[REVIEW] The Boy in the Earth by Fuminori Nakamura

nakamura

Soho Press , 2017

REVIEWED BY GABINO IGLESIAS

Fuminori Nakamura is one of Japan’s most talented contemporary writers. Besides the critical acclaim and translations of his work into various languages, he was won a plethora of awards including the ?e Prize, Japan’s largest literary award, the David L. Goodis Award for Noir Fiction, and the Akutagawa Prize. Despite these accolades, the reasons to read his work are easy to explain: he approaches noir from a multiplicity of unique and seldom-explored angels and injects his dark narratives with a distinctive combination of ennui, melancholy, philosophy, and classic elements of crime fiction. In The Boy in the Earth, his latest novel to be translated and published by SoHo Press, Nakamura turns up the dial in terms of ennui and melancholy to construct a haunting story about a man whose death wish stems from unbelievable trauma.

The Boy in the Earth follows an awkward, disengaged unnamed narrator who drives a taxi around Tokyo for as living after quitting his sales job at a company that produces educational materials. The narrative kicks off with the man picking a fight with a group of motorcyclists and getting a beating for no other purpose than the beating itself. The idea that lead to the scuffle was just one of many the man has been having lately, and they point to a warped frame of mind. At home, he only interacts with Sayuko, a former work colleague. She tries to take care of him after the brawl and they end up in bed, but she is emotionless during their encounter. Later, the man receives information about his parents, who abandoned him 20 years earlier. His mother has died, but his father is still alive. That knowledge forces him to ponder the linger effects of his childhood and how different his life would have been if he had been nurtured. As the narrative movies forward, the man’s past is revealed, and the darkness it holds explains a lot about the nature of the man.

Nakamura always deconstructs violence and explores the relationship between human nature and brutality, both that which we inflict on ourselves and that which we inflict on others. The Boy in the Earth is not different, expect for the fact that the thirst for self-inflicted violence is a mystery to the narrator and reconnoitering the spaces where those thoughts are born and where his need for violence festers becomes a crucial elements of the narrative. This contemplative state begins early and is expressed well after the beating that opens the novel as the narrator thinks back to his childhood, a time in which he murdered lizards:

Grasping a lizard that had already lost its tail or an unsuspecting frog, I would thrust my arm through the fence and suddenly let go. This living thing would fall, and although it wasn’t dead yet, surely it would be a few seconds later. Watching this happen always evoked anxiety, but for some reason, I found solace in that anxiety. In the midst of my agitated emotions, I felt a clear awakening as nostalgia tinged with sweetness spread within me. When I did this, I would also be thinking about “them”—the ones who had tormented me. This habit was persistent in its cruelty; it was almost as if by what I was doing to those lizards now, I was validating what had been done to me in the past, as if I were exploring the true nature of it.

Coming in at 147 pages and with short chapters that make it a very fast read, The Boy in the Earth is one of Nakamura’s darkest, gloomiest, most emotionally draining books. The narrator suffered horribly as a child, and the result is a detached man for whom tedium is a way of life. In that regard, this is a narrative that pushes past all the boundaries usually associated with the genre to enter a unique, obsessive realm where violence, alienation, suffering, the impossible weight of memories, and self-loathing coexist in a maelstrom of pain, shattered innocence, and a very flimsy will to continue living.

Although Nakamura does many things well here, perhaps his greatest achievement in this novel is that it holds a giant secret until the end and reveals it only after showing how the putrid thing at the core of the story corrupted the soul of the protagonist. The writing is fast-paced from the star, but once the visions from the past start appearing in the third act, the lines demand to be read even faster because they reveal the kind of truth that’s simultaneously hard to look at and impossible to look away from:

Beyond the sound of the shovel digging of the earth and the beam of a flashlight feebly illuminating the darkness, I had a hazy vision of their expressions as they spoke hurried Lee to each other, their faces twitching as if they were frightened. I laid there, looking up at them asked, shovelful by shovel for, the earth was heaved on top of my small body.

The time to call Nakamura merely an outstanding thriller author or a very talented Japanese noir master is over; the man has demonstrated time and again, and does so again here, that he is one of the best crime novelist working today.

[REVIEW] Theia Mania by Dallas Athent

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REVIEWED BY CHRISTIAN NIEDAN
Words in a book are more useful than the sentences they spell out. They can make beautiful shapes and patterns on a page that greatly enhance the messages they convey. Set those printed shapes and patterns beside hand-drawn artwork that compliments them, and you get a dynamic home for great poetry. Such is the construction of Dallas Athent’s new 66-page poetic tome, Theia Mania, with illustrations by Maria Pavlovska, and book design by Eve Siegel.
The book’s launch event was recently held (April 30) at Pavlovska’s well-lit high-ceiling studio at Mana Contemporary in uptown Jersey City, New Jersey. There, visitors got a closer look at the original abstract sketches used for her art/poetry collaboration with Athent. Those buying the book online via the publisher, AntiSentiMental Society (an imprint of Off the Park Press), will find a short paragraph describing the sketches as “delicately scrawled thread-like drawings that seem to mimic the internal landscapes described and experienced in these poems.”  The original studio wall-hugging illustrations range from toweringly large to book-sized in scale — an appropriate setting for the event’s lineup of poetry-reciting authors, which included Athent, AntiSentiMental Society editor Ronna Lebo, Brooklyn writer and filmmaker Prospero Vega, PANK senior editor Chris Campanioni, and culture chronicler Anthony Haden-Guest. It was the title of Haden-Guest’s memoir about Studio 54 (The Last Party) that helped inspire the launch event’s title: “Theia Mania: The Last Book Launch on Earth.” Indeed, the theme of Athent’s poems echo Studio 54’s long-ago aspiration to host a mix of the sublime and the profane in one swirling space. Hence the the English translation of the book’s ancient Greek title: “divine madness.”
A clue to that aspiration is the oversized presence of thick black words “Degenerate Deity” on page one. Flip a few leaves, and page 5 holds perhaps the most succinct poetic expression of that enigmatic opener:
i am a venus rising.
a venus rising
from the rain fell
to the gutter.
i pick pennies off
the ground
and buy keebler 
wafers from the
deli.
here we call them
bodegas.
i am a scumbag
goddess.
The shapes of such paragraphs live on the book’s right-hand pages — with designer Eve Siegel intuitively moving and morphing word groups around the white space to mimic Pavlovska’s left-page illustrations. Only on page 58 do the words finally cross the spine to stand beside a slim vertical illustration that resembles a dark tower of smudged letters. Siegel situates the nearby poetry lines in similar tight paragraphs, including Athent’s mini-ode to English artist friend Natascha Young:
SO I go to England. Where I belong. I see
the gray and brick and towers of mirth and
gloom. I feel the powers of nations rolling on
history and the river Thames, bones washed
ashore and discarded. And I feel rich. Richer
than a Sulton. There are clocks that could
have paid for my college. There are canes
with marble bells for handles that only a
diplomat could be seen with. We’re so drunk,
Tascha and I. My spirit: Tascha. The mother
of this earth and then some: Tascha. Project
Venus: Tascha. We had all the wine in the
world. All the wine on the table. And then we
had cheese.
 
“those were dark days.”
“those were dark days.”
those were dark days,
we speak of Wolverhampton.
Yet, Theia Mania’s recurring flirtation with dark themes is not of the naval-gazing goth variety — rather, they revel in electric-lit cityscapes of buzzing shadows, where the liquor-infused nightlife drives a writhing kinetic energy that is intoxicating and addictive. Athent emphasizes her modern urban themes with a sprinkling of smartphone shorthand, the text-worthy symbols seeming like printed sisters to their spoken siblings:
 
Pictures of an Atlas
playing baseball with a
semi-automatic weapon and the ball = my <3
 
This is what it means to be Atlas
This is what it means to be Dallas
The divine madness of Theia Mania’s many poetic meanings are allowed to swirl and soar thanks to a very effectively-structured trio-collaboration between author, artist, and designer. The artwork by itself is resonant but abstract. The poems, powerful but shaped as sentences. Together, and jointly reshaped with every turned-over leaf, the resonance and power of the combined product jumps across the pages… and off of them.
Christian Niedan is a Brooklyn-based writer and editor. He is co-coordinator of Brooklyn events for literary nonprofit Nomadic Press.

[REVIEW] Bukowski in a Sundress: Confessions from a Writing Life by Kim Addonizio

addonizio

Penguin, 2016

REVIEWED BY JUSTIN HOLLIDAY

Kim Addonizio, known for her poetry, fiction, and writing guides, has published her first personal essay collection after two decades after writing. As she often does in her other work, she covers topics such as family, writing, drinking, and sex, but what makes this book so different is that it is truly “confessional” writing in the strongest sense of the word. While all of her writing is unvarnished, Bukowski in a Sundress is the barest truth of the persona Addonizio wants everyone to see.

Some of the essays are written in second person. Rather than feeling ersatz by ostensibly addressing the reader, these particular essays allow Addonizio to express insecurities and frustrations in a way that discusses personal experiences and shows the ways they may relate to others. In her essay “How to Succeed in Po Biz,” she provides a step-by-step guide of sorts for poets:

Feel anxious about the upcoming trip because you hate to travel. Feel anxious because you are basically a private person and can’t live up to the persona that is floating out there in the world acting tougher and braver than you. You are a writer, after all.

This rhetorical strategy is a way to explore the anxieties that many other writers feel. Other essays in the collection similarly meditate on the difficulty of writing itself, from procrastination to writing that appears “DOA” on the page. These essays reveal the possibilities, or perhaps the pitfalls, that even successful writers contend with.

Addonizio’s caustic sense of humor shines in the memoir as well as it does in her other work. From failed relationships to odd encounters in the Midwest, she considers nearly everything worthy of witty, often critical response. Even titles like “Necrophilia” and “Children of the Corn” are used to redefine readers’ connotations of such terms. For example, “Necrophilia” refers to loving the emotionally dead, those who appear alive but cannot reciprocate love. Further, she plays with clichés with other titles such as “Pants on Fire, ” an essay that acts as the ultimate confessional for any poet. Here, Addonizio reveals the “lies” in her poems, which are considered lies only because of the contentious space of poetry within the often-false literary binary between fiction and nonfiction. Amidst her “confessions,” she intersperses other truths she has learned as a writer: “I swear on a stack of Bibles that some men really will want ‘to fuck your poems.”’ Such claims not only express the humor and chagrin of Addonizio’s experiences, but also reflect the mentalities of readers.

The titular essay actually comes from criticism by a member of the National Book Critics Circle Award committee. When Addonizio was under consideration for the award, one critic dismissed her as “Charles Bukowski in a Sundress,” suggesting her writing was derivative, uncouth, and anti-literary. Regardless of Bukowski’s success, his work is often viewed as flouting “literary” standards, whatever the vaguely and sometimes arbitrarily defined standards may be. While the insult does anger Addonizio, she responds with analogies of her own:  “Frankly, I’d have preferred a different, though equally nuanced, characterization of my work—say, ‘Gerard Manley Hopkins in a bomber jacket,’ ‘Walt Whitman in a sparkly tutu,’ or possibly ‘Emily Dickinson with a strap-on.”’ As a poet and a woman, she strives to fight for self-definition, wanting her self-generated comparisons to reflect the creative and occasionally strange but always evocative elements she blends in her work.

Other essays tackle difficult topics that are harder to laugh at; however, Addonizio adeptly reports the seriousness while also trying to acknowledge the humor we can find in our own pain. Essays about her dying mother show tenderness toward her family, reflecting the balance of the woman who has also written about necrophilia, homemade pornography, and the importance of alcohol consumption elsewhere in the memoir. “Flu Shot” provides a look at what it is like for her to be the outsider daughter who rarely sees her mother because they live so far apart. When she writes about the ordeal of trying to get her mother to the pharmacy so that she can be inoculated, Addonizio reveals a struggle that so many families must deal with as parents age. And in this meditation on aging, Addonizio also confronts the emotionally distant relationship she and her mother, renowned tennis player Pauline Betz, have had in the past, finally making some sort of peace with it.

Whether writing about failed romantic relationships or familial conflicts, Addonizio evokes a clear idea of what her life has been like as a writer, a mother, a lover, and a daughter. Although she has reclaimed “Bukowski in a Sundress” as a wry moniker, she is more than that. Kim Addonizio is her own woman, and her writing has revealed that she stands nonpareil, though I would not blame her if she became “Emily Dickinson with a strap-on.”

[REVIEW] All that Glitters by Liza Treviño

all-that-glitters-coverKoehler Books , 2017

REVIEWED BY JONATHAN MARCANTONI

Alex is a survivor. This is both a simple statement about the main character of Liza Treviño’s debut novel, All that Glitters (Koehler Books), and a starting point for one of the most unexpected literary powerhouses to come out this year. Ms. Treviño does not just show us that Alex is a survivor, she also asks what circumstances lead her to being one? What does being a survivor mean to her? How does being a survivor help her, but more importantly, how does it hinder her? How does a person navigate through life when their biggest strength and biggest weakness are the same thing?

Asking such questions is what separates this book, a chronicle of a young South Texas woman seeking fame and fortune in Hollywood, from so-called “chick lit” and “beach reads” and makes it a literary tour-de-force. The structure of the story could have been a soap opera, as we meet Alex on the night that she becomes the first female and Latina to win both the Academy Awards for Best Director and Best Original Screenplay. The story is set in the 90s, which seems absurd at first, but later proves to be an asset. We see Alex in a limo with a man named Nick, who complements her night of glory by going down on her, a juxtaposition that appears to start the story within a feminine fantasy. Yet, Alex is miserable, anxious, and seemingly quite uncomfortable with this man who appears to be at her beck and call. There are some telling hints that this façade is not all that it seems, and without giving away too much, as the story backtracks to lead us back to this moment, we begin to see this scene in a new light, not as a moment of feminist triumph, but rather of a culmination of sexist power games and self-degradation, in which Alex is on the losing end.

The eighties/nineties time frame may seem like a strange place to set the novel, since racial progress in Hollywood was not a major issue at that time as it would be in the #OscarsSoWhite age, but the time period ends up illuminating a fascinating aspect about modern technology. Today, every offhand thing a person says online is kept in storage for use against them at a later time. How many times have scandals erupted over twenty year old quotes, after all? The fact is, Alex is a celebrity whose manner and behavior would be very hard to conceal in the Twitter/Facebook age. She has a personality that would incite a large number of trolls, although, given her personality, she would likely eat such people alive, she would nonetheless be a gossip magnet. While celebrity gossip has existed even before Hollywood (for some interesting research, look up 19th century gossip on theater actors; it is rather illuminating), the hyper-aware nature of social media would likely consume a person such as Alex, who is unapologetic about how she navigates the sexism of the Hollywood system. Aside from that, many of the relationships in the book hinge on the ability or inability to communicate. Treviño reminds those of us who lived during that time period just how difficult it could be to get a hold of a person, and how we take the instant gratification of our modern technology for granted. Yet this disconnect serves the story astonishingly well, adding tension to moments that nowadays would be resolved almost instantaneously, or adding to the loneliness of a particular character.

While Treviño places Alex and her friend Elly in many situations we have seen before—such as model parties turned sex parties, or directors taking advantage of female staff—her focus is always on further developing Alex’s personality. Alex is a character who, if she were a man, would be applauded for her ambition and confidence, but as a woman, is demonized. Treviño makes the smart decision to show that ambition itself is not Alex’s problem, but rather her need to survive at all costs is. She is a person who may need ambition and drive, but she also needs moral certitude and boundaries. One cannot maintain dignity if they are willing to compromise their deepest selves at a moment’s notice. The battle Alex wages is with herself—how can you be a powerful woman while maintaining your sovereignty and integrity? This is the question that haunts women of all professions. While Alex encounters and becomes the slave to misogynistic, hateful men, they are not as much the problem as her doubt in herself. That internal struggle is one that is too rarely explored, and Treviño pulls no punches in examining the dark side of femininity. Do not let the cover and promotional material for this book fool you, All that Glitters is a serious, complex, and stirring examination of the female soul that is uncompromising and unapologetic, much like its magnetic protagonist.

[REVIEW] The Yellow House by Chiwan Choi

yellowhouse

Civil Coping Mechanisms, 2017

REVIEWED BY GABINO IGLESIAS

Chiwan Choi’s The Yellow House is one of those rare poetry collections that simultaneously serves as a manifesto of Otherness, a heartfelt and brutally honest journal of the most crucial moments of the poet’s life, and a celebration of the feelings, moments, and places that great poetry can invoke even when the writing itself is rooted in earthy, memory-tinged simplicity. As if that wasn’t enough, the collection is also an enjoyable recounting of how Choi found himself; a surprisingly cinematic series of vignettes that present the reader with loss, love, desire, friendship, family, and the city of Los Angeles.

The Yellow House opens with a simple three-line declaration that manages to set the mood for the rest of the collection while also proving themselves contradictory:

i chose poetry
over honesty
then lived this unremarkable life.

On one hand, Choi lets us know that there was a point in the journey of his life where a decision had to be made, and poetry won. However, the second line attempts to extract honesty from the process, and the poems that follow it prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Choi’s writing is very personal and honest. Furthermore, the word unremarkable is the exact opposite of what’s presented in this collection; poems filled with the agonies of every coming-of-age tale, the magic of a childhood spent navigating different cultures, and nights spent in a massive, violent, strange city that tends to become part of those who spend enough time in it. After reading the book, coming back to those three lines is crucial because they reveal the playful man behind the poems and let us know that we were on a sad, humorous, carefully constructed trip from the very first page.

Choi’s style is a mixture of sincere sharing and words being used to deal with certain memories. However, more important than his approachable, enjoyable style is the vulnerability Choi brings to the page. From dealing with death to plucking pieces of life that were happening in 1980, Choi treats his subjects and his writing with the same openness, and that candor translates into beautiful poetry:

this is stupid and emotional
and not poetic at all,
but life is so weird and beautiful
and i can’t tell whether it’s slipping away
or if it’s drowning me.
i can’t get out of bed
and if there was skin next to me
i would bury all the feelings in it
to some 80s soundtrack
like a non-stop loop
of the best of the church.

There is a yellow house in The Yellow House, and its appearances are just one of the many elements of cohesion that make this a very complete collection. The other cohesive elements are love, loss, memory, dreams, the role of parents, and the equal importance of things said and things left unsaid. Ultimately, the beauty of The Yellow House is that is personal and universal, and that allows the reader to recognize Choi for what he is: a survivor who’s seen many things, a son, and a man concerned with recognizing the things that came before and made him who he is now:

on the porch
drinking barley tea so my legs won’t fail
(that’s what mother says)
and, for a moment,
looking at my hand.
it is still.
sometimes it shakes,
trembles.
sometimes it holds
tight
the world.

On the most basic level, The Yellow House works because it is, simply put, beautiful poetry. Devastatingly beautiful. However, for those who care about the details of the genre, Choi also demonstrates a unique understanding of the way blank space can affect his message as well as a sense of rhythm that gives his work a particular flavor. These last elements make this collection a must read for fans of language and poetry and a superb addition to the Civil Coping Mechanisms catalog, which already includes some of the best contemporary poetry collections: There Should be Flowers by Joshua Jennifer Espinoza, Lady Be Good by Lauren Hilger, and The Book of Endless Sleepovers by Henry Hoke, to name a few.

 

La Puta: a review of Plastic Vodka Bottle Sleepover by Mila Jaroniec

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Split Lip Press, 142 pages, $16

BY SAM FARAHMAND

vanity of vanities; all is vanity.

 

I came to Mexico to try to forget all about someone, which I now know I might’ve done the same on the other side of the border with the other half of a bottle of tequila, seeing the half I have left here and knowing all I might’ve done different there is say some of the same words but worse for lack of a bitterer word in a language I can pronounce all of the words right, but here the language means much more to me signifying nothing other than to show how I still feel about la puta.

It is my first time outside of America and my third day in Mexico after departing two days be­fore the inauguration from Los Angeles International Airport three quarters after one in Pacific Standard Time, arriving, after several hours hungover in Mexico City, a quarter before eleven in Central Standard Time in Mérida, Mérida being the capital city of the Mexican state of Yucatán in the northwest of the Yucatán peninsula several hours west of the beaches in Quintana Roo I am sure someday soon and maybe even before this trip is over where I’ll end up in Cancún, though for the time being I can’t cunt, but space being the best visualization for time we have for now, I needed to have some distance between the past and me.

Maybe I might’ve felt better if I had bought a bigger bottle, but I don’t like to drink tequila be­cause tequila is the sort of drink for people who don’t drink to drink, though I was told the tequila in the country is supposed to be cleaner than the water here, so if I don’t drink I might die. I don’t remember if it was an American or an alcoholic who told me that, one of the ones on their way to a beach where I am sure the sea there is the cliché they say it is with the sand and the sun the sort of sand and sun that would make one want to take a shot then shoot one of the locals, but they’re all tourists there.

Not that I’m not. I am rereading this review I rewrote from a second floor room in a hostel just south of the square in the center of Mérida, looking down at the couple of pages I had folded into quarters for being in my back pocket and blue around the edges from being in my back pocket as I sweated the blue from my jeans into the pages while staying up until the sun with strangers rub­bing the backs of their jeans on the front of my jeans. From here I hear the world has ended again and this time in America, looking up from the pages to see there is a bed and there is a bottle and there is a balcony I can stand on and see the center of the city and the cathedral and it is all alive, around it all of the carriages and cars driving in circles around the square full of the birds and the bums and it looks like one of those square parks in an America when an artist could afford to live and when love was just as clichéd as the time. Love is always as clichéd as time, but hindsight is me remembering how good her ass looks in black jeans.

 

When the conquistadors came they burned all the books but one, someone says to me somewhere where I’m not at the time because I am remembering I have ten nonconsecutive days of sobriety, not counting today, this new year. I know it doesn’t mean as much when I can’t cash in my chips because I am not on a roll, but it’s sort of the same as saying this is the forty-fifth when knowing there have only been forty-four with one who held two nonconsecutive terms, though for all our obsessiveness with counting the days and recounting, consecutive or nonconsecutive, there is no such thing as death in America.

Maybe death is why I am here, not because love is a kind of hatred, but because love is death in some syllogistic sense that every x is y is therefore the same as x is y is y. God is dead is dead and maybe I’m here because it seems like all our associations of south with down and down with death would make them much closer to death here, but then I’m disappointed that so far the only skulls I have seen have been covered in skin while the most they have shown of themselves is in their smiles.

It has been some time since I’ve smiled with my teeth, but then I think if i always came before e then the name of this city would translate to shit, which to me seems to be meaner than it seems meaningful, being here in Mérida rereading this review. I’m supposed to be here recording sound for the film my friend Santa Ana, a friend I’ve had for half of my life, is filming, maybe even act­ing in the film as a revolutionary but without any lines so I won’t have to remember anything, but we haven’t started shooting. I’m happy to not have to remember anything and I go back inside the room and I don’t know if it is the bottle or what is inside the bottle that is colored gold to make it look like urine, but I’ll still try to get rid of the same dream I’ve had for some time where I see la puta on the beach.

Santa Ana says we might pay a prostitute to play a prostitute in the film because it’ll be easier than finding someone else, so now I’m somewhere between Aguirre and Fitzcarraldo and maybe I am a revolutionary in some revolution I don’t remember in some dream, though I wonder if my likeness will be pressed into cloth. I didn’t bring my blue sweatshirt that reads El Camino Real in blue on a white background and Conquistadors in gold over a print of a conquistador on the front because it might’ve made me look like another tourist as far south in North America as he can af­ford to be in a Mexico standing in for a South America because Santa Ana couldn’t afford to take us down to the Amazon.

 

The tequila is down now to half a half of a bottle, which still feels more optimistic to me than the odds on a quarter, but soon I will be taking a bus down to a small town an hour outside of Mérida and only several hours away from where the world ended, on the way there the signs for Chichén Itzá and its pyramids and the signs for the crater at Chicxulub as if there might be one coming up for Xibalba, but after enough time, all any civilization leaves behind is its afterlife.

I don’t need to see the ruins or the crater to know they’re there. I know the crater is our creator as much as I know when the agave stopped being subsidized everyone in the towns started living off of showing the tourists the sinkholes fractured off from the crater buried under Chicxulub, the sinkholes they all call the sweetwater. The tourists swim in them, but I’ve been spending my time in a different sort of hole to water in because it’s a dollar for a score of pesos and a little less than forty for a forty with the cost of living here not much more than the cost of dying. All the houses here made of concrete and a lot of them painted on with signs for their savior and some verses he said, but I’d rather die than have someone else die for my sins. It’s my sins that give me the surest sense of who I am.

If not death, it’s God they’re closer to here. Maybe only because the sun is that much closer to the surface here, seeing the dogs straying on and off the sides of the roads and all of them coated in their diseases and sometimes so asleep in the sun I can’t tell if they’re dead. I don’t know what they did to deserve what they don’t, but at least they still have all their genitalia. Forgetfulness is forgiveness enough for me, but I’m afraid I’m losing some of my life here because they burn and they breathe in all of their trash during the day, though I have nothing of hers to burn but what is left in my head when I see a dog that looks like la puta lying down under a pair of white swing­ing saloon doors that makes everyone look like they have angel’s wings when they leave into the sunlight after they step over the dog still staring at me while I drink in this cantina several hours to the right of the middle of nowhere.

Every end, even a good end, is still an end. I see a fetus of a dog on the side of the road on the way back from the cantina and I hear a cock crow three times before the sun is up and soon I will be heading back to still another America to cross this country with some poet and I will likely be reading this review at one of these readings, if not another one of the essays I wrote that have this same short story in the middle, but here it is for the fourth time:

 

President’s Day

 

Happy hour ends in half an hour.

I’ll see you in half a half an hour then, I say but hold the tall can of Mexican beer to my mouth while I wait for her to come back and set down a red American Indian figurine on the bar for the buyback. It’s a good bar during happy hour because they give you two beers for one beer and it’s a good bar because the beers are cheap even when it isn’t happy hour.

The bartender is pregnant in a white dress and she looks like someone’s daughter who’s going to have to be someone’s mother. It must have been over half a year ago the last time I was in here and I saw her first, though if it weren’t for her being pregnant and all she would just look like any other bartender with rosy tattoos and long dark hair, but it must have been her tattoos or her hair or her being a bartender that got her pregnant. She tells me it’s, Five dollars.

Four Mexicans for five dollars.

What.

‘Cause it’s a tall can, so it has two cans worth in each can, then there’s another two on the way. I don’t know. I’m sorry, I just like this happy hour here.

If you like it so much, we have a midnight happy hour too.

When does that start, I ask but she just stares at me. I wonder if I want to wait here for another happy hour, even if The Library bar is the only good bar on the Lower East Side, though it’s nei­ther Lower nor Easter of me, but no one really lives in Manhattan. I mean, when does it end.

Are you not waiting for someone.

I don’t know.

What’s her name.

What’s your name.

Do you not know her name.

Do you wanna know my name.

You ask a lot of questions for someone who doesn’t know anything.

I laugh and the bar is quiet and I think I’ll get drunk enough to try to get her to drink with me, so I ask her what she thinks of my name.

I don’t know what your name is. It’s not like it’s embroidered on your shirt.

I don’t work in the sort of place where my name is embroidered on my shirt.

No one works anymore. At least, not today.

No one drinks today.

She says it like she’s going to turn to point at some sign, But whether they drink or not no one works for free.

Five dollars for four Mexicans, right. I hand her a ten dollar bill and say, Hamilton.

Hamilton. Your parents named you Hamilton. That’s too bad.

I laugh and tell her, No. I just find that I’m much less likely to spend all my money on alcohol if I call all the presidents by their names.

She tugs at the ends of the bill and asks me, Why don’t you call him Alexander.

I don’t wanna get too attached. I’m still an alcoholic.

She walks away with the Hamilton and goes to and opens the register then counts the change and closes it slowly with her hip and walks back to me and hands me the change and says, Here you go Hamilton.

These aren’t Hamiltons.

I’m calling you Hamilton.

Oh. So you’re not gonna ask me my name. You’re just gonna call me Hamilton then.

Well, your parents never did.

I raise the can to her and say, I still resent them for that.

Plus I don’t want to get too attached. I still have to serve alcoholics.

She smiles at me and I can see why she’s pregnant. I smile back as she turns to go to the other end of the bar and I can see why she’s a bartender. I drink as fast as I Mexican and keep drinking and I finish my drink so she has to come back and get me another drink. I leave a Washington on the counter with the Indian figurine and I look for her to come back, but she’s with someone else, so I just have to pick up and finger the figurine. I don’t know why his headdress is so large on his head or why they made him red.

They laugh at the other end of the bar and I look up for her to see me, which she does, but she sees me like she sees through me and she still takes her time coming back to my end.

I smile when she’s close and set the figurine down on the counter again.

You know, Ham, it hasn’t been half a half an hour yet.

You know Hamilton wasn’t a president either.

Are you telling me you’re not the president of these United States of America.

Well the president doesn’t have his name embroidered on his shirt.

He doesn’t work today either.

When does he.

I don’t know. He never comes in for happy hour. I guess I don’t know him as well as you do.

I guess I don’t know you as well as you do.

Another Mexican. She takes the figurine and comes back with another beer. Hamilton.

I guess I don’t know me as well as you do.

No one ever does.

I like talking to you. I know I don’t have a horse in this race. I can just talk to you.

Are you saying I have a horse of a face.

No, I mean it’s not like I have to ask you when you get off.

Are you not going to get me off.

Are you having fun with me.

You’re just trying to get me to say you’re fun.

Am I.

You really don’t know anything do you.

I don’t know much, but I do know I don’t not know anything.

Sure you don’t.

Can I have a lime for this one.

Sure. She picks a lime out of the limes and drops it on the mouth of the can. Will that be all.

I don’t know, I say forcing the lime into the can. Alexandra’s a good name, you know.

And Alexander’s a great one. But it’s not mine, so what’s that got to do with anything.

Your current predictament.

My current predictament is that it’s not mine.

It isn’t.

Well, it is. But I’m not keeping it.

That’s too bad.

Why’s that.

You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.

Everyone has their whole lives ahead of them. Well, not everyone. Not even you, Alexander.

Why not, Alexandra.

She smiles and she says, Happy hour ends in half a half an hour.

 

Plastic Vodka Bottle Sleepover

 

I am reading a copy of Plastic Vodka Bottle Sleepover while on my half a half an hour break in a break room in back of a bookstore in a strip mall that could be anywhere in Los Angeles but any­where else and where there isn’t enough time for me to go anywhere else to do anything else, but then again, all the sections in this book are short enough for me to read some of them whenever I have a break to read the only copy of this book to ever be in this bookstore.

It is the day after New Year’s Eve and might as well still be the night before when I smoked a Romeo y dos Julietas worth of cigar that don’t seem to be getting along with everything else still in my stomach while I am slurring through returning all the returns the customers have to return. The bookstore is one of those brick-and-mortar ones customers always become all fire-and-brim­stone about before they’re angry with me at the price of the bestsellers they decide to order online after leaving all their books at the register for me to reshelve. Dust doesn’t collect in alphabetical order, so I’m still not sure where all of the books should be reshelved, but the bookstore is doing well enough during the holidays for one of the assistant managers to tell me we might be able to be paid this year after all, though I am afraid I’m not selling enough to stay on after my seasonal employment and I am afraid I’m not smiling enough at every customer’s attempt to confront their death anxiety through capitalism.

I’m no stranger to that since I sold my soul to be the writer I am, but I still don’t know how to sell out, which I would if I could, so for a time being I have leased the pain in my spine from my back to my neck for ten dollars an hour in a hell that isn’t waiting in a line but waiting on a line. The hell in a well, you’re doing well, you’re not doing good. I am not doing well, but I am doing good enough good to customers as plastic as the plastic with which they pay, which must be why they become so angry with me when I have to charge them a dime for a paper bag, but they think they can smile through anything if their teeth are whitened enough. I tell them a tote bag we have for two dollars has on it the original cover art of This Side of Paradise. Most of them don’t know how to read, but their fingers are good for turning pages.

One of them asked me if I could bring her dog back from the dead, which made me smile that she could have asked for me to bring back anyone from the dead but only asked me to bring back her dog. She bought a book and I told her about our fourteen day return policy with a receipt for a full refund before I go to piss because I drink a lot of water to have to piss a lot to have to walk across the bookstore to the restroom to piss to have to wash my hands hard and try harder to stare at myself, though there isn’t a sign here that says employees must wash sins of the customer, but I know why I’m here as much as I know ignorance isn’t innocence.

Another one buying a copy of the Bible asked me if I believe in the word as he patted down a Bible he still hadn’t bought. I told him I believe in words, but he had nothing to say other than to pay for his copy of the Bible because all we have in common is consumerism is our communion. We even have our own pyramids to it here, though we seem to forget the point of the pyramid is to be buried under the pyramid, but on my last day before I leave for Mexico I realize I’ll have to make some means of getting money into my hands and holding onto it longer than turning it into change and handing it right back. I look at the change and remember there might even be a black face where there were only white skulls with powdered wigs on them before, but still it all looks green to me. We bend the truth over until it’s lying down like this line.

There is a section too long for me to read in the few minutes I have left, so I set the book back in my locker in the break room and sit down while I hold something else in my hand to stare at it so it doesn’t look strange that I’m sitting here and staring at nothing. I try to remember what I had read because I always thought that if you underline all the lines you like, you should cross out all the ones you don’t, so I only dogeared the pages I will come back to for the review, but all I think of as I try not to think is la puta.

 

Plastic Vodka Bottle Sleepover Part Two

 

Plastic Vodka Bottle Sleepover is a book about one of those unnamed narrators trying to get over a lost love à la La Maga from the book Hopscotch by the Latin American author of whom I don’t remember the name. The title Plastic Vodka Bottle Sleepover feels like it should have a hyphen put in there somewhere and a handful of consonants taken out, but then I remember the author of Plastic Vodka Bottle Sleepover is from the other half of the world where most of their words are almost all consonants and where consonants aren’t considered to be an autoerotic asphyxiation of language as much as a means to get the most out of their vowels when they say something.

I have always thought much more of the hyphen that comes before American than where the ______-American comes from because punctuation is like a simile, though the truth is you’re not an American if you weren’t born in America, but you’re even less of one if your father and moth­er were. Like love, the only thing we ever share is the past, but history is a mass hysteria. Maybe my memory is worse than I remembered because I remember there was more Polish than there is here, but here is all of the Polish in Plastic Vodka Bottle Sleepover with the page numbers for the pages on which the Polish is:

 

           Musimy jakos zyc, czy istniejemy czy nie

  1. 16

            dinozaura, prosze

  1. 21

            Przygody Dobrego Wojaka Szwejka.

  1. 85

            Wszystko Twoje

  1. 100

           Trzeba sobie jakos radzic, powiedzial baca, zawiazujac buta dzdzownica

  1. 115

            barszcz

  1. 118

            uszka

  1. 118

            pierogi

  1. 118

            Trzymaj sie, siostra

  1. 124

            Nareszcie

  1. 124

 

Writing a review is like the difference between underlining a line and writing, seeing as a review is only written for the writer and the only reason I’m writing this review is because I will know at least one person will, whether or not they underline lines, read this, but then again, there are a lot of lines about an American Dream in Plastic Vodka Bottle Sleepover worth underlining and there are a lot of addresses to you as a reader and in some of the shorter italicized sections to you as an unnamed character, but as you reads through the book the same as I travels through time, Plastic Vodka Bottle Sleepover being as deictic as it is, whatever that is, you realize like in life how your you‘s start to get used and your I‘s get used to it as they do the meaninglessness of me.

But we make sense of things through things though things because we are all merely stand-ins for someone else, if not stand-ins for something that came before all this and if not for something to come after, friend being the worst f word there is as far as any mot just concerns me, but it’s all the same. Something, as in, anything, is a lot closer to everything than it is nothing.

I should rewrite this review after I realize all of the art of today is the art of the art of, though for the time being the most common quality of writing that makes me less likely to read it is if it is published. It makes me think this all might’ve ended up instead of down if I were some sort of successful author, as if selling a bestseller would make a bookstar of me, but like being loved for who we’re with, don’t we all want to be loved for who we’re not. I was always afraid the only Na­tional Endowment for the Arts I’d ever have my hands on is my cock.

I reread this review and I realize I’d forgot how much of ourselves we have to forget when we try to forget someone else, but in my head all I hear is the same old same All hail, Might’ve, thou shalt be king hereafter. I ask the author to read this review before I send it out to be rejected, but then the author tells me she thinks it reads like la puta is referring to her, which makes me smile that she might’ve thought this review is about her, though maybe even I don’t know who la puta is, as much as I now know I didn’t, but no one, maybe not even la puta, knows who la puta is but la puta.

Still I might be able to get something good together to review Plastic Vodka Bottle Sleepover, something, as in:

 

The title Plastic Vodka Bottle Sleepover turns in itself like love into a lover as it turns the nouns into adjectives from Plastic to Vodka to Bottle to Sleepover and we see all life is is this effort to try to turn nouns into adjectives. Plastic Vodka Bottle Sleepover is all about deixis and in more than one sense, but in the story and the sound of its title, it is the same as This Side of Paradise and, like the title This Side of Paradise itself, it is the same in a structural sense of sound reflecting story to show how it signifies This Side of Paradise.

 

I have never had much of a Mary to hail, but I’ll try because I’m afraid only one person will read this as much as I’m sure la puta will read this because you are la puta and I am la puta and all of this is puta y pues puta y puta y pues puta. Our puta who art in puta, puta be thy name thy king­dom puta thy will be puta in puta as it is in puta. Give us this puta our daily puta and puta us our puta as we puta our putas and puta us not into puta but deliver us from puta; pues puta. Hail pu­ta madre full of puta, puta is with thee.

The words are, whether we write them or not, all there because all we are is our word and our words for our word, though looking back now on all of my looking forward, all I know is I don’t even know myself, but that isn’t all I don’t know.

All I know is I don’t know.

 

Sam Farahmand is an Iranian-American writer from Los Angeles. He is an editor at drDOCTOR. He has an MFA from The New School and his writing has appeared in Hobart and drDOCTOR Vol. 1.

[REVIEW] Communion by TJ Beitelman

communion

Black Lawrence Press, 2016

 

REVIEWED BY JONATHAN DUCKWORTH

“Most things don’t take root, and that is as it was intended.”

The above quote, a cryptic line from the story “Sister Blanche” in TJ Beitelman’s Communion, captures much of the magic and tragedy suffusing the collection’s stories—stories of marriages halfway ended, affairs partway consummated, vows only partially kept, and conversations only begun but never finished.

The full title of Beitelman’s new book is Communion: Stories, but that doesn’t quite describe the animal that is this book. While in places a reader may well be lulled into thinking they’re leafing through an ordinary short story collection, such as in “Antony and Cleopatra,” or “Joy,” other sections will lead to questions of genre. The early short pieces of the collection (“Artic Circle,” “Masks”) could be read both as prose poetry as well as flash fiction, testament to Beitelman’s lyrical dexterity as well as his strength at setting a scene and selling a mood. In a further departure, the book’s longest piece, “Notes on an Intercessory Prayer,” is less a story and more a lyric essay with brief fictional incisions into what is by-and-large a tribute to the late Benazir Bhutto. The last flush of stories (“Hope, Faith, and Love,” “Communion”) toward the end of the book can stand as individual pieces as well as chapters to a larger surrealist work that tells the myth of a working-class Messiah and the family he leaves behind without saving.

While most of the stories in Communion are set in Southern locales, their characters traditional (after a fashion) Southerners of working-class extraction, there are some notable exceptions. One of my favorites, “Yoi, Hajime” centers on a Japanese chicken-sexer reflecting on his time working in Atlanta, Georgia alongside a young black woman who he longs for but never gets around to courting. The model guiding most of Beitelman’s stories is less the lopsided pyramid taught in creative writing workshops around the country and more the asymptote: the curving line that draws closer and closer to the line that would be its mate without ever touching. The endings are often open-ended: pots left simmering on the stove. A wonderful example of this is the excellent flash piece “Blackface,” which leaves the reader with a powerful and pervading sense of mystification mixed with enlightenment as we see a drunken teenager break into a neighbor’s house only to come face to face with his own mother—naked and in blackface. The motivations are irrelevant, as are the consequences to the characters in the aftermath—all that matters is the powerful moment of recognition between the mother and son before the son flees the house.

TJ Beitelman’s Communion is not a conventional short story collection, nor is it the sort of collection that one could use as an easy, marketable model for putting together a first book. It is, however, memorable and equal-parts troubling, affecting, and inspiring.

[REVIEW] Human Acts by Han Kang

hang

Hogarth Books, 2017

REVIEWED BY MATT E. LEWIS

Can something be called a war crime, if there was no war? If a government truly wishes to obliterate the occurrence of a despicable act they committed, can they do so with only a well-placed bullet or torture or destruction of physical evidence? Or do they accidentally create something immortal – a memory of a person that is lodged in the minds of family and witnesses forever, like shrapnel that burrows into the body and aches in cold weather? These are the kinds of questions asked by the people in Han Kang’s newly translated book, Human Acts, which focuses on the connection between multiple people surrounding the death of a teenage boy during the South Korean “Gwangju Uprising” of 1980. It was during this time that a South Korean president, Park Chung-hee, was installed in power via a coup d’etat, declared martial law, and used lethal force against unarmed civilians and unspeakable torture on those deemed to be enemies of the state. Kang uses several perspectives in her writing to capture this snapshot in time, this all-too-recent authoritarian massacre, and the lasting effects on the people that survived it. Best known for her bestselling book, The Vegetarian, which examines the brutality in which gender roles can be enforced, Human Acts looks at another aspect in which humanity reveals its ugly, violent, primal nature – when those in power seek control, by any means necessary.

The books starts with a teenage boy, Dong-ho, searching for his friend in a gymnasium converted into a morgue. He is soon conscripted into service in the task of recording data about the corpses of those killed in the protests. In this way Kang begins a conversation repeated throughout the novel, the question of when exactly a soul leaves a body, what separates a human being from a rotting corpse, and how one can grapple with a person you once knew putrefying in front of you. During the course of his work, the banality of Dong-ho’s work – cataloging things like the height, gender, clothes, and shoe brand on the corpse – demonstrates the parallel with the banality of the evil that put them there, the indiscriminate and merciless killing of unarmed protesters, whose only crime was to intellectually oppose a government run by brutal thugs. Dong-ho hopes to find Jeong-dae and his disappeared sister, Jeong-mi, alive, despite the fact that he watched a bullet cut down Jeong-dae at the beginning of the protest. Without the confirmation of the physical body of his friend, he continues to engage in magical thinking, a way of coping with such a brutal loss at such a young age. As if in response to this, Kang begins the next section with the narrative of Jeong-dae’s spirit, still stuck to his rotting body as soldiers dump him and others in a field to be burned. Jeong-dae’s spirit mourns for the loss of his potential life, and seethes with the anger of his mindless execution. He meditates on the lives of the soldiers that killed him:

“I want to see their faces, to hover above their sleeping eyelids like a guttering flame, to slip inside their dreams, spend the nights flaring in through their forehead, their eyelids. Until their nightmares are filled with my eyes, my eyes as blood drains out. Until they hear my voice asking, demanding, why.”

It’s not just the dead who ask these questions, but the living as well. One of the women working at the gymnasium, Eun-sook, sees things in Gwangju that attempt to normalize the landscape of the town. Specifically, the water fountain at the center square is turned back on again, which is the government’s subtle way of disregarding the sacrifice of the protesters. Instead of going along with this underhanded legitimization of the corrupt ruler, she complains to her town provincial office: “What I mean is, how can it have started operating again already? It’s been dry ever since the uprising began and now it’s back on again, as though everything’s back to normal. How can that be possible?” Eun-sook soon learns that in times of martial law and authoritarian control, even such benign protests can have serious repercussions. When working as an editor, she witnesses mass censorship of texts that disagree with the government, and she herself is viciously questioned and beaten in her connection to it. Kang finds beautiful ways in which to respond to these fascist tactics, such as when Eun-sook attends a play with the censored language that she worked on, only to find that the actors soundlessly mouth the forbidden words instead of actually speaking them. It is in this dialogue that a quote is made that reverberates for nearly every character in the book, a kind of elegy for those who survived this horror: “After you died I couldn’t hold a funeral, so my life became a funeral.”

Human Acts has moments when it gorgeously exemplifies the spirit of dissent, and the characters who choose to stand, even when faced with death and torture. The mothers of children killed in the protest risk their own life to demonstrate at the president’s parade through Gwangju, thrown in jail again and again for the crime of their morning. The account of a prisoner who, though savaged by the guards and conditions of his political imprisonment, looks at his actions with pride rather than regret.

“I remember feeling that it was all right to die; I felt the blood of a hundred thousand hearts surging together into one enormous artery, fresh and clean…the sublime enormity of a single heart, pulsing blood through that vessel and into my own. I dared to feel a part of it.”

While such a triumph of hope is possible in the face of this dark time, the core focus of Human Acts is the remembrance of the pain of loss, which in itself is an act of dissonance against fascist revisionism. The last part of the book is Kang’s own account of her experience during the uprising, and of the later discovery of the story of Dong-ho, which moved her to write the book. After pouring over stacks of documents relating to the uprising and interviewing those that knew him, Kang finds herself haunted by what she has learned – she becomes plagued by nightmares of being bayoneted by soldiers, finding herself in dreamlike recreations of the situations these people had faced. Even at a friend’s wedding, surrounded by happy, well-dressed peers, she finds herself plagued by the survivor’s guilt that the research has inflicted on her. “How was such a scene possible, when so many people had died?” she asks herself, still shaken by the connection of the horrors her research has to reality. But she finds solace in the fact that “Human Acts” accomplishes the goal of any account of a crime against humanity seeks to achieve – the fact that these events, these people, these names are not forgotten or lost to history. To do so disrespects the memory of their sacrifice and the eternal ache of loss felt by their loved ones. Perhaps most timely is the lesson that the threat of fascism is not a distant nightmare, but a very real threat, waiting only for an ideal series of events to wedge its way into our lives and cause havoc once again. As such, we as readers must absorb the stories of these people and their lives, allowing their sacrifice to embolden our vigilance and our resolve.

 

[REVIEW] VHS and Why it’s Hard to Live by Tatiana Ryckman

11TR

 

Zoo Cake Press, 2016

 

REVIEWED BY MATHEW SERBACK

Tatiana Ryckman is the voice inside of my head.

Maybe I feel this way because we are both from Cleveland, Ohio. Or maybe it’s because we both migrated to big cities in Texas. Or maybe the answer is something more obvious – something simple; Tatiana Ryckman is just better at being honest.

In her new collection of flash nonfiction VHS and Why it’s Hard to Live, Ryckman expresses the sadness we all feel about never becoming the person we thought we wanted to be. She has an unmatched talent for finding the embarrassing truths we don’t want to tell ourselves and exposing them through tangential connections.

Each story in this collection is built with precision. The sentences bubble, and the self-reflections bubble, but they always burst by the end. It’s the small moments of self-revelation that absorb me into the prose. It is in these moments that Ryckman is the voice in my head.

In “Coming of Age,” a flash piece about love and hatred, she writes, “In high school, a boy who would sneak into my room at night but who would not date me said ignorance was the path to happiness, and that happiness was death to the self. It’s a little dramatic, but it explains a lot about the times.” I’m suddenly compelled to find my high school girlfriends on their social media of choice and tell them how sorry I am for the past – to tell them how wrong I was about the future.

That’s what Tatiana Ryckman’s writing does to the boy who was sneaking in and out of windows and telling half-truths they knew were lies. Just imagine what it’ll do to you.

In “My Death,” Tatiana considers the way she will die, “I can’t walk to the grocery store, which is not to say I don’t walk to the grocery store but every time I have walked to the grocery store, alone, at night, I know I am being followed. Or if not followed, then watched, to be followed on a future night.” That’s the same voice in my head that tells me I’m afraid of sharp objects – the pronounced corner of a table, the useful end of the screwdriver – and most importantly, knives. Ryckman reminds me that we all are sharing in a ubiquitous death. She has to walk to the grocery store, I have to use a knife, and you have to board that airplane. Her death is waiting in the bushes. My death is in my right hand.

Each story is a different thought that keeps you up at night.

And even now, as I try to tell you how beautiful and tangled Ryckman’s language is, she’s the voice in my head that is reminding me that VHS and Why it’s Hard to Live isn’t about her – it’s about me, and always will be, “Maybe you know what I mean; maybe all of our shit is just pet enough to keep us up at night, alive and in the world reaching our full potential, wondering what the world would be without us.”

BEST 21 BOOKS OF 2016

Slide1

BY GABINO IGLESIAS

 

Last year was such an outstanding year for literature that a top ten list just wouldn’t cut it. Horror, literary fiction, poetry, nonfiction, noir; every conceivable genre produced at least a couple of gems that deserve to be on this list. I started the year aiming to read 200 books, which is something I try to do every year. Work, looking for work, too many long books, and writing a dissertation were all elements that got in the way. That being said, I managed to read about 110 books, and here are the best 21 in no particular order:

 

Image result for floodgate johnny shaw

21. Floodgate by Johnny Shaw. This was fast, fun to read, packed with more action than a superhero movie, and showed a level of worldbuilding that makes it a novel that should be used to teach it. Shaw can do crime, violence, intrigue, and comedy, and all of those can be found in spades here.

 

 

 

Image result for death confetti jennifer robin

20. Death Confetti: Pickers, Punks, and Transit Ghosts in Portland, Oregon by Jennifer Robin. Robin is a performer, writer, and traveler whose life definitely belongs to the small group of those that should be written about. This collection of nonfiction takes place mostly in the streets, on public transportation, and in bars across Portland. The people and situations the author encounters are enough to make it a recommended read, but the outstanding and commanding way in which Robin writes about them make it an absolute must and earn the book a spot on this list.

 
Image result for slipping lauren beukes

19. Slipping: Stories, Essays, & Other Writing by Lauren Beukes. One of the first authors to come to mind when thinking about writers who can move in and out of a plethora of genres while simultaneously sounding fresh and unique, Beukes has become a household name thanks to novels that are a bizarre, scary, wildly entertaining mix of science fiction, crime, and horror, and this collection offers more of that.

 
Image result for bruja wendy ortiz18. Bruja by Wendy C. Ortiz. What Ortiz does for the memoir here is comparable to what Flaubert’s Madam Bovary did for modern realist narration or what Capote’s In Cold Blood did for the nonfiction novel. Simply put, Ortiz’s “dreamoir” is a new thing and this book will be the starting point for a movement as well as the go-text for all upcoming memoirs that inhabit the interstitial space between reality, memory, very personal surrealism, and dreams.

 

Image result for magic city gospel17. Magic City Gospel by Ashley M. Jones. Going into a poetry collection without being familiar with the author’s work is always an adventure. With this book, the adventure yielded a treasure trove of southern imagery, a screaming celebration of roots and culture, and an unapologetically raw view of the female African American experience. This is brave, beautiful, necessary poetry that should be taught in schools and that undoubtedly becomes more important with each dumb step the country takes backwards.

 
Image result for a collapse of horses by brian evenson16. A Collapse of Horses by Brian Evenson. Evenson is one of the most talented living writers in the world, and this collection is full of stories in which he proves it time and time again. Sad, strange, creepy, touching, surreal, scary; if you can think it or feel it, Evenson does it here. The best short story collection of 2016 and yet another superb entry into the oeuvre of a man who seems to only get impossibly better with each new offering.

 
Image result for black wings has my angel15. Black Wings Has My Angel by Elliott Haze. The folks at the New York Review of Books know how to pick their classics, and this one is my favorite so far. A narrative that still resonates in modern noir’s DNA, this is a dark, twisted tale of love, violence, secret agendas, and the way plans have a tendency to crumble.

 
Image result for witch hunt juliet escoria

14. Witch Hunt by Juliet Escoria. This book is full of the kind of poetry that reaches deep inside you, pulls out the ugliest things you have to offer, and then slaps you in the face with them, and Escoria does it all just by sharing her own life. Full of heartbreak, broken relationships, and crippling realizations, this book is what happens when a talented author decides nothing in her past is sacred and exorcises the demons by writing them out.

 

Image result for The Incantations of Daniel Johnston

13. The Incantations of Daniel Johnston by Scott McClanahan and Ricardo Cavolo. This is the only graphic book on the list, and it’s more of a surreal biography than a novel. Touching and magical, Cavolo’s art and MacClanahan’s words combine perfectly to offer readers a look inside the brain and soul of an outstanding artist tortured by mental illness and haunted by demons most of us can’t even begin to fathom.

 
Image result for The Book of Endless Sleepovers

12. The Book of Endless Sleepovers by Henry Hoke. Sometimes a poet is capable of stuffing his entire life into a book, and that’s exactly what Hoke did here. The pain, awkwardness, drama, and discoveries of a child transform into the suffering, joy, and blossoming sexuality of a young man, and all of it is filtered through the author’s sharp mind and tender heart. By the time I was done with this, I wanted to ask a million questions, congratulate Hoke a million times on his accomplishment, and give him a million hugs.

 
Image result for Chicano Blood Transfusion

11. Chicano Blood Transfusion by Edward Vidaurre. El barrio has a heart that spans the globe, and Vidaurre taps into it to write poesía with a lot of truth and feeling. Readers will find the usual themes here, but also a range of new ones and different, unique experiences and memories. La poesía del barrio has a new voice in Vidaurre, and I can’t wait to see what he does next.

 

 

Image result for Albina and the Dog-Men

10. Albina and the Dog-Men by Alejandro Jodorowsky. Just like no film director can compare their work to the bizarre visions created by Jodorowsky, no author can claim to bring together poetry, love narratives, and surrealism to the page the way he does. This is a long, sexualized, mythological fever dream that fits in perfectly with everything Jodoroswky has given us in his long, illustrious career.

 
Image result for glue constance ann fitzgerald

9. Glue by Constance Ann Fitzgerald. I read this book on my phone while sitting in my car. I didn’t plan on that, but the first few pages hooked me and the rest is history. This is a powerful, autobiographical narrative that deals with loss and coping. Fitzgerald shines at showing us that being broken and not knowing how to handle things is a perfectly normal part of being human.
Image result for Mongrels by Stephen Graham Jones.

 

 

 

8. Mongrels by Stephen Graham Jones. Sure, this is a werewolf novel, but it’s also an outstanding noir, a fantastic YA narrative, an emotional family saga, and a great road trip tale. Jones has always managed to work in many genres at once, and this one stands amongst his best work to date, which is saying a lot.

 

Image result for Disappearance at Devil’s Rock by Paul Tremblay

7. Disappearance at Devil’s Rock by Paul Tremblay. Anguish and loss are at the core of this creepy narrative. The disappearance of a young son is the vehicle Tremblay uses to scare readers, but it’s also the event he uses to deconstruct the way humans (re)act under pressure and how an event can make people collapse. This is another author than only gets better with each new book, and I eagerly await whatever he puts out next.

 

 

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6. The Fisherman by John Langan. I’ll keep this one short: the mythos book that will be talked about and discussed twenty years from now? This one.

 
Image result for Am Providence by Nick Mamatas

5. I Am Providence by Nick Mamatas. A scathing academic deconstruction of the Lovecraftian scene and its problems would collect dust in university libraries across the country, so instead of doing that, Mamatas wrapped it all up in a wildly entertaining and surprisingly funny novel about a murder at a Lovecraftian convention. If you care about the destruction of racism and misogyny but don’t mind doing it with a smile on your face, this book is for you.

 
Image result for Novi Sad by Jeff Jackson

4. Novi Sad by Jeff Jackson. Post-apocalyptic fiction done right. Tense, gloomy, strange, and poetic. This is the shortest novella on this list, and it packs as big a punch as anything else on this list.

 

 

 

Image result for Patricide by D. Foy

3. Patricide by D. Foy. The best literary novel of 2016. Smart, fast, violent, philosophical, and possessing a depth that most literary fiction can only dream of. Foy is an author whose work will be talked about a lot in the near future. I suggest to start reading him now.

 

 

 

 

Image result for Swarm Theory by Christine Rice.2. Swarm Theory by Christine Rice. I could write ten pages on the way Rice weaved together a narrative about a whole town and all its denizens, but that would probably bore you. Instead, I’ll say this: Swarm Theory is the most impressive book about a town/plethora of characters that I’ve read since devouring Camilo Jose Cela’s The Hive, and remember that Cela got a Nobel in Literature in 1989.

 
Image result for the heavenly table donald ray pollock

1. The Heavenly Table by Donald Ray Pollock. Along with Jones and Evenson, Pollock is a national treasure whose work constantly mesmerizes readers. Hilarious, vicious, filthy, and smart, this story of brotherhood, death, and crime was one of the few true literary gems published by one of the Big Five in 2016.