SHORT FLIGHT LONG DRIVE BOOKS

[REVIEW] Hardcore by Mik Grantham

Posted on by
(Short Flight/Long Drive Books, 2021)

REVIEW BY GABINO IGLESIAS

—

I read a lot of horror fiction, which means I tend to take the term “hardcore” with a grain of salt because it’s something often used by writers who think gore or sexual abuse is enough to mask their lack of storytelling skills. That said, Mik Grantham’s Hardcore, which contains a fair amount of fear and bodily fluids, delivers on every implied promise made by its title. Funny, harrowing, personal, and dark, the poems in Hardcore delve deep into things most people would rather not talk about. In the first four poems, Grantham tackles pregnancy scares, losing her favorite underwear, vomiting on herself at the gynecologist’s office, drunk people, and being afraid of anthrax. And that’s just the start. Depression, the aftermath of abortion, the 2016 elections, and dark childhood memories are also present here, and Grantham’s straightforward approach brings them to the page raw and unfiltered.

Hardcore is a door into Grantham’s life. The poems talk about events with unfiltered honesty, and that makes the readers feel like they’re listening to a friend telling them about the stuff they experienced. Here’s “Stay”:

the dogs fucked all night long

we ordered chinese food

there were noodles?

covered in soy sauce

are you turned on??

you took my food away?

maybe you wanted to save some?

for later?

i always thought that was a weird move

do you remember this?

this was back when you disappeared

often?

here we are?

hey, where are you going now

While it might sound like a gloomy collection—and it is gloomy—Hardcore is unique and fun to read. Bizarre cohesive element like movies (especially ones with witches) and teeth (lost teeth, missing teeth, teeth falling out, ripping teeth out) emerge from the poems as testaments to the strange nature of the voice that created this book. Grantham’s style walks a fine line between deadpan gallows humor and the kind of honesty that comes out you without filter. Behind every poem here there is a story or a feeling, and the delivery often makes deconstruction or analysis unnecessary. I guess the word that fits here is blunt, but it’s a bluntness that’s strangely beautiful, that makes you nod your head in agreement. Here’s “riding my bike”:

wishing someone would?

hit me with their car while i’m

on my way to work

Hardcore is full of that weirdness that makes real life look scripted. For example, Grantham’s mom is a recurring character in the collection. She saw the devil and liked listening to Jewel. Her grandmother is also here, and the last poem, the longest in the book, is about spending time with her. And then there’s Grantham’s work as a waitress, which permeates the book and gives her stories to tell.

This isn’t a beautiful collection about perfect moments; it’s a rough, graphic, authentic, wonderfully humane collection about hating your job, eating eggs, past relationships, remembering your childhood, and peeing in parking lots. Grantham has a knack for bringing reality to the page with outstanding economy of language, and that makes this a must read for anyone who likes their poetry with a healthy dose of grit.

—

Gabino Iglesias is a writer, editor, literary critic, and professor living in Austin, TX. He is the author of ZERO SAINTS and COYOTE SONGS. You can find him on Twitter at @Gabino_Iglesias.

[REVIEW] Over for Rockwell by Uzodinma Okehi

Posted on by

Over For Rockwell cover

Short Flight/Long Drive Books
October 2015

REVIEW BY CASSANDRA A. BAIM

Uzodinma Okehi’s debut novel Over For Rockwell, in one simple sentence, is about a young artist looking to find his place in the world. In 332 pages, divided into vignettes, narrator Blue Okoye jumps between his time in living in Hong Kong and New York in a gust of post-modern stream of consciousness narration. As he chases his artistic dream, he falls in love and lust with different women, draws comics, writes stories, works in a bookstore, and furiously tries to make it as an artist while figuring out what it means to do just that. The structure doesn’t take a standard form; there is no beginning, middle, and end in the way that we’re used to. Instead, each vignette tells a separate story. Each one is a snippet of this artist’s life—trying to talk to women at a SoHo club, growing up in the suburbs in the late 80s and befriending two Indian students in his class, or trying to order noodles from a pretty girl in Hong Kong. Though seemingly disjointed, the vignettes tie together to express a larger theme: the effect of the passage of time on an artist.

 

The beginning of the eponymous vignette sums up his struggle: “The sad fact was the sheer amount of time I must have spent waiting, praying, paddling upstream—my faith in the concept of inspiration that almost always proved out to be fruitless. This search had become my exciting real life while the pathetic few hours each night I forced myself to draw in turn became the farce, the myth, destroyed by experience.”

The novel’s antagonist doesn’t take a physical form. Instead, it takes the shape of many things, one being Hong Kong and New York City. Each place is its own character, and Blue interacts with the pavement and buildings as much as he does with the people in it. He “feel[s] the city breathe.” His greatest obstacles are his constant creative battles.  He has to negotiate his own aspirations with those of everyone else vying for the same idea.  He asks himself over and over again why he wants to draw, and if it’s worth it. “My problem was that I was as average as the rest, and yet I underestimated that even the average man has his stupendous dreams, a fact which often jumped right up to sting me in the face.” Blue’s internal battles reflect what we all feel as artists and writers—when will I catch that big break? Is what I’m doing enough? Does this even matter? But Over For Rockwell isn’t just about the life of a fledgling artist—it’s about the life of a fledgling person. Okehi asks the questions that artists and writers ask themselves with the same existentialist attitude of any other person asking themselves what their purpose is.

 

Okehi got his start working on zines, so it is no surprise he writes with a post-modern gritty realism reminiscent of Charles Bukowski or even contemporary writers like Tao Lin. The writing is so personal, humble, and self-effacing that I suspect much of it is autobiographical. As writers we’re taught to “write what we know,” and it is clear that Okehi has lived through the same self-doubt that Blue faces. This is a necessary read for any aspiring artist or writer, or anyone looking for a new, informed voice.