ABOUT David Lazar

 

David Lazar's books include The Body of Brooklyn (Iowa), Truth in Nonfiction: Essays (Iowa), Michael Powell:  Interviews and Conmversations with M.F.K. FISHER (both Mississippi)His prose poems and essays have appeared in The Southwest Review, Denver Quarterly, Best of the Prose Poem, Gulf Coast, Sentence, Southern Humanities Review and many other journals and magazines.  He is the director of the nonfiction program at Columbia College Chicago, and the editor of Hotel Amerika.

 

 

Pecan Grove Press

Powder Town
by David Lazar

ISBN: 978-1-931247-52-8  $17

"Powder Town burns with wit, richness of language and idiom, and a droll but invigorating intelligence and humor.  Lazar's various speakers place us in mid-century America, and earlier, the film noir subjects and textures resonating in glorious black & white and preserving our smudged collective soul, the everyman/ woman lost in the lost city.  At every turn, Lazar risks clarity, and his use of by-gone jargon is resonant, playful and serious, existential and lyric.  These prose poems cast a look back at our history, with hope and hopelessness combined."                —Christopher Buckley

"David Lazar's voice surprises the reader and wakes the world to the thriving art of the prose poem.  His vision and word play lead to a serious study of the form but, before you know it, this book has taken a journey toward revelation and redemption.  In other words, this is  a text of celebration and contains writing that prepares the human soul for the future."                            —Ray Gonzalez


The Dark Lady of the Movies

 

I don’t have to shoot. I don’t have to glide words around the wound of the world, or my own, like a schoolboy learning how to use a slide rule, or something slipping down a dark alley. Men are terminally glibthat’s the original sin. When they rib you, you’d think they created you. The rib is the rub; I let them think I’m amused. When I cross my legs, or genuflect, I’m playing with two things I made all by myself—them and me, like the monster making Frankenstein, and himself. I’m the bride, but not Christ’s, sugar, and not of any sucker in seersucker, with a line in one hand and a little piece of shadow in the other. I’m the bride of myself, a holy matrimony made in a hollow place near Saginaw, and a ceremony where I play every part: priestess, bridesmaid, bridesman?--I made that word up—the woman who shouts her own objections. I’m the church in a red dress, the sacrifice of self-sacrifice, a union of necessity and a torn piece of white linen. If you think you see a streak of light across my eyes, it’s because the face of the world was conceived blackly, and a voice told me to provide something dark and shiny, some image of self-image, repeated. I need an accomplice, that’s my fatal flaw, slouching towards a couch in a shabby room when I should be the Empress of China, Cleopatra, at least Theda Bara. Even though the asp comes out of my breast, it strikes back at its home; but it’s still a fatal mistake to think I won’t get the goods on you, that I could be shanghaied is a dirty little myth: I’m a hall of mirrors that no one should ever shoot in.

 

 



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