National Network for Equitable Library Service

Winner of the 2008 Trillium Book Award for Poetry Write for buyers. Write for bosses. Think hyper. Think branding. Tell your visitor where to go.

Whether misreading sixth grade pedagogical materials or offering visual schematics for reading Michel Foucault and Judith Butler, Jon Paul Fiorentino's sixth poetry collection asks us to reconsider

Beside me, on the stone steps of this quiet courtyard, there is a lame man – the sweeper. He is so thin that the end of his belt comes back around to its buckle.

At times a call to action and at others an intimate conversation between friends, Currin’s sensual and surreal poems speak to the political upheavals and environmental catastrophes of our time.

Deliciously wicked satires about local and international celebrities, the poems in Portable Altamont evince an irrepressible grasp of the zeitgeist, its machinations and manipulations, its possibil

Warning: this book may encourage a series of ungrammatical thoughts! Welcome to the poetic landscape of Mark Truscott, where less is more than you bargained for.

Implicating extremes from Coriolanus to Karen Carpenter, David McGimpsey’s Sitcom is both serious poetry and a work of comedy.

Steve Reinke is one of the most intriguing artists we've got; his scope is enormous, his imagination absolutely singular.

David spends his days as an underworked copy writer for an ad agency and his nights lost in old war movies, fantasizing about his strange teenage cousin and revisiting his father's suicide.

Brian Lembeck – ‘Pulpy’ – takes life slow and steady. He likes his office job, and he likes his gentle, figurine-collecting boss, Al.

Winner of the Trillium Book Award for Poetry (2013) If it were necessary to tell someone where I am, I’d say the spheres of Kepler resonate like icicles. I’d say I have loved.

Most of the things Pillow really liked to do were obviously morally wrong. He wasn't an idiot; clearly it was wrong to punch people in the face for money.

Can a breakup break you apart? In Self-Titled, Geoffrey Brown stares into a mirror and writes what he sees, what he thinks, what he feels. The result?

His body, like yours, would lie mute as a plumuntil a vigilant limb came to a decision. As you might have guessed I've come to one myself.

The fairground screamed. The mountains and valley were gone. The fire was gone too. The hanging ‘because’ was gone too.