REUS for sale!

NOW FOR SALE! Tyler Cain Lacy‘s REUS:

Tyler Cain Lacy is a New Mexican living in Chicago. More of his work can be found in Sprung Formal, Columbia Poetry Review, Caliban, Otoliths, and elimae, among others. REUS is his first chapbook, and is hand sewn with a letter pressed cover, printed in an edition of 100.

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$10/domestic orders:

$15/international orders:

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Thank You

Thank you to all who have submitted for PressBoardPress Vol. 2. We are excited to dive into your work and look forward to putting out what is sure to be an excellent magazine. Check back in January when we ring in the new year with some new work!

Now reading submissions for PressBoardPress Vol. 2!

PressBoardPress is committed to printing both established and emerging poets, writers, artists, and any combination of the above. Wonder what work we are looking for? Take a look at PressBoardPress Vol. 1 or search through any of the weekly submissions.

Reading period for PressBoardPress Vol. 2 will run from August 28, 2013 – November 28, 2013

Please read the following:

Please give us four weeks to respond after the reading period closes. If you do not receive a response in that time, please e-mail us at pressboardpress@gmail.com.

If you submit to our e-mail, your submission will be immediately rejected. Please use Submittable™ to submit your work. The link is provided at the bottom of this page.

Do not submit multiple submissions. Send it in one file. If you plan to send both fiction and poetry, please submit in the respective options.

When sending in your submission, provide a small biography (70 words max.) about yourself in the third person. Please do not list all of the places you’ve been published in. Just select three or four places that you’re proud to be published in. We do NOT want your CV of publications.

*Do note that if you do agree to publish with PressBoardPress, we acquire one-time rights. Copyright reverts back to the author after the publication of their work.

*Please do not submit previously published works.

Submit to us here at: [submittable].

When You’re Not Dreaming and Chronicles for sale!

PressBoardPress is proud to announce the release of the last two summer chapbooks!

When You’re Not Dreaming by Kayla Rizzo is now available here:
http://pressboardpress.com/contributors/j-l/kayla-rizzo/

Chronicles by Janet Kaplan in now available here:
http://pressboardpress.com/contributors/j-l/janet-kaplan/

Both books are $10 for domestic orders (shipping is included), and $15 for international orders.

Both covers are letter pressed and hand sewn, When You’re Not Dreaming is an edition of 50, Chronicles is an edition of 100.

Four Poems by Sarah Marchant

Autumn ’11

This is the October of grasshoppers and cricket-cousins
robin’s egg scarves trailing the ground
gathering dirt from sport shoes, homecoming high heels.
This is the October of tea stains on the countertop
cucumber seeds ground into the carpet off a sandwich that we shared,
left to cool for too long.
This is the October of dirty laundry, dirty mugs,
expired coupon deals with coffee rings branded on,
sheets of stamps and piles of letters
comic clippings and tea sachets
Cheyenne’s purple blouse
and dollops of fresh air too small to swallow.



autumn still weighs on me

and the leaves still fall
stuttering in my path
borrowing the dark to
keep you
everywhere;
a stray instance
uncovered, eclipsing the sky
edges crumple
-ing

sugar spell,
you will not hold me
I have grown
I can see your tricks
the tone that
beckons, a
fire
masquerading
as safe light(a shelter)
but I will not be tangled
in orange strings
t-t-tension pulled

my dear
my loved one
there is no atmosphere
I suck out your voice
kill the temptation
and suffocate the memories



closure

hiccups rack my body like it’s
coming apart at the seams and
claire sits sipping something,
maybe coffee, in her black and
yellow dress; shamar takes four
creams in his, while i prefer
milk, two sugars, and threads of
hazelnut. rain-speck details like
lee’s impending court case, valerie
prepping for her senior art show,
anxiously painting while watching
her korean dramas. sure there
are eight or nine planets in our
solar system but ellen loves
robin hood and pirates, baseball
boys and sweet tea by the jug.
gigi wishes josiah was still in
choir, and i wish the tornado would
tear through and sweep me up
in a fit of fresh flower petals.


Discount

Edge of headache, brimming.
Fluff of blue princess costume
flowing from aisle to scuffed aisle
trapped. Hundred tiny candles
blink multi-colored eyes
praying – “leave soon?”
“free soon?”
Gnawing around the tongue
ever-so-eager to agree with
aching, angry, intolerable skulls.
Not the one the boy carried, mind
just one throwing canvases
with no paint and no time for children
you child.


Profile: Sarah Marchant

Two Poems by Jesse Prado

push me

push off of me

let’s watch the pusher trilogy at kevins’

we don’t have to watch the entire thing

it isn’t a marathon

I played a part in the planning and I didn’t want to make anyone feel obligated by planning that way

So you can leave whenever you want

Nobody will say/think anything of it


somebody shot me a sinister look before applying chapstick to their face

moments before this

I’m thinking about taking my cousin to the driving range

He had a reception after his graduation last Sunday and I didn’t go

I think I was working

I’m working now


Profile: Jesse Prado

Two Flash Fictions (Spring Breakers, Ceremonial Garb) by Marcus Slease

SPRING BREAKERS

Gerald introduced the movie. He was Navajo. The spring breakers waited for Gerald to finish his shift. They waited outside and smoked 12 Marlboro lights under the awning of an Indian smoke shop. There was a big rubber Indian outside the indian smoke shop.

When Gerald exited the imax movie house one of the spring breakers put her hand over his eyes. The other put her hand over his mouth. Then they giggled. They said: wanna be happy and have fun. They asked Gerald to buy them some Bud Light from the nearby gas station. Gerald said: sure. He went into the shop and bought a case of Bud Light. Then they went to the playground and drank them and smoked Marlboro Lights while swinging on the swings. They swung as high as they could and jumped off the swings into the dirt. They had a contest to see who could jump the furthest. It was a tie. They kept landing in the same spot.

- Do ya’all wanna head up the canyon and sleep under the stars? (said one of the spring breakers)
- Whatdoya say? You got a sleeping bag? (said the other looking at Gerald)

Gerald nodded. Said he could pick them up in his Ford Tempo. His Ford Tempo was a hunk of a car.

- Be back soon. (said Gerald)

When Gerald pulled up in his hunky Ford Tempo the spring breakers began singing their theme song. The theme song was: spring break spring break forever. They sung it really softly. It was a lullaby pop song.

On the way up the canyon one of the spring breakers said: watch this. She undid her seat belt and wrapped it around Gerald’s neck. The other stopped the car by taking over the steering wheel and pushing slowly on the brake pedal. The car didn’t stop slowly. It went off the side of the road in a pile of dust. It didn’t roll down the canyon. It didn’t flip over. There wasn’t an explosion. No one got hurt.

- Would you like a Bud Light? (asked one of the Spring Breakers)

Gerald looked at the spring breaker with the longest hair. She had brown hair and did a guffaw when she laughed. He liked her spacey grin. But he especially liked her peachy lips.

- Sure. (he said)

The spring breakers and Gerald drank Bud Lights on the side of the road looking down into the gaping mouth of the canyon. They went to the trunk and pulled out their sleeping bags. They saw a sign for a trial. They walked along the dirt trial humming Hit Me Baby One More Time.

- So tell us story. (said the spring breaker with the longest hair)
- Yeah. (said Gerald). I am not really into that.
- Oh come on (said the other spring breaker with short short hair and sun kissed lips). You must have some good stories from around her.

Gerald continued to refuse the spring breakers a story. He pulled out a toy pistol and pretend fired into the dirt.

- I am firing into the skirts of my ancestors. (he said)

The spring breakers nodded. They pulled out their i-phones. They looked up dirt. The spring breaker with sun kissed lips read dirt to Gerald:

As cities developed, arrangements were made for the disposal of dirt. The Public Health Act 1875 required households to place their refuse into a container which could be moved so that its contents could be carted away. This was the first legal creation of the dustbin.

Gerald and the spring breakers sat in the dirt for a while and ate an apple. When the long haired spring breaker finished half of her apple she held it to her eye. She held up the half eaten apple to her eye and looked at the short haired spring breaker.

- You’re the apple of my eye. (she said in a sultry voice)

The short haired spring breaker pulled out a pistol. It was a real pistol. She stuck it in her mouth. Then she stuck it in Gerald’s mouth. Gerald sucked the barrel. He sucked the barrel back and forth. Then they laid down in the dirt for a group hug.


CEREMONIAL GARB

Spare Ass Annie was the name of the turtle. It was a warrior turtle. It wore turtle armor and battled giant centipedes. The centipedes were called William Butler Yeats. The centipedes lived in centipede city and the turtle lived in a big box. The big box also had the bones of youthful vigor.

The local priest was authorized to wear ceremonial garb. Once a month he held a festival of youthful vigor. He made everyone kiss the turtle in his box. Then they assumed the position. The position was filth and humiliation.

One day the centipedes caught on. They stopped invading the big box full of the bones of youthful vigor. They lined up their centipede bodies and ate the priest. They made new ceremonial garb. The ceremonial garb was made of meat coats.


Profile: Marcus Slease

Bad Blood by Hannah Simon

Bad Blood

Bible pages are thin like the
paper of skin, punctured, at times,
so cleanly, met with red grace;
the new intelligence is that of blood.
Just as prisoners get family names
tattooed across their shoulders,
the syrup of ancestral pride
meeting the tip of the needle
with each dark injection;
we carry our fathers on our backs,
their stories coded in our skin like
the shimmering gospels of centuries.
Fathers are the ancient intelligence of books;
I have shelves of them,
cracked spines with fraying thread,
dust floating from aging corners;
the segments of my fingers growing long
as I uncurl them from fists,
thirsty for pages, reaching.
The reach is the tragedy of the want
without the satisfaction of the get;
I learned how to reach from my father;
always too tall, his hands, somewhere,
above my head; lingering there,
or was it a halo,
dripping tears of light over the yellow hair
of pink-cheeked daughterhood;
The weight seemed unbearable on my back;
and with clean skin, I felt the heaviness
of love like skipping rocks in my pocket,
the solid iron slam of bars on the cellblock,
synonymous with the vibration of pipe organs,
the tattoo needle, poking holes in my skin.
Now, older, I am covered in the reaching;
my back bearing its weight,
attached to my flesh, the words;
touched by the needle, pain is the only
sensation speaking to my pores.
It is murder, really, this way of reaching
for a God in the heavy books
of man, only to close the covers,
and shelve them again.


Profile: Hannah Simon

The Ancestral Home 1-6 by Matthew Antonio

The Ancestral Home #1

In the room
of weeping tables,
the desk lectures
on a range of topics
in its slippery pitch.


The Ancestral Home #2

In the room
of vagrant trees,
they huddle around
small fires and watch
themselves dwindle.


The Ancestral Home #3

In the room
of infinite showers,
the small boy wonders if
the man with a large knife
will find him.


The Ancestral Home #4

In the room
of thick light,
the man with a shining
head moves slowly
to the blind door.


The Ancestral Home #5

In the room
of empty frames,
the missing guests gather
to reminisce about
empty white spaces.


The Ancestral Home #6

In the room
of soft walls,
we press ourselves into them
to escape the bright
surgical equipment.


Profile: Matthew Antonio

Three Poems by John Grey

SOUTH SEA VACATION

You can never
have enough souvenirs apparently.
Tourists flock the stalls.
The more they buy
the more they can say they were there.

Palm fronds flutter,
waves link up with a golden shore,
a volcano cooks in the background,
but none of these are for sale.

The motel’s so close
to the water
it’s like the ocean is just
another guest.
Tonight, there’s a fish fry.
Everyone’s dressed in floral shirts,
so maybe the landscape will take the hint.

And then there’s the entertainment
as the locals find out just in time
they’re really natives,
dress and dance accordingly.


SHERIFF RIVER

This stream was a snake in a previous life.
It defies the earth it cuts through to make it straighten.
Why take the quickest route when you can bend
and curve through farm-land, around houses,

under bridges, through the town not once but thrice.
It must imagine itself as seen from above. Maps bury
the quickest path between two points. But geography
kowtows to a sidewinder. Forget the towns.

It’s the Sheriff River and its willow posse.
It’s unpredictable. It’s ornery. It doesn’t scoop up the clay and
kick it downstream but prefers to slosh it from side to side.
Its current is a kick-step: quick, slow, quick, slow.

Kids can’t run along its banks fast as their rubber soles
can take them. Its bends are the enemy of momentum.
They have to slow or veer off the path. It’s a better teacher
than that bespectacled ma’am with her gray hair in a bun.

The stream may yet be a snake but it doesn’t bite. It
cools the dangling toes, feeds the prancing fish-hooks.
The eye can’t follow it for more than a hundred yards or so
and a canoe’s not worth the trouble. But it’s always been

there, always will be. High school graduation. Runaway horse.
First kiss. Broken-down jalopy. Barn fire. Truth is, it’d be straight
as a plumb line if it weren’t for all this living. For it’s
years that are its detours. It’s people are its deviations.


IN THE A.M

Morning
takes its cues from
knuckles rubbing eyes,
footsteps descending stairs,
the rattle of cups,
kettle hiss.

Light doesn’t do it,
not even the burning off
of dew.
It needs people
and the noise they make.
It requires them moving,
with each sip of coffee,
scrub of teeth,
looking less and less
like sleep.

Morning won’t get
the day going
unless it knows
that there’ll be someone
using it.


Profile: John Grey