Main Street Rag Publishing Company has decided to publish my book Carrying Bodies. It’s due to be released in October and will sell for $12, but you can get it now for $6.50 by placing an advance discount order at the MSR Online Bookstore.
You can see samples from the book on the author’s page. Also, here’s a piece that’s not in the book, but appeared in American Chordata a few years ago.
It
The Last time you heard Ann Sothern sing “The Last Time I saw Paris,” flowers glinting on her earlobes and her veil, made of and for the silver screen, saddened you. The closest you’ll come to the City of Lights is the single postcard from a college kid wafting like summer wind through your factory thirty years ago. It was the morning you woke and thought Everyone longs to be the gypsy bride or the rogue who carries her off. It was sitting on the patio, snapping beans. A jet moved silently across the sky and you absolutely could not say why that silence woke your dormant widowhood. The clever boy at your feet, so clever you couldn’t help worrying, suggested it was because, in spite of the quiet, you knew the jet was roaring. It was reading Huck Finn and laughing helplessly. Reading Aristotle and laughing, but that was probably mostly the grass. There in the stacks more ruled by hush than sanctuaries, laughing, not haughtily but as a governess laughs at her willful charge. It was standing with your wife of fifty years, looking into the canyon, thinking time is doing the same to us only we are more easily sculpted. It was the last time you saw Back Creek. The sons of the same old men chawed outside the general store and your son-in-law tried, in vain you knew, to capture them on his video-cam. It was the first night we slept here. Our things hadn’t arrived yet. The bare floors held a thrill of welcome we were bound to efface. It was your garrulous but not usually eloquent parent announcing it’s a privilege to be your mother. It was the first voice you heard as you recovered from anesthesia: the mourning dove’s query, the embarrassed cough, campground dulcimers, an irrepressible bottom smack, air struggling to escape crêpe paper threaded through spokes.
Main Street Rag Publishing Company has decided to publish my book Carrying Bodies. It’s due to be released in October and will sell for $12, but you can get it now for $6.50 by placing an advance discount order at the MSR Online Bookstore.
Here’s a link directly to my author’s page:
http://mainstreetragbookstore.com/pro...
You can see samples from the book on the author’s page. Also, here’s a piece that’s not in the book, but appeared in American Chordata a few years ago.
It
The Last time you heard Ann Sothern sing
“The Last Time I saw Paris,” flowers glinting
on her earlobes and her veil, made of and for
the silver screen, saddened you. The closest
you’ll come to the City of Lights is the single
postcard from a college kid wafting like
summer wind through your factory thirty years
ago. It was the morning you woke and thought
Everyone longs to be the gypsy bride or the
rogue who carries her off. It was sitting on
the patio, snapping beans. A jet moved silently
across the sky and you absolutely could not
say why that silence woke your dormant
widowhood. The clever boy at your feet, so
clever you couldn’t help worrying, suggested
it was because, in spite of the quiet, you knew
the jet was roaring. It was reading Huck Finn and
laughing helplessly. Reading Aristotle and
laughing, but that was probably mostly the
grass. There in the stacks more ruled by hush
than sanctuaries, laughing, not haughtily
but as a governess laughs at her willful charge.
It was standing with your wife of fifty years,
looking into the canyon, thinking time is
doing the same to us only we are more easily
sculpted. It was the last time you saw Back Creek.
The sons of the same old men chawed outside
the general store and your son-in-law tried, in
vain you knew, to capture them on his video-cam.
It was the first night we slept here. Our things
hadn’t arrived yet. The bare floors held a thrill
of welcome we were bound to efface. It was
your garrulous but not usually eloquent parent
announcing it’s a privilege to be your mother.
It was the first voice you heard as you recovered
from anesthesia: the mourning dove’s query, the
embarrassed cough, campground dulcimers,
an irrepressible bottom smack, air struggling to
escape crêpe paper threaded through spokes.