#wavebooks

WHILE STANDING IN LINE FOR DEATH is the brand new CA Conrad book from Wave Books. We are pumped for this and you will be too. Order now at spdbooks.org . . . . . #wavebooks #caconrad #(soma)ticpoetry #bookstagram #books #book #bookshelf #poetry #poet #poem #poems #smallpressdistribution #standinginlinefordeath (at Small Press Distribution)

🇪🇸 Y he aquí el formato pin, en resina UV. Este se lo va a quedar Cristian Blanco, que como yo le digo es mi afamado escritor. 🇬🇧 And here is the pin format, in UV resin. This is going to stay Cristian Blanco, who as I say is my famous writer. #cristianblanco #llamadaluna #wavebooks #writer #pin #uvresin #resin #escritor #brooch #ilustración #ilustration #dibujo #drawn #drawing #paint #painting #pendrawing #artdrawing #art #arte #artist #instaart #artoftheday #artista #dailyart #sketch #color #bocetos (en Mataró)

"i stroke piano's/eighty-eight mouths, each one sings/hot colors of joy" - from E (flat) in Tyehimba Jess' OLIO 📚❤️🎹 #books #read #reading #bookish #booklover #booklife #bibliophile #poetry #tyehimbajess #olio #wavebooks #bookstagram #booksofinstagram @wavepoetry

congratulations to Tyehimba Jess, but to Wave Books as well!

Tyehimba Jess is spectacular. This book is extraordinary. A masterpiece drawing on themes of race, gender, performance, and archives. The structure is good, the thinking is good and what's more, the poetry is very, very good, unexpectedly. You should read this book. Trust me. #poetry #wavebooks #blackness #olio #poem

Only a few days left in our sale! Get 40% off select titles and a copy of The Wave Papers with all orders through January 1st. To browse all titles on sale, visit our website: http://www.wavepoetry.com/collections/december-sale

The New Exercises Broadside Box Set, which is comprised of twelve silk-screened broadsides of aphorisms by Franck André Jamme printed on mirricard paper, is included in the sale! To view all titles included in the sale, visit http://www.wavepoetry.com/collections/december-sale

I began the day thinking that writing was becoming a thing of the past as my fondness for Rollerblading now was, though in my time of writing and my time of Rollerblading—and these did sometimes overlap—I was far better at the former than the latter. I was far better at writing than I was at Rollerblading, and for the most part considered them vastly different. However, when they departed my life, they did so identically, robbing me of the ability—in retrospect—of remembering separately when I wrote and when I Rollerbladed. You were going to say that writing was for birds flying when suddenly a feeling came over you. Someone beautiful was talking about your sentences. It felt like rain. Things were starting to line up: history was speaking, which hardly ever happened to me. It was saying I had arrived at a moment where I could put writing “down” and walk away from it. I remembered the ache in my mouth when I ran into the back of that pickup truck. I was alone in a parking lot and had already given up too much—too much to brake, too much to swerve. I gave up most in my mouth, where a tooth chipped and I bit through my lip. I gave up most in going to the hospital. The language I had accumulated confused me, and slamming into the truck had cut my knees. I didn’t know how to explain myself to the medic, but soon I began writing poems. In the ensuing years, the poems became prose, and I had written my last of it. Finally, I was done.