like a Pirate Day.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
(The Baptists Were Right, and Now I’m Dead and Everybody’s Watching the 16mm Film of My Life)
4,987,524,129 films have preceded mine.
Who knew eternity would be spent watching so many hours of sleeping?
There are not very many ways to have sex, but I have availed myself of so few of them, anyway.
The Lord is slumping so sadly in the Bemis seat.
Jaylynn perks up everytime she has a scene, like you would have expected.
The lesson of the afterlife films: Everyone’s adulthood preoccupation is the people they wanted to please who are now dead or soon will be dead.
I always worried what Mrs. Keneally would think of me when she saw me masturbating, but now I know about that thing with her and the stuffed chicken.
Kyle Minor (www.kyleminor.com) is the author of In the Devil's Territory, a collection of stories and novellas.
Monday, August 23, 2010
The idea that there is no news reminds me of the book I just finished, called Marking Time. Throughout the book, the characters, whose lives are greatly disrupted by WWII, think of themselves as just marking time. This is in part because many of the characters are adolescents- between childhood and adulthood—and have very little power to do what they want to do, but are not young enough to not want to do more grown up things. So they are marking time- waiting- until they will be grown up enough to do what they want to do. But in many ways, everyone, including the adults in the book, is waiting for the war to end, so they are all marking time, waiting for the news to be good, so in that way, all the bad news isn’t news, because the only news they want, the only news that will free them from feeling as though they are marking time, is the news that the war is over. Sadly, at the end of the book, there is no news then, no news that will free these poor characters that is, no news that matters, as Japan has just bombed Pearl Harbor.
Paula Bomer is the author of the forthcoming short story collection, Baby And Other Stories (Word Riot Press, 2010). Her fiction has appeared in Open City, Fiction, The New York Tyrant, The Mississippi Review and elsewhere. She's the co-publisher at Artistically Declined Press and the supervising editor of the literary journal, Sententia. Find out more at http://www.paulabomer.com/.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Donald Breckenridge is the Fiction Editor of The Brooklyn Rail, Editor of The Brooklyn Rail Fiction Anthology (Hanging Loose Press, 2006) and co-editor of the Intranslation web site. In addition, he is the author of more than a dozen plays as well as the novella Rockaway Wherein (Red Dust, 1998), the novels 6/2/95 (Spuyten Duyvil, 2002) and You Are Here (Starcherone 2009). His novel This Young Girl Passing is forthcoming from Unbearable Books/Autonomedia.
Monday, August 16, 2010
True story: When I was twenty I was sent to see about a dead woman on some railroad tracks. I’d only been at the newspaper a few weeks. I drove out to an industrial area between downtown and the suburbs, my wire-bound reporter’s notebook jutting from my back pocket. The intersection with the railroad crossing was cordoned off, traffic was stopped. The woman’s body was between the rails, under one of the cars of the train, except for a bruised leg, which was draped over the tracks. Some firefighters had laid a body bag next to the tracks, and as I watched, they counted to three and then lifted the woman off the tracks. That’s when her back gave out, like an old grain sack, and she sort of … dissolved into the bag.
All afternoon, I interviewed people about what had happened. Drivers had seen the woman pacing by the tracks for at least an hour, as if she was waiting for a train. She let one train pass. The engineer of the second train saw the woman pacing and thought: Oh no, don’t do it. Because you can’t stop a train, he said over and over. Not like a car. Right before she stepped in front of the train, the woman looked up and made eye contact with the engineer.
It turned out the woman lived in a little house near the tracks. She crossed that intersection nearly every day to walk to a grocery store, where she bought food for her husband, who couldn’t work because of a bad back, and her son, who was developmentally disabled. There was a fabric store next to the grocery store and after shopping, the woman went into the fabric store sometimes but she never bought anything. She just fingered the bolts of fabric and then left. However, on this day, on the day she waited for an hour to step in front of a train, the woman bought several yards of material. No one asked what she was making. The fabric was in a bag next to the tracks.
Back at the newspaper, I organized my notes, imagining I was writing a small but vital story—tragic, ordinary, inexplicable. I planned to write it matter-of-factly, to avoid making judgments and connections. My editor came over and I told him what I was working on.
He said, Forget it. We don’t do suicides.
Why not, I asked.
He said, because it’s not news. I just stared at him.
Look, he said, people who commit suicide want desperately to share their misery with the world. If newspapers published the morbid details of suicides, it would just make other people want to kill themselves, too, to share their misery with the world.
Looking back, I think it was probably a good rule. But it seemed kind of insane to me at the time: we don’t do suicides. Later I became a novelist. Misery is big news for a novelist; for a good suicide, we’d stop the fucking presses.Jess Walter is the author of five novels, most recently 'The Financial Lives of the Poets.' He won the Edgar Allan Poe Award for best novel in 2005 and was a National Book Award finalist in 2006.
Friday, August 13, 2010
The no news today is that two boys played near an open well
deep in the ocean and none of them fell in. The no news
today is that there was no explosion. The no news today is
that instead of falling in, these two boys fell up and
broke their heads on the sky. The no news today is how
it hurt, the clouds coming slowly down and spilling, the
land a mess of white in the shape of all these animals.
J. A. Tyler is the author of eight books including the
recent INCONCEIVABLE WILSON (Scrambler Books, 2009) and the
forthcoming A MAN OF GLASS & ALL THE WAYS WE HAVE FAILED
(Fugue State Press, 2011).He is also founding editor of
Mud Luscious Press.Visit: www.mudlusciouspress.com.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Lucy Corin is the author of the novel Everyday Psychokillers: A History for Girls (FC2) and the short story collection The Entire Predicament (Tin House Books). She's working on a novel and an assemblage of 100 apocalypse stories, currently strewn about the web.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Monday, August 9, 2010
The beard’s not working for Leonardo.
Ellen Page annoys me. I hated Juno. And Smart People.
Hey, Leonardo is driving a Hyundai Genesis. No one’s dream car is a Hyundai Genesis.
Shouldn’t Leonardo’s wife be standing on the ledge of their hotel instead of the one across the street?
I must be deep in my own subconscious, because these two and a half hours feel like two and a half years.
Did Tony get whacked? Oh wait; wrong black out ending.
That was the worst Batman film ever.
Christopher Kennedy's fourth book, a collection of prose poems, Ennui Prophet, is due from BOA Editions, Ltd. in 2011. He is an associate professor of English at Syracuse University where he directs the MFA Program in Creative Writing.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Susan Daitch is the author of two novels, L.C.(Lannan Foundation Selection and NEA Heritage Award, The Colorist, and a collection of short stories, Storytown. Her work has appeared in Tinhouse, Conjunctions, Guernica, Bomb, Ploughshares, failbetter.com, McSweeney's, The Pushcart Prize Anthology, and The Norton Anthology of Postmodern American Fiction and elsewhere. Her work was featured in The Review of Contemporary Fiction along with William Vollman and David Foster Wallace. Her fourth novel, The Dreyfus Book, will be published by City Lights in Spring, 2011.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
We’d mosey out to the porch and look across the fields—the fresh cut alfalfa, the stream, the old oak tree—all the same old same old we knew so well. That stray tabby had given birth to a new litter; they were hobbling around now, their eyes still half glued shut. We’d feel just the same as we had the day before, and the day before that, and last year and so on. But different too, a little less sure of whether to believe the story of the land sloping out before us or those tales that had floated in from the capital, a bit more resentful about being told, so long after the fact, what was real and what wasn’t. Like we didn’t have eyes. Like we couldn’t see for ourselves.
Storms were brewing in the sky, tornado season was on its way again.
Joshua Furst is the author of The Sabotage Cafe and Short People. His work has been published in the Chicago Tribune, Conjunctions, the New York Tyrant and Esquire, among other periodicals.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Shane Jones lives in New York. He's the author of several books and chapbooks. He blogs and updates things at www.shane-jones.com
Friday, July 30, 2010
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Dawn Raffel's most recent book is Further Adventures in the Restless Universe.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Someone solved a crossword puzzle in two minutes flat today. Granted, it’s Monday, which makes the daily crossword easier. One is forced to wonder if this person could finish a Thursday or Friday crossword with such efficiency.
A careful inspection of the completed puzzle, however, revealed most of the words were incorrect. Although the letters reclined into the open white squares with graciousness and the words these letters juxtaposed to create were indeed real words that fit within the parameters of the clues, they were not the puzzle-maker’s intended words. As such, this person who solved this crossword puzzle in two minutes flat elided even the puzzle-maker.
Lily Hoang is the author of the novels, THE EVOLUTIONARY REVOLUTION, CHANGING (recipient of a 2009 PEN/Beyond Margins Award), and PARABOLA, (winner of the 2006 ChiasmusPress Un-Doing the Novel Contest).
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Michael Kimball’s third novel, DEAR EVERYBODY (which The Believer calls “a curatorial masterpiece”), is now out in paperback. His work has been on NPR’s All Things Considered and in Vice, as well as The Guardian, Unsaid, and New York Tyrant. He is also responsible for Michael Kimball Writes Your Life Story (on a postcard), I WILL SMASH YOU, 60 WRITERS/60 PLACES, and the 510 Readings.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
But then again, who am I to play the Old Curmudgeon? To sit and cry crocodile tears for a former cutting edge turned to taffy? Who’s more willing than I to kill first Happy Hour and then dinner and then as long as it takes in a well-stocked wine bar, gabbing across a scrumptious sampler plate while Dexter Gordon’s Ballads cycle through on shuffle? Yes, the pesto bruschetta, please, with parmesan. And now seems a good time for that Falanghina, yes. And — indulge me here, oh, indulge me — do you have Miles and Cannonball doing “Autumn Leaves?”
The Emerging Writers Network called John Domini's novels from '07 and '08, Earthquake I.D. and A Tomb on the Periphery, "back-to-back stunners." Tomb on the Periphery also made the '09 short list at the London Book Festival for "the best of international publishing," and Earthquake I.D., in Italian translation, was runner-up for the Domenico Rea prize. He extends a warm and wine-rich welcome to anyone stopping by Des Moines.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
2. Then the news will come that there is no news and we'll pocket it and wait.
3,4,5 & 6. And I'll have the thicker skin on the soles of my feet, and she'll have the same patch of grass in the same park except now the grass is thinning out, in the same way it always does.
7a. And we will all have it
7b. and have had it
7c. and then have it again.
Catherine Lacey is opening a Bed and Breakfast in Brooklyn this summer and yes, your folks should stay here when they come visit in the fall. Also she writes for a variety of outlets and is trying to sell a book. www.catherinelacey.com
Monday, July 19, 2010
Paul Agostino is in the Whiffle Ball Hall of Fame in Holbrook, NY.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Sasha Fletcher's novella WHEN ALL OUR DAYS ARE NUMBERED MARCHING BANDS WILL FILL THE STREETS AND WE WILL NOT HEAR THEM BECAUSE WE WILL BE UPSTAIRS IN THE CLOUDS is out now from ml press. He too lives in Brooklyn.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Molly Gaudry is the author of the verse novel We Take Me Apart (Mud Luscious, 2009) and the editor of Tell: An Anthology of Expository Narrative (Flatmancrooked, 2010). She is Googleable.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Paul Agostino is a writer living in New York. r living in New York.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Monday, June 21, 2010
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Sunday, May 30, 2010
This was big news in 1954 and it still is now. Such is the news of the day.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Perhaps this isn't news to anyone. Perhaps the people of Michigan have known this for years. Perhaps they don't spread this particular news because they want someone to come and rescue them. Or else they want others to experience it for themselves. Either way, this is why Michigan is kept in Michigan.