Baby Steps in Doomsday Prepping , livre ebook

Madville Publishing - Gerry Lafemina

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74 pages

English

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"Anyone in the mood to be enchanted by a collection of prose poems that celebrate the quotidian, the commonplace, the ordinary things of this world-those "dumb beautiful messengers," as Walt Whitman famously referred to them in "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry"? Then you best pick up a copy of Gerry LaFemina's book Baby Steps in Doomsday Prepping.... [LaFemina offers a] kind of precision with language-making a "place" into a "thing" and conveying its feel, look, and impression on the soul with such searing clarity.... [his poems] enchant the senses and succeed in stopping time . . . so that we might examine the things of this world with love and intelligence, so that we might hear them speak to us again"--

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Publié par	Madville Publishing
Date de parution	06 février 2020
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781948692250
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0500€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Baby Steps in Doomsday Prepping
Also by Gerry LaFemina:
Prose Poems
Notes for the Novice Ventriloquist
Figures from The Big Time Circus Book/The Book of Clown Baby
Zarathustre in Love
Poems
The Story of Ash
Little Heretic
Vanishing Horizon
The Parakeets of Brooklyn
The Window Facing Winter
Graffiti Heart
Voice, Lock, Puppet: Poems of Ali Yuce. Trans/with Sinan Toprak
Shattered Hours: Poems 1988-1994
23 Below
Fiction
Clamor .
Wish List: Stories
Criticism
Composing Poetry: A Guide to Writing Poems and Thinking Lyrically
Palpable Magic: Essays on Poets and Prosody
Baby Steps in Doomsday Prepping
prose poems
Gerry LaFemina

L AKE D ALLAS , T EXAS
Copyright © 2020 by Gerry LaFemina All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America
FIRST EDITION Requests for permission to reprint or reuse material from this work should be sent to:
Permissions Madville Publishing PO Box 358 Lake Dallas, TX 75065
Acknowledgements: The author would like to thank the following journals for publishing some of these pieces in somewhat different forms.
Artichoke Haircut “Is She Really Going Out with Him”
Big City Lit “Makerel and Bottle”
Blue Lyra Review “Pocket Watch”
Broadkill Review “Theory of Special Relativity” and “Utilitarianism—A Love Story”
CDC Poetry Project “American Poetry”
Cheap Pop “Thinking of Francis Ponge and You on a Saturday Afternoon”
Coal Hill Review “Baby Steps in Doomsday Prepping” and “Wing Tips”
Eye to the Telescope “It’s Underneath the Manhole Cover Right Now”
Foundlings “A Phrenologist Among the Skinheads”
Kestrel “The Attraction of the Ridiculous,” “Gibson Les Paul Double Cutaway,” “Landmine,” “Modern Times” (as “Chaplin, Modern Times, Lincoln Center, Autumn 2015”), and “One Last Message, One Last Bottle”
Laurel Review “Last Saturday” and “Uncertainty Principle”
Little Patuxent Review “A Glass of Water Beside the Bed”
Masque & Spectacle “Ballet Box,” “Ballot Box,” “Billet Doux,” and “Bullet Box”
Mead “Tarantula”
Mulberry Fork Review “Cloudburst” and “Girl Before a Mirror”
Nōd (Calgary) “Boil”
ReDactions “After Disaster,” “All These Lamps and Yet—” and “My Afternoon with the Critics”
Schuykill Valley Journal “How I Learned Cruelty” and “Thinking of You”
Sleet Magazine “Umbrella”
Swamp Ape Review “Bed” and “Goodwill Diner”
Thin Air “Last Scene of an Unfilmed Romantic Comedy”
Weave “A Short Lesson in Human Anatomy”
“Thinking of You” first appeared in A Cast Iron Aeroplane that Can Actually Fly , edited by Peter Johnson (2019, Madhat Press).
Cover Design: Jacqueline Davis Cover Art: “Terminator” by Elena Feliciano Author Photo: Mercedes Hettich
ISBN: 978-1-948692-24-3 Paper, 978-1-948692-25-0 ebook Library of Congress Control Number: 2019950603
For Alex
C ONTENTS
All These Lamps and Yet—
Cat and Bird
Taxidermy/Jigsaw
Schroedinger’s Box
Hive Mind
Goodwill Diner
Billet Doux
The Attraction of the Ridiculous
Inconvenience Store
Elementary
Is She Really Going Out with Him
Rocket Lanes
Theory of Special Relativity
A Room for Space Agers
The Comet
Shore Thing
Collection
Gibson Les Paul Double Cutaway
Concert Chamber
Bullet Box
One Last Message, One Last Bottle
Thinking of Francis Ponge and You on a Saturday Afternoon
Utilitarianism—A Love Story
Umbrella
Monkeywrench
It’s Under the Manhole Cover Right Now
Boil
Modern Times
Thinking of Charles Bronson
Baby Steps in Doomsday Prepping
After Disaster
Tangiers
A Glass of Water Beside the Bed
Uncertainty Principle
American Poetry
Still Life with Dead Game
The Squirrels of Houghton Lake
Ballot Box
How I Learned Cruelty
Pencil
Frisbee
Towel
Bed
Soviet Kitchenette
Before the Banquet
A Phrenologist Among Skinheads
My Afternoon with the Critics
How
Ballet Box
Last Scene of an Unfilmed Romantic Comedy
She Did Not Consult Eliot on the Naming of Cats
Girl Before a Mirror
Last Saturday
Pocket Watch
Landmine
Cloudburst
Wingtips
Toe Nail
A Short Lesson in Human Anatomy
Tarantula
Mackerel and Bottle
Thinking of You
Gratitude
About the Author
Baby Steps in Doomsday Prepping
A LL T HESE L AMPS AND Y ET —
Syllables like flowing water, the house I lived in, close enough to the river to hear it on still nights. It’s a still night. That house is fifteen years away. You sleep, mouth open, skin pale against the pale pillow. All the dogs in the building across the street dream of backyards and bones too big to bury, bones stolen, no doubt, from the Museum of Natural History, not so far from here. The characters in the novel I set down wander its sentences, lost without me. I used to sit with a flashlight and a book and a radio. I used to get in trouble. I used to believe in enlightenment, in an age of it coming. I believed, too, in love with a capital L, believed in the upper case abstractions, believed I could list the capitols of Europe where I believed I’d visit. At least I got that last one right. Two blocks away the Hudson says nothing we can distinguish. Every evening now I collect the lower case letters of your name and mine and of the city in which we live, and pour them into a jar. I’ve punched holes in its lid. I keep it on the bedside table. They glow dimly beside me. Someone dug up Tyrannosaur bones, brought them to New York. Someone filled this apartment with lamps. Beside me you breathe in quiet, convert it to somniloquy, but there’s no conversing. Soon the first dogs will stir, but till then it’s night still.

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