The only way these poems could’ve existed without the glorious mind of Tim Earley is if Gertrude Stein, having found herself suddenly preaching in the deep south, punched Gerard Manley Hopkins in the face while he sang in her choir, and if the rearrangement of bruise and bone, fist to face, her language against his, was delivered to the congregation as a prayer, as a whole town’s last goddamn hope, then maybe, maybe the faintest scent of these poems, having stayed on the collar of a small boy’s woolen coat a little too long, wafted into the cold, crisp air, traveling from bird to bird, waking up the oldest prisoner with only minutes before his sentence to write Earley’s words down. This is how beautiful and impossible. This is how rare. Thank god for Tim Earley and his new, heavenly sack of genius poems.
— Sabrina Orah Mark
Slinging anti-psalms about the southland, Tim Earley plays chicken to win, thus upending so much of what you thought you thought about the American poem in prose. Herein are oaths–as in both promises and curses–and the good kind of being buried alive.
You, yes you, can pre-order this and many other fine books from our forthcoming 2014 catalog here.