Wednesday, September 09, 2009

lit shiz...

my new chap Death Is My Subject, the next Pocket Protector book from Propaganda Press is almost ready to roll. it will be available in a "Deluxe" edition, as well as the regular chap, and it will feature the PP chap with its black cardstock cover and black lettering, a bonus 1/8 size chap with poems not in the regular edition, a color broadside on cardstock, signed by yours truly, and a limited edition laminated bookmark with black tassel and bead, all wrapped in black paper and bound with a black ribbon. I think the "Deluxe" edition runs around six bucks and the regular is around three (plus shipping). I'll post an exact link when the book is finished. thanks much to Leah for such a stunning job on a great little book.

still don't know enough about Hosh and I? still haven't read Sunlight at Midnight, Darkness at Noon? then head over to PoetHound and check out a new interview: H E R E.

also, I am a Hunter S. Thompson ripoff, not Bukowski, just FYI, Paul. I can't say who Hosh is ripping off.

outside the last grasses of the summer are being slaughtered by suburban madmen and the whine of their gas powered killing machines smokes thru the early afternoon air. dogs howl. the sun bakes. thank god winter lurks somewhere over the sweating horizon. we can hold out until sundown, I think. then there will be some manner of reckoning...


Blogger H. said...

Janet Evanovich...& apparently quite well, as no one has yet caught on!

7:22 PM  
Blogger christopher cunningham said...

I figured as much, but didn't want to spill the beans.

gotta rip somebody off, I guess.

12:28 AM  
Blogger Father Luke said...

Our literature is rich with Southern
Writers, and not just the good Doctor. . .

Faulkner. . .
Harper Lee . . .
Cormac McCarthy . . .
John Berendt . . .

There is a rhyme I don't like with:

Doctor / Faulkner

. . . but the layout is so pretty, like
honeysuckle vines wrapping ever upward.

Not everyone wants to limit a sentence
to one thought like Papa Hemingway used
to do, and was taught to do with his
newspaper background, unlike the
languid tales, which unwind like a
ball of yarn at a kitten's pouncing, as
our southern writers are want to do.

Write on, Southern boy, into the rich,
dark cavern of the indestructible
vastness, which is the night, and when
the rest of them wither from the day
like gardenias in the hot sun, leaving
only their smell.

Or, full face fucking forward, dude.
I mean, if that helps.

; o )

- -
Father Luke

1:53 AM  
Blogger Father Luke said...

Just read the article.

What'a windbag.

- -
Blythely stating the obvious since 1959,
Father Luke

5:42 AM  

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