Pedlar Press

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Thunks
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WHITE THE POWERCome up to my place White the powerAs long as your race White the power Is worthy of grace White the power White the power White the powerLet's play a game White the powerGive me your name White the power I'll hand you back White the power White the power White the powerMickey mouse glove White the powerRaven or dove White the powerReign from above White the power White the power White the powerSave your j'accuse White the powershameYour schism and blues White the powerMy lawyers are Jews White the power White the power White the powerMuslims in schools White the powerInsurgent tools White the powerDon't play us for stupid White the powerWhite the powerWhite the powerWhen it's complex White the powerConfuse and perplex White the power Consume second sex White the power White the power White the powerDare take a knee White the powerThink that you're free? White the powerYou all work for me White the power White the power White the powerStop ranting don't rave White the powerIt's time you behaveWhite the power I master you slave White the power White the power White the power

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love, life.

love, life.

a mostly-true fable.
edition:Paperback
tagged : lgbt
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Excerpt

I'm standing on top of a very tall hill in Italy. This is the tallest hill, if not in all of Italy, then for sure in all of Lucca. Lucca. Rhymes with hookah. No one can tell me this isn't the tallest hill of all in all of Lucca because every time I ask How tall this hill? Someone barks: Io no parli Inglese! Accompanied by the withering look. Therefore I say it's the tallest hill in all of Lucca, because as I crawled my way to the top, it felt like it. There's a thunderstorm at my feet. A cloud drifts by. It hovers beside me. It speaks rapidly in Italian, in such a manner that I almost but not quite understand what it says. It sounds like: 'Scusie, 'scusie. Come stai? I myself am very well, thank you for almost asking. I admire you greatly, you little mollusk, as you cling impossibly upon this sun-drenched mountain. Perhaps you noticed me as I hovered above you in a highly desirable configuration of early morning mist? You would be perfect if only you would eat more pasta. It says: You have the eyes of a firefly's last breath.

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Seeing Martin
Excerpt

Mira stared out the window. All this rain had done something to the centre of winter. A change had come. The air had weight. Sidewalks and streets were nearly impassable, but underground, everything was still moving. Trains shuttling from station to station. That life never stopping. Under the city were colour-coded arteries and three forlorn trumpet notes at the beginning of each train ride. Concrete walls, inches from the windows, were dark and returned empty reflections of other riders. Some were just killing time, riding to the end of the line, then waiting for the cars to reverse. These riders never left, not really. They would sometimes get up from their seats and wander the platforms, but they never ascended the escalators to the upper air. It was as if they had forgotten where they were going. They travelled the length of the metro map, transferring from the yellow line to the green to the orange before switching to the blue line and its journey to the terminus where the cycle could begin again. This was how they used up all the hours inside their perpetual forgetting.

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Niagara & Government
Excerpt

I am sick of keeping upa quaint pretense of language optimismor some sloppy nod to the experimentalas if I had a new plan besides this urge this compulsion // to not be silent & to pattern

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Benjamenta College of Art, The
Excerpt

Here is a street. It is a narrow street and it is an old street, it is a street that winds and turns and as it winds and it turns it knots itself up with other streets, because it is not the only street here, there are others, there are no end of others and all of these streets knot themselves up and they lie tangled together, touching but not quite. In the gaps between them are buildings and the buildings are piled one on top of another wherever there is room for one, and even where there is not they somehow find a way anyway and all together these buildings and these streets and the buildings and the streets just beyond them and the ones just beyond those, all of this is a city. Here is a boy walking down this street, this particular street. Buildings jostle and crowd up close to him on one side and close on the other; they are so close that the street is only a trickle running between them and he walks down it, he turns at a corner, he turns and he has gone from one narrow and winding street to another. This other street is the kind of street that should have shops along it and so there are shops all along it. Here is a shop selling toys and here is a shop with a tailor sitting in the window, mending a pair of trousers, here is a shop selling sweets and next door to it a shop selling bitters. They are tiny shops bunched up too close together, one beside the other all up and down the street and in every one of them the shelves are packed full of whatever it is that particular shop sells. Even the windows are taken over by potted petunias or a rack of light cotton dresses in all manner of colours, or a shelf of mystery stories or penny romances, he cannot quite tell which, or guides to the cultivation of mushrooms and sometimes in some of the shops there is too much stuff and not nearly enough room for everything that has to fit inside. When this happens -- and it happens quite often, actually, especially when the weather is nice -- when this happens the shops spill out into the street and here and there in among the crates and the tables set out on the sidewalk there are shopkeepers settled in comfortably among whatever it is they happen to be selling. They sit in folding chairs or they stand with an elbow propped on a window ledge, and while they wait for someone to stop and buy a wind-up toy or a basket of peaches they watch with nearly interested eyes as the street carries on its way past them. It is late on a summer afternoon and it is a late summer afternoon, the sky is clear and there is a slight breeze stirring at the edges of things, and here is a shop selling flowers, another selling spices and preserves, another with produce stacked in crates on the sidewalk in front of it. The shopfronts blur one into another as the boy walks past and now and then a streetlight pokes up from the ground in front of one of them, like an improbable sort of tree. Here is another shop selling whatever it is that it sells, sometimes it is hard to tell from just glancing in the window while walking past, and then another. He walks past it too and after these two there are more shops and then there are not. Where there should be a shop there is not anything at all, there is a gap in the street and on the far side of it is another shop and another after it and so on but here there is not, there is not anything at all and a gate propped up in front of it. It is an iron gate, it should be a solid gate but it is altogether too old to still be anything like a solid gate and instead it is a crooked and rickety gate that does not close properly anymore, no matter how firmly it is shut it always swings slightly open again and the boy stops here, in front of this gate. His name is Luca, his hair is almost long, almost but not quite, it has not quite tipped over into being long and it is shaggy instead. He did not want to be bothered by it, he does not want to always be going in to have his hair cut and so he stopped, and his hair has grown and grown and now it is another sort of problem. Bits of it are always floating up from his head and trailing around his ears and getting into his eyes; while he was walking a bit of it drifted down to tickle at his nose and he raises a hand to brush it away and here he is, standing in front of this gate and he is looking for a gate. He is not from here, he has come from far away and this is why he has come here -- he is here to find a particular gate on a particular street somewhere in this city that he does not know, and this is the street and what if it is this gate.

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Cult Life
Excerpt

Questing To lose a long-haired surfer go somewherehe'd never daydream his board. I meanwho plans to run away to Mid-Western America? Who flees a beachy barefoot paradiseto Nowhere Rednecksville with six suitcases,a fold-up Fisher Price dollhouse and a three-year-old child? I'm not really leaving,I promise, indulge me another pilgrimage.Like my half-baked trip to India, and the crystal healing cacoethes, those Vipassana silences,Kriya Yoga initiations... And my mother-- she doesn't want to knowwe've landed at a ramshackle resortthe ashram owns. Doesn't want to knowwe're safer away from himin a building that's never locked,keys in all the dorm room doors, ghostsand other darknesses slugging the basement, sinking cornerstones--will we ever get backhome? At night I'm runningNorth with my daughter, through snow.The sky glows white, everything's white; maybe it's sand not snow, maybe it's Shangri-la or a billowy formless Nirvana.

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Were There Gazelle
Excerpt

Morning at the Summer Palace, BeijingThe fog rises off the lake to bury the sun. Its steel gleam rinses the willows that line the shore,dip feathered fingers in the eddying shallows.In the distance a man balances on his pontoon,pole and hook poised to loop fronds of weed from the water. The granite walkwayssteam in the heat, and as I turn down the pathto the fragrance tower, the marble boat, the old man with his long-handled spongepaints a new line with pure water. ThoughI do not read Chinese, I recognize the symbols of the Heart Sutra. The opening lines dry and fadeas he draws the final characters. I continue on the path,and he begins to write again.

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