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Written as a daily practice from March of 2000 to July of 2001, REAL has a meditative intensity as it gives both the spectacular and the ordinary moments of daily life an equal attention. This is a deep, long poem, not for those addicted to the surface pleasures of the quick cut. Each section is seventeen lines and certain themes return again and again - the ocean, relations between men and women, small animals such as cats and owls, lemon yel...

I, John De Conqueror, is a much needed examination of how the word, the pen, and the body when possessed by Black men can be used to illuminate the horrors of racism and whiteness, and the tribulations of humanity's loss. This is a book well worth the intellectual and spiritual journey each page takes the reader through.

When Harold Ratner's former girlfriend and stand-up comedy protégé Justine returns to their tropical island from a mysterious absence his fascination with her is rekindled. But she is associating with a group of strange, very tall and very good-looking "Insiders" who are intent on forcing everyone off the island so they can "repristinate" it back to its original Edenic splendor.

Reagan, Nixon, and Goldwater, but the presence of these ghosts transports Allardice's novel into a literary netherworld that is always captivating and every once in a while genuinely spooky. This tale of a young artist lost in the woods of America's political subconscious is above all a pleasure to read, at times recalling satirists like Vonnegut and Heller while staking out entirely new territory.

A combination of memoir, cultural critique, and manifesto, Weird Girls traces the art monster-the writer, often coded monstrous and male, single-mindedly dedicated to the work-from ancient myth to modern literature and pop culture to ask: what happens when the art monster is a woman and/or mother? And what's the connection between creativity and monstrosity? Told in brief, thoughtful, drolly charming chapters, Weird Girls offers a groundbreaki...

Robertson's intriguing new volume of delightful and challenging thoughts and memories speaks to one's singular heart. Darting from the cauldron of COVID to the secret world of nature and animals, on to issues of #BLM and through the essence of language and thought, she captures our imagination.

Like Samuel Beckett, McGonigle observes what might be full is empty and what appears to be empty may, in fact, be full. In this collage of verbal snapshots (where remembering becomes forgetting and the attempt to forget becomes obsessive frustration), we wander through the byways of Bulgaria and America during the forty days via the Orthodox aerial toll booths until the soul is judged. Absurdity becomes sanity and vice versa.

Poetry is an enrapturing process that intensifies the discovery of experience and only what arises out of this urgency produces utterance that is distinctive and honest. Here in these sinewy acts shine the mobilities of praise, the delight in the body's beauty and its surprises, the wonder of beholding energy and love.

The End of the World Came to My Neighborhood is a collection of poems invaluable in confidences, a wagon loaded with revealed secrets. Báez has honed a talent for turning conversant language into fiery rhetoric, a mix of cool observations, pop-cultural connoisseurship, and crackling street smarts.

A book of contemplation. Hung up between coming and going. Caught lingering, thinking it through. Synapses firing. Heavy to ponder, "architects in eternity / have weighted the dice darkly".

Meghan Lamb's Coward is an astonishing, jagged work. Channeling the oozing repetition of Swans, Lamb takes apart the bildungsroman in a form so visceral and jewel-like, you lose your breath. This work of transgressive genius, riddled with sex and fire and zombie love, is thrilling to behold.

Far more than a medical mystery, The Claw of the Magnolia erupts as a gothic tale of ghosts and lost manuscripts, madness and disease, and a cast of distinctive characters linked across time and place. With a phantastic imagination tempered by fascinating research, author Pedram Navab once again creates a dizzying world of spiritual mist, physical matter, and psychological horror. Diabolically entertaining

Even though David Miller's stories are full of conscious, indeed self-conscious choices, the writer himself is completely unselfconscious, at least to the extent that he doesn't give a brass monkey what the enemy thinks. He is being himself. His discourse is natural to him, musician and writer. His tone of voice is cool, the unexpected turns in the plot, the apparently false then righted moves, are redolent of improvisations familiar from free...

In 2010 Susanne Jorn published her 2nd minimalist chief work after Epigrams, the insisting matter-of-fact titled collection Andalusian Snapshots in November, which precisely is, what it is, and there's obviously nothing else to say: It is the landscape itself, that insists on that radical simplicity.

Cirrus Stratus tells the mythic story of love and rage and how a once prominent family deteriorated while living in the pangful city of Dormier. Misguided by desire, every turn spins itself frustratingly into a quagmire. Both love story as well as family saga-where memories collide amidst destruction-the novel journeys into human spirit through the tinted glass of a tainted, yet magical, realism.

The textual and textural weave of Spiritual Letters is quite unlike anything else published in English poetry this century. Forget concepts: it really needs reading. The poems are limestone, full of fossil patterns seemingly randomly distributed, but linked by an evolutionary poetic.

The new literary novel Rare Stuff takes readers on a multilayered, mysterious journey through a series of interlocking clues. An intriguing search for a missing person moves through real and magically real universes in New York, Chicago, and glass houses under the sea constructed by Yiddish-speaking whales desperate to save our endangered planet. The unusual story touches on grief, love, and precarity leavened with hope.

Porgy and Bess is both artfully daring and morally engaging, a wonderful instance of "passionate virtuosity." Here, the detective novel's obsession with the grounded rationality of evidence floats away through voices that hang gloomily together, a whole of irresolvable parts. Porgy and Bess is both the death of the detective novel and its beautiful rebirth.

What shapes of wildness and fecundity does a woman cultivate in the plot of world available to her? What home does she un/ravel for herself in the overlooked places of the house? In Comfort, Sarah Heady dares to uncover a poetics of domesticity that is vibrant with sensuality, texture, and mystery-where the mundane life of details becomes a world pulsing with pleasures, dangers, and questions of embodiment and the deep interior.

In these days when most short fiction is so affected that it seems to move across the page like a vain actor across the stage, Watson's words give us something good and something real. In this his work is of rare value. No one who enters into it will emerge quite the same.