Bücher veröffentlicht von Golden Antelope Press

Dreaming Vienna begins with a quote from Missouri's Mark Twain on how novels carry their authors away, and a preface from Conley listing 36 kinds of dreams discussed by Vienna's Sigmund Freud. These openers foreground a tension between objective and subjective realities. How, exactly, does one believe a novel or interpret a dream? And what exactly does Vienna symbolize, especially for Americans? In Dreaming Vienna, subjective reactions generally prevail over conventional expectations. Conley is especially adept at painting the shadows and fogs which surround his characters, creating moments of confusion, chaos, despondency, acceptance, and wisdom. Thus, Felix Kulpa ("Happy Fault" in Latin) struggles to find meaning in St. Louis, MO, first in his family's Catholicism, then in philosophical systems, and finally in Vienna where, in a joyous explosion of passionate folly, he dies. Kulpa's experiences resonate. His cousin Victor barely escapes sexual abuse by a priest, but carries scars from Missouri to Vienna, where he "researches the priesthood." The very word, "research" changes meaning as Viennese students quarrel over versions of stories or mock pretentious mentors. There's a carnival feel to large sections of Dreaming Vienna as characters pass near one another without quite meeting--leaving traces, overlapping moods, fragrances, fragments, memories of bickering brothers, a guilt-ridden veteran, snow-covered children and orange-clad streetcleaners. To tour guides, Vienna may symbolize cultural depth, artistic aspiration, and human achievement, but for Conley those interpretations are radically incomplete. Only the gold-tipped cane of the mysterious Herr Winklemann can offer reliable direction; only rugs handmade by a one-armed feminist can keep readers fully warm.

In five sets of "broken" sonnets, Jack Powers pulls readers into and through the lives, decisions, regrets and celebrations of a score of deeply human characters--himself included. From teenager Jack, who tries to "rig" the Catholic confessional system, to ancient Bob, who tends his dying Joan gently after 62 years of marriage, we watch and find ourselves rooting for Powers' people. We want his seeds to grow, his buds to blossom, his dying leaves to drift in pleasant breezes. We hear the quiet laughter hiding under the songs. Still, life is complex, and Jack Powers feels that complexity with thesensitivity of a seismometer, records it with the accuracy of a mathematician or painter, and plays it like jazz.So listen-and watch--as sonnet rules loosen, lines lengthen, images double back and become symbols, and stories echo other stories. Last Acts come first in this collection, followed by portraits of relationships which are Still Love: a stoned teen grilling burgers for his family; Alice Neel painting brutally honest self-portraits. Sonnet form runs like tangled wire through Powers' book, perhaps most noticeably in the Still Love pieces, and in the section titled Unruly Love, where form and content collaborate in unruling the expected rules. Noble Suffering poems are case studies testing philosophical notions about the value of suffering-with ... tentative results. Still, the final section of Still Love, aptly titled Surrender, ends with a memory of ayoung Jack, "floating, surrendering/ to the current, a contented speck of the quick river, white moon, black night."

What would it feel like to find your middle-aged self suddenly living back in a college dorm room? Four faculty members at Prairie State College in Minnesota are about to find out after their administration comes up with a bizarre strategy to improve graduation rates - The Faculty Dorm Dweller Program.While the idea seems promising to the administration, it doesn''t take long for problems to arise-problems which readers will find appallingly funny, situations they''ll find stimulate both empathy and snark. As Johnson says, "It''s not so much a fish-out-of-water scenario as it is an older fish returning to a pond she''d lived in years ago."So Juanita Jane Ruckler, a fiftyish English professor, proves that she''s not old by having an affair with a nineteen-year-old student. Lyla Benson, recently divorced and thirty-eight, runs into her old college flame and finds herself searching: is there something more than ashes left in that relationship? Bert Rojas, a math professor, is using the program to escape a boring home life with a nagging wife-the woman he''s married right after college, back when youth had seemed eternal. As the FDD crew gets to know one another, they provide balance, experience, and understanding to one another. Even fresh-faced and naive young Joy McPherson, assistant professor in Political Science, can sometimes teach her older colleagues-though her own choices seem inexorably wrong. And the students? They''re teachers too, in their own inimitable ways.

Raya Tuffaha’s To All The Yellow Flowers is a deeply personal reflection of self through poetry. Dealing with topics of sexuality, culture, and love, Tuffaha’s poetry speaks truthfully to her experience with these issues as a queer young Muslim woman. Often, she compares her culture’s expectations for her life to her own, highlighting the places where the two intersect, and acknowledging the flash points. Many of her poems are formatted to reflect the speed and pace of a speaking voice, which magnifies the experience of Tuffaha’s written word. Some twenty pen and ink drawings by Timothy St. Pierre further enhance the experience.In her poem, “Lot’s Wife,” for example, Tuffaha assumes the woman’s perspective on the famed biblical story about what happened in Sodom and Gomorrah: “She falls for men so they won’t hurt her /takes care of others before they take it from her.” Tuffaha often flips common narratives on their heads and forces readers to look at situations from different points of view. Culture is a key feature in “When Exotic Becomes Side Dish,” as the food and customs of the author’s culture are juxtaposed with an outsider’s view. The lines, “Jasmine nights /and za’atar mornings catch/ in between my teeth /dirty fangs bared ready /for the carnage” showcase the narrator’s willingness to defend parts of her traditional Muslim culture while questioning others.Raya Tuffaha takes readers through the trials of her life and ends the journey on a hopeful note. Family is the focus of her final poem, “After Javon Johnson: When the Cancer Comes,” in which she remembers her Palestinian family before concluding: “When family trees bear olives,/rupture the sunbeams and entwine /home in their fists/ we march, we march.” Raya Tuffaha’s To All The Yellow Flowers is a celebration of the hard times which can lead to good, and the beauty and chaos to be found in the intersection of the cultures that comprise a person’s life.

In The Pain Trader, James Fowler creates timeless narratives around the people, history, and landmarks of rural America. Divided into “Hereabouts” (the Ozark region) and “Thereabouts” (a broader area), his 48 poems find meaning and beauty in the seemingly ordinary—from cheap roadside attractions ("IQ Zoo") to an impromptu chivaree. (“Ozark Yarn”), to local resentment of “Mr. [Woodrow] Wilson’s war” (“Over Here”), to a set of “Mountain Airs” documenting a long and mostly uneventful marriage.The Pain Trader opens with pioneers settling in the Ozarks, aware of the Indian cultures and the (Louisiana) Purchase. Fowler’s quiet, often wry, voice guides readers through Ozark perspectives on the Civil War, the Sultana disaster (“Aftermath”), saltpeter mining (“Below, Above”), and sundowner laws (“Sundown”). Eureka Springs gets an especially memorable treatment in “Eureka,” as a place in which layers of past are still accessible under the current wash of artist colonies and Bible belters.From the titular poem, “The Pain Trader,” readers feel the ordinary become something to be revered. They watch a peddlar/artist listening to his customers as he carves: “All this while a shape emerges,/carved, etched: creaturely perhaps;/blossoming; stark, like crystals./A thing of power rough hewn.” These lines could describe Fowler’s poetry, “a thing of power” which can make readers feel welcome in the rolling, cavernous hills of the Ozarks: “Setting shrewdness/ aside,” readers may find themselves “surprised what value/ something neither finery nor tool/ can have.”In the words of Phil Howerton, editor of the 2019 Anthology of Ozark Literature:Fowler unfolds a many-sided verbal diorama of the history and culture of Arkansas and the South. Observer and participant, he combines wit, irony, acumen, empathy, and a sense of place to salvage the sacred and noble from even the most chaotic remnants of human recklessness. Fowler, like his protagonist in the title poem, absorbs regret, sorrow, guilt, and pain and translates it all into vigorous and vibrant art that humanizes the past and offers redemption.

“Architecture doesn't just apply to buildings. It can apply to the way we shape our environment and the habitats of other creatures,” says Monica Barron. “There's also an architecture to our emotional/intellectual makeups.” Deeply aware of how humans read their surroundings, and how these readings become the bones of a culture, Barron takes us from pond to prairie, from beauty salon to abandoned gas station, from fireside loving to winter ice. Often meditative, often whimsical, the songs, sonnets, and postcard poems in Prairie Architecture cluster naturally around ideas or images, though Barron rejects the rigidity of sections with titles. “I’ve focused on sequencing poems that might help reveal the bones of the body of the book,” she says.Thus, we see how environment shapes perspective in “Why We Need Ponds,” (“to break the monotony of crops,” for example, and “to teach us patience/ when the water we prepared for doesn’t come.” We see environment shaping perspective again two poems later, in “Kansas makes her think about.” In this small and precise poem “banks of wild, cream-colored iris/ mark where a house used to be,” and we sense past and present blend in beauty.And just a few poems later, in a set of seven linked sonnets titled “Meditation from West of the River,” we watch the poet remembering how “a heart/could hold heat like sand after a sunset,” and again, how “a steady heart can hold heat across/ two states. Mine did. Light and color/ sustained me.” This seemingly simple means of sustenance gets immediately complicated as Barron names the colors: “the silver of frost on rotting soybeans” and the red of “a carcass left to the dogs as the sun bled/ the afternoon away.” The linked poems here together convey a long and rich love in which closeness and distance play their parts, and in which “whatever it is that connects the heart and mind/ it’s at the mercy of memory.”In the words of Jamie D’Agostino, describing the half-dozen “postcard poems” scattered through the book, “Barron’s the perfect poet to write these: armed with the photographer’s eye, the traveler’s restlessness, and the poet’s imagined scrawl on the back of the card, she’s out there, missing us, taking in the world she wants to share.” Prairie Architecture gives body to the wide expanses of the human heart by quickly, lightly touching the tiny nerves and arteries which feed it—whether they are heated by a funereal bonfire (“Fare Well”) or warmed like butternut squash simmering in wine (“Sometimes your only muse is The Minimalist”) or as empty as Audrey’s Place after the owner shot her husband in the abandoned kitchen (“Hunting Song.”) The medieval concept of microcosm/macrocosm finds a natural place here as word-become-image grows into rich, dense, sweet, sharp metaphor, and human concerns find their place in the midst of it all.As Lori Desrosiers concludes, “we will always remember grandmother’s signs of rain, and find beauty in this exquisite journey of a book.”

Calling Planet Earth: Close Encounters with Sun Ra pulls us into the quirky world of the jazzmusician known first as Herman Blount, then as Sun Ra (1914-1993), the Arkestra leaderwho claimed for most of his life to have come from Saturn. The book opens with anintroduction to Ra’s “sub-underground” music, a sound which fascinated the author andturned him into a fan almost fifty years ago. Introductory sections set up key questions, like,“But is it Jazz?” and “Where is Sun Ra Coming From, Besides Saturn?” How did a black kidfrom Birmingham, Alabama, wind up proclaiming himself a Pharoah? After the introductioncomes Mielke’s play, Discipline 27-II: A Cosmo-Drama in Two Acts. That’s followed by athorough analysis of an enormous number of recordings, starting in the 1930s and continuingfor the rest of his life. Posthumous releases form a separate chapter. (Most of theintroductory material and analysis of recordings originally appeared in Mielke’s 2013Adventures in Avant Pop, though it has been updated.)In the play Discipline 27-II, which premiered in St. Louis, MO in 2015, Mielke makes SunRa’s claim to have come from outer space not an artist’s Afro-futurist proclamation but astatement of fact. The cast includes Saturn Aliens, a NASA official, and Gaia the EarthGoddess—all watching an elaborate Sun Ra concert. Ra’s actual life story is dramatized inshort scenes against this concert background. We see him growing up as Herman Blount inBirmingham, Alabama, and bantering with the racist judge who sent him to prison for refusingto serve in the Army in 1942. We see him recruiting, teaching, and sheltering the musicianswho became—and still are--the Arkestra. We watch Space Aliens as they comment onracism, estrangement, and music as healing. Scenes in a bar, in a strip club, a recordingstudio, are watched by observant aliens and NASA interrogators as well as by the play’saudience—and the cumulative effect is respectful of the man who says he’s “Mister Ra, …Mister E, but most of all, Mister Mystery.” Sun Ra claimed that his true nature was cosmic,that he had come to enlighten Earth and to teach peace. He and the Arkestra became knownfor futuristic costumes, musical experimentation, and performance art. The play’s notesincludes extensive comments on costume options, sets, and performance alternatives—evena recipe for “Moon Stew,” to be served or sold at the concession stand twenty minutes beforethe play starts. Audience involvement in Discipline 27-II begins immediately, in the theaterlobby where Arkestra members sit at random tables doing improvised riffs of increasingintensity. It continues as we listen in on conversations about philosophy and ethics andmusic, and watch exotic dancers and amazing singers and space aliens interact.

In Into the Cracks, Holly Day gives us 53 precisely crafted fragments of a carefully observed and passionate life. It's the life of a mother, a daughter, a lover, a housewife, a victim, a rebel--told in terms of concrete boots and dying butterflies, clouds of squid ink and the smudged glass of a dusty picture frame.In "Bloodlines," for example, the human impulses to procreate and to protect offspring expand to include a maple tree which "sends its helocopter seeds across the yard/ in desperation dreams of propagation." Does the tree hate the narrator/gardener who clips those seeds--or does it resign itself to sterility? Will it retaliate, tossing branches at the narrator's children during some future storm? The questions behind such questions are rich, the metaphors inventive, sometimes alarming, often humorous.In "Three Screwdriver Hello," we're warned that "I get like a razor when you say/ [you] 'understand,' mock the lonely inside me." In "Bleeding the Brakes Dry," the memory of hearing waves crash on a distant shore can become almost loud enough ("if I try hard enough") to drown out the angry mutterings of a husband out in the garage working on a car that's never going to make it back to that beach.In other poems, we learn to read cracks in pavements and in paintings, cracks made by fingernails running ragged across human skin, cracks in the facade of sanity or sobriety. As the author writes:"I have always found comfort in clutter and chaos, especially when it comes to the natural world and its constant battle with the order imposed by civilization. I delight in seeing spiders run out from underneath the sofa of a perfectly cleaned house, or watching ivy crack its way into a building's facade. For me, the pretense of order, in whatever form it takes, acts as a shield against the unpredictability and lurking chaos of the outside world. In Into the Cracks I aim to dissolve the lines between the unwritten rules which have formed our artificial environments and the reality of a chaotic universe."The cover image for Into the Cracks is a photograph of one of the author's unconventional yet emotionally intense portraits--this one done by patiently, carefully, even meditatively, using a very sharp needle to push and pull colorful threads through the interstices between warp and weft of a quite conventional piece of canvas. Holly Day captures chaos in tiny spaces and holds it there for us to see. And hear. And taste and touch and smell.

How long is the shadow of genocide? How does it affect the offspring of the survivors? Andhow do survivors and their families retain a belief in justice when atrocities go unpunished?These questions are addressed in Jerry M. Burger's novel, The Shadows of 1915. The storytakes place in Central California in 1953, where Armenian immigrants and their families liveone generation removed from the 1915 murder of more than a million Armenians at the handsof the Turkish government. An encounter between the sons of a genocide survivor and someTurkish college students forces each of the main characters to make difficult decisions that pitloyalty to family and community against personal and legal standards of right and wrong. It isa story about a displaced group of people and the consequences of real historic events thathave rarely been examined in fiction. It is also a story about culture, family, recovery fromtragedy, and the nature of justice.

In 2004, when middle-aged Walker Maguire is called to the deathbed of his estranged father, his thoughts return to 1974. He'd worked that summer at the auto factory where his dad, an unhappily retired Air Force colonel, was employed as plant physician. Witness to a bloody fight falsely blamed on a Mexican immigrant, Walker kept quiet, fearing his white co-workers and tyrannical father. Lies snowball into betrayals, leading to a life-long rift between father and son that can only be mended by the past coming back to life and revealing its long-held secrets. You Can See More From Up Here is a coming-of-age tale about the illusion of privilege and the power of the past to inform and possibly heal the present.

Malheur August opens with a map of Malheur County, OR and its Malheur River. "Malheur" means "bad time," we're told--and Nancy Minor plays with that notion skillfully. Set in 1971 with substantial flashback to the 1940s, her novel becomes an utterly convincing portrait of life in rural Oregon a generation or two ago. (Think of Grant Wood joking around with Dorothea Lange.)Our protagonist, Jean Algood, spends her last home-from-college summer, the summer of 1971, questioning her parents' friends and neighbors about what Clete and Oleta had been like at her age, and about what had gone wrong--what had embittered her father and hollowed out her mother in the years before she was born.The questioning here is triggered by a photograph Jean and her cousin find when they venture into the ramshackle hut of the town's recently deceased "old hermit." Who was the hermit? Why did he keep a Kodak image of young Clete Algood in an empty coffee can in his filthy shack? Who was the beautiful girl standing next to Clete in the photo, the one with the too-familiar eyes? The "mannish" woman in the photo, they remember from another Kodak back home: it's Clete's twin sister, Cloris, who hasn't been seen in Malheur County since 1946. The plot thickens as they try to identify the hermit. Sweetens as their mother's old friend recounts parts of Oleta's story. Sours when Clete's tractor overturns. Thickens again when Aunt Opal--Clete's uber-bossy Mormon sister--manages to contact Cloris. And then quietly explodes.This is not a bildungsroman, and it's not a murder mystery; it's a recovery tale, beautifully fragmented and waiting to be stitched back together into the crazy quilt which was "this American life" 50 or 75 years ago. It's spot-on about mid-20th-century rural life: it's full of affection and humor and dread. It's replete with rodeos and kittens, seductions and pregnancies, apple pies and accidental deaths and half-hearted heroism. It's loaded with secrets and their keepers. If you've ever studied the faces in old FSA photos, you've been in Malheur County. Read this book to understand those times.

Jack Powers is attuned to twists of life and language-insults refitted as endearments, families defined by their troubles, great care taken with modes of recklessness . . . . Near the start of his debut collection, he's praising the massive coronary, favoring it over the dwindling disease and dementia that took his elders. But as mortality hovers, he teases, testing wits and teasing out the good stories of lucky close calls, game grandmothers, swearing babies, and a wry mother. . . . Pretty soon, he's against the quick demise-"and the sky seemed full/ of answers, some hurtling/ like arrows into the future." --Amy HolmanIn Amy Holman's words we find the essence of Jack Powers' Everybody's Vaguely Familiar. His "twists of life and language," are like the twists of code in a strand of dna. They replicate, as much as is possible, both what we have in common and what distinguishes us. Why, this collection asks, why does everybody seem vaguely familiar? How do we relate to one another as children, as adults, as elders? Whose perspectives are most convincing--and why? How replicable/reliable are the symbols we use to code "I'm the coolest" or "Neither life nor death can frighten me"?Powers' poems, taken together, describe a full arc of living. In "Carry/Miscarry" we grieve the loss of "a not-yet being with thin veiny arms and legs and head," and in "Do Not Resuscitate," we're reminded that, though "the elderly score highest on happiness polls," it may be "just those who can answer the phone." "In Praise of Heart Attacks" morphs into "In Fear of Heart Attacks," yes, but neither is the final word. Life and language twist into a double helix of questions, which Powers' persona untangles and tangles again. In "Smokin' A Real Cool Brank," he traces a history with cigarettes from age 10 to age 29, balancing the pleasures and perils of tobacco; in "The God of Stupidity," we vicariously experience the crazy freedom of teenaged joyrides--though this poem and others also hint at something potentially destructive in that freedom.About a quarter of the poems deal with elderly dementia, though usually with a generous dose of affectionate and respectful whimsy. Take these lines from "He Couldn't Remember." "He Couldn't Remember/ why he got up, why he'd come upstairs/ . . . But then it never mattered/ what he'd been looking for anyway,/ it's what he'd found. Like this paisley-moted/ shaft of afternoon light bending/ through the dusty panes; a yellow spotlight/ like one from that thirties painter famous/ for lonely men in a night-lit diner."Everybody's Vaguely Familiar is ultimately a joyous collection. Jack Powers' voice is fully human.

This collection of 21 stories is organized into five sections, each with from one to six stories loosely focused on a particular place/time and set of characters. The Blue Heron Lake stories follow a community of Latino workers who eventually attempt to make their town a sanctuary city. The Brandon Forsythe stories feature a talented African American man wrongfully imprisoned. Unemployable as an ex-con, he becomes a successful drug lord. The Carmichael stories feature two generations of Swedish immigrants in upstate New York, facing--or avoiding--the challenges which industrialization and automation create. The Snake stories, set in 1920s South Carolina, provide disturbing, unforgettable images of Jim Crow at work. And the stand-alone story, Morocco, we believe, will convince readers that travel can help heal the deepest of wounds.

In Small Bites, Don Tassone offers readers bits of contemporary life, mostly gentle, mostly optimistic, often instructive. Stories range from flash-fiction size half-pagers to twenty-page studies of how relationships develop, how decisions are made and unmade, how persuasion and collaboration work.The collection is divided into fourteen tiny Appetizers, twelve substantial Entrees, and fourteen small but intense Desserts. Appetizers like "Friends" and "Run" are quick and easy to consume; they're secular parables, meant to produce a small, "got it!" sense of surprise as readers fill in what's implied but not directly stated. Entrees range more widely, sometimes questioning current forms of connectivity, sometimes underscoring a sense that humans need to trust and to engage with one another. "The Discord in Our Souls," for example, leaves readers puzzling over which of several bad options is least bad. "Beauty Mark" traces a model's reaction to the accident which defaces her. "Everything Is Real" includes a ghost. Most stories in the final set, the Desserts, focus on beginnings and endings--on little acts of courage, sweet though painful memories, manageable ironies.In Small Bites, Don Tassone combines insights gained during a successful thirty-year career in corporate public relations with those which come from growing up in a middle class American family, becoming a parent, watching people grow. He's the author of the novel, Drive, and another collection of stories titled Get Back. He currently teaches courses at Xavier University, writes, and enjoys cooking up stories like these.

The collection contains fifty-one poems divided into five sections, each (except the truncated last) containing eleven poems. The first section, Ozark Dark, introduces the rocky landscape and heavy mud of the Ozarks, the coyotes, bobcats, and deep poverty with which farm families cope. In the second section, Marooned, Albin sketches moments in the lives of people born into Ozark ways--ways which they accept and sometimes celebrate. At a family reunion, for example, "work-worn men" who've spent an afternoon churning ice cream "lean marooned on porch steps," listening to their children play. Section three, Axe, Fire, Mule, features farmers determining what must be done, and doing it: hefting hay bales, moving stones, repairing an old fiddle, watching deer, dealing with flood and drought. ( In "Burn Ban" the speaker accepts a neighbor's defiance of the ban, because the proud old man has always done slash-and-burn farming.) The poems in section four, Rose of Sharon, are from a teacher's point of view; he sees Latino immigrants bravely learning English while local racists sneer; he watches downsized factory workers and Iraq veterans struggle to figure out where they belong. In the final section, Will and Testament, an octogenarian, "Cicero Jack" reflects on his Ozarks. Its riverlands, once home to the Osage, are now littered with drunken tourists, and prized by land developers. Though his grandkids think he's "a mule," and he knows change is inevitable, Cicero Jack wills his city-dwelling heirs something more free and valuable than "bass boats and bank accounts."Eight photographs done by the author's sister, Kelli Albin, enhance the visual impact of the poetry.

Nick Reynolds is a highly successful food company executive. He's also a bully, feared by his employees and estranged from his wife and children. After his latest blow-up at work, Nick's boss orders him to take the summer off and sort himself out. Angry and despondent, Nick sets off, alone, from his home in Chicago for Bar Harbor, Maine. This is the story of what Nick experiences, learns and chooses along the way. It is a colorful and moving portrait of a man who must rediscover who he is and decide whether he can go on.