Beautiful people always get what they want.

Elizabeth Salas, single, middle-aged, and mostly confined to her room, lives in a faceless city in the American Southwest. She has little hope for the future. And then a young man named Jace Jason walks through the door…

Epic in scope, The Moon Down to Earth is filled with living, breathing characters rarely seen in modern novels today.

Look no further for the great American novel. James Nulick has lusted, labored and agonized to deliver just that. The Moon Down to Earth does more to remind us what the form is capable of than any in recent memory. With its almost unbearably intimate and probing portrayals of its richly inhabited characters, through their rolling, cascading thoughts, Nulick situates us in their deepest interiors and implicates us in their crimes. Río Seco is a Hispanic neighborhood in North Hill, a barrio evocative of the essence of the American Southwest. Moon follows eight coexisting lives as they navigate the quotidian and confront uncomfortable truths about themselves and the world, our world, which their humanity must reckon with. It so completely submerges us in the milieux that you can smell the dirt and desert dust. It never objectifies, never panders, it interrogates and provokes, it’s the kind of book that’ll light up parts of your brain you haven’t used in a very long time. It’s an experience like no other which will jolt a reader into recognition of what it is to be alive and human in 21st century America, with all its dimmed promises and tragic dimensions, its numbing vibrations, ebbings and flowings, its coruscating, convulsing noise and seductively unspeakable pinched nerve promises. Mystifying in its testament to our universal condition with respect to alien longings, Moon may as well have been programmed by an extraterrestrial on an ancient technology in some lost future long ago. Intoxicating and hallucinatory, The Moon Down to Earth stimulates in such a way as to lay bare everything you’re hiding. It reads you as you read it. Don’t miss this singular experience of sharing time on this rock together and alone. Nulick has put it all here in this extraordinary feat of revelation, defiant in its sensitivity and tireless determination to challenge the limits of writing.

Novels need human beings, and if there’s something James Nulick’s novel The Moon Down to Earth has, it is human beings, in all their multifold, messy complexity. By the end I felt as if I knew them intimately, from their musical tastes to the smell of their pillows. These desperate women and men aren’t just living on the edge, they’re dissolving in the singularity, the lapsarian wasteland of 21st century America, but Nulick allows a frail, fungal numinosity to glow through the cracks.
—James Champagne, author of Harlem Smoke

James Nulick’s writing is tender and knowing as he explores, in The Moon Down to Earth, the inner lives of outsiders, the longings and disappointments, the fantasy and reality of pure quotidian existence. It is achingly beautiful in its description of the desires and disappointments of the neglected and the invisible.
—Steve Finbow, author of The Mindshaft

James Nulick’s The Moon Down to Earth is a multi-narrative, unconventional, exciting novel in the spirit of William T. Vollmann—moving, sad, and at times, humorous. The Moon Down to Earth gives us hope for the future of the American novel.
—Brandon Hobson, author of The Removed

In The Moon Down to Earth, the definitions of conventional beauty and acceptable desire are ripped open and turned inside out. James Nulick’s characters felt utterly alive to me. This is a fantastic novel that will stay with me a long time.
—Chelsea Hodson, author of Tonight I’m Someone Else

With The Moon Down to Earth, James Nulick has succeeded in crafting some of the most perfectly sublime stand-alone sentences I have ever seen in a modern American novel.
—Mike Kleine, author of Kanley Stubrick

James Nulick’s prose in The Moon Down to Earth is extraordinary, once harsh and tender, flaying and consoling, yet also enlivened by wit and erudition. The results are deeply revealing of the body’s incantatory rhythms, the somatic thought-forms. In this manner he delves with his reader to the limit of his characters’ souls.
—Jonathan Lethem

Enjoy the beautiful writing.

James Nulick is a tousle-headed genius.
—David Rae, author of Crowman

The Moon Down to Earth is a hypnotic and frightening exploration of psychosis, though not without moments of strange warmth and tenderness. The hopes and desires of its various narrators—a bed-ridden social worker, a cosmos-minded pizza courier, a widower thirsting for sex and death—twist out toward each other like the tips of fractals before curling inward and collapsing. Here, Nulick beautifully captures the sheer psychedelia of human existence, and the myriad ways we devour each another.
—B.R. Yeager, author of Negative Space

There is a sentence in James Nulick’s The Moon Down to Earth that I copied by hand so I could practice writing something more beautiful than I am currently capable of.
—Christopher Zeischegg, author of The Magician


5.5 x 8.5″. 404 pages perfect-bound. Cover Art by G.P. DeSalvo. 


(U.S. only, email for international orders)

Round 2 : Interview with James Nulick

The Idiot (Ligeia Magazine)

The Teacher (Soft Cartel)

The Most Beautiful Question in the World (Terror House)


Dennis Cooper Blog: Please Welcome to the World…




A thunderclap of nebular shards, a ne plus ultra moment. The doyenne of irrationality and freedom comes bearing juicy fruit. There’s a dreamy, desirous heart pounding and a swoony abandon beneath the waves Elizabeth Victoria Aldrich has been making since she burst into the scene like a bolt of cosmic lightning littering stardust and shrapnel everywhere she went. Glamorous, painful, fearlessly honest…when I met her she was ready to die and I believed her. Over the course of more than a year, she’s become a known quantity in underground literature, with an ineffable charm and bottomless empathy having endeared her to virtually everyone she’s met. In this, her debut novel, she marries starry-eyed feral lust with California decadence and punk poetry in a sensory carnival of bleary abstraction and bubblegum. Meet Madzi, our narrator’s dream girl, Rorschach of the feminine ideal, a hot mess dripping sex appeal and riling you up, making your life magical and sublime before leaving a trail of dirty clothes and synthetic rails into your worst nightmare. A kaleidoscope of sapphic saturnalia and fast living, stroking the barrel and pouring ropefuel over your clean sheets, Ruthless Little Things tells of callow lust and hollow predation, of addiction and personality disorders, of heartbreak and wild nights, gallery shows, incontinent ragers. It is a tender, sorehearted transmission from a self-made prison, and an earnest flight toward escape. It is manic, sanguine, surreal, sad and revealing. Its lines burn themselves into you. It wreaks havoc and it never lies to you. An ethereal emotional hangover. The era of error is here.

Elizabeth Victoria Aldrich speaks more truth in this slim elegant glitterbomb than most writers speak in an entire lifetime.
— James Nulick, author of The Moon Down to Earth

Ruthless Little Things cribs the aesthetic sensibilities of at-risk teen tales like Thirteen and Prozac Nation and spins them into impossibly grand grotesqueries. Vacillating between white hot lucidity and drooling contemplation, it eviscerates precious anti-drug protestantism in favor of something way, way, way too real. It is the only good drug novel.
— Maggie Siebert


5.5 x 8.5″. 116 pages perfect-bound. Cover Art by Arturo Herman Medrano. Ships January 15th or sooner. 


(U.S. only, email for international orders)

Selections (Neutral Spaces)

It Tastes Like Fall (Surfaces)

Meth and Honey Jar (Terror House)

Cocaine Doom Meet With Video On Zoom feat. James Krendel-Clark

Search: Elizabeth V Aldrich

Search: Elizabeth Victoria Aldrich

Search: Eris Mohr




Welcome to a nameless town in Russia, circa late 19th century, the reign of the Tsars, the war machine churning, the love machine burning. Enter Ted Prokash and all the qualities you know and love him for- exacting attention to detail, the everyman narrator, a flair for the heartbreaking human drama, the highs and lows of war and peacetime in the last gasp of an empire, before the dawn of more precarious times. Ted Prokash, whose robust conviction for the classical Russian novel does nothing to suppress his singularly earthy and familiar voice, turns his keenly observational eye on the foibles and frailties of two friends, Nikolai Andreyevich and Vasily Medved, their families, love interests and closest associates. Nikolai Andreyevich is vast in scope for its modest length, generous with its characters as they endure the ravages of time, contend with separation, reckon with ineluctable duties and opportunities whisking loved ones away. Strong women, raffish men, soldiers, anarchists, power struggles, familial intergenerational strife, cloak and dagger palace intrigue, all the internecine quintessential violence of life out of time and place. This milieux is dense and deep as quicksand, these exploits are pornographically profound. These fortunes will soon be pedigreed. Dig it, we’re bringing back the historical novel. From the prefatory author’s note:

You may notice an untoward eagerness on the part of our narrator to characterize certain individual actions, broad societal trends and even the most general ideas as being very “Russian”. This should not be construed as a claim by the author on any special knowledge of late 19th century tsarist Russia. Rather it’s a device in keeping with this book’s central idea: that all people, even when separated by hundreds of years of history, and or thousands of miles of geography, behave about the same. Substitute the word ‘American’ or ‘human’ for the word ‘Russian’ if it reads any easier.


5.5 x 8.5″. 228 pages perfect-bound. Cover Art by Arturo Herman Medrano. 


(U.S. only, email for international orders)

Another Year, Another Interview with Ted Prokash

The Story of Medved [excerpt]

Excerpt: Chapter II of Boingers! A Club for Gentlemen




In Damien Ark’s debut novel, Fucked Up, seventeen-year-old Elliott attempts to survive the trauma of being the sole survivor of a serial killer while his abusive mother reinforces his inevitable cycle of self-destruction. Diagnosed with Childhood-Onset Schizophrenia and Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Elliott numbs himself with endless sex and drugs, blindly falls into the hands of rapists and murderers, but continues to search for some sense of hope in his life. Set in a postmodern dystopia on the verge of the apocalypse, Fucked Up is an eclectic take on transgressive literature that finds surreal romanticism under the grit of one of the most confrontational narratives ever written.

The book of the summer is now the novel of the year. Enter 2020, combustible and fraught, the mass lapsarian hangover, the Eschaton underway, the fires and floods, the privation, the mass casualties, the lifting of the veil on so-called public institutions, safety nets, governing norms and corporate bureaucracy as a cover for sex criminals, sociopathic predators and insidious drivers of perverse incentives, the drug-depredated populace. Fucked Up is a relentless onslaught of brutality to stagger the fainthearted, an incomparable monolith, a testament to what is printable, a spectacular orgy of the gruesome and profane, of violence and depravity raw, uncut and unadulterated, eerily prophetic, bearing an uncanny resemblance to modern times. This is a tender porn novel for the disaffected, a revelation that insists on your undivided attention, replete with endearing misfits and wanton disreputables. A radio dispatch from the basement of devastation and despair, spiritually righteous. Flickers of beauty and hope haunt each page, as our narrator reckons with their raw deal inheritance and the gift of life, friends and lovers, states of ecstasy and withdrawal, uncommon beauty in the scourged humanity of its world’s denizens. While Ark doesn’t exactly world-build, the atmosphere created here envelops and lingers in the sensorium. Once inside, a reader feels transfixed and their outlook execrated, awakened to the appalling nature of the status quo unmasked and hypocrisies laid bare, an emporium of horrors unimaginable here confronted, unflinching, with a tonal sleight of hand that straddles the comical, the absurd and the darkly distraught and dejected, the frank portrayal of destructive malevolence which through this book will leave indelible psychic marks. Like all redemptive art, Fucked Up ultimately comes to terms with its own hideousness via a tightrope gallows humor and unabashed zeal for the puncta of bliss the written word renders breathlessly. Peduncular, in bloom, unmistakably profound and uncompromising, Damien Ark boldly lays claim to the mantle of transgression as their birthright. It’s their lane now, and may you be emboldened by their audacity and permanently unlearn conformity. Get your angelic kicks before the coming storm, the spoils you reap will blind a god, somewhere between a prayer and a primal scream. Above all, Fucked Up is an antediluvian clarion call, a furious indictment, a work moral and political.

Fucked Up gnaws on its angst with Ark’s prose like a precision hydraulic grinder spewing an eminently harsh noise opera of apocalyptic paranoias worming through the barebacked orifice of an urban sex-revenge epic that is gloriously captivating as it is inflamed and gaping.”—Elytron Frass

“savagery boils underneath the household. there are shotguns loaded w/ flechettes pointed at you inside of every wall from every angle. snakes with tanto blades & drenched in sweet cologne are hunting you. you & everyone around you is armed to the teeth. escape is unnecessary. we’re all demons here. liveleak gore videos are going into syndication. the whore sells sex soaked in dirt & public executions on the same ticket. a boy fucks his terror down as car bombs cook pedestrians. the trains will keep running off sheer ocean cliffs. with dense lethality damien ark is going to decapitate your moral comforts.”
—MIKA (tokyo_vamp)

“Echoing the apocalyptic poetics of Stephen Tunney’s Flan, the kaleidoscopically perverse interior landscape of Alfred Chester’s Exquisite Corpse, and the emotional complexity of Dennis Cooper’s My Loose Thread, Damien Ark’s astounding debut creates a trauma-scape so massive it transcends the merely personal and embraces the familial, communal, animal, and environmental violence all around us. Relentless in its brutality and boundless in its compassion, endlessly explicit, sickeningly funny, deeply spiritual, and formally maximalist in every sense, this book will try to kill you and then terrorize you back to life with a sublime alchemy that turns filth, rage, humiliation, and despair into something so pristinely, purely human you must read it to believe it because this book invented it. Fucked Up is an era-defining work which stakes its soul on the most perverse notion possible: that hope might flourish in spite of all.”
—Maryse Meijer


5.5 x 8.5″. 858 pages perfect-bound. Cover Art by Matthew Revert. 


(U.S. only, email for international orders)

Interview with Damien Ark

Opana, Dying, In Baltimore (Hobart)

Cairo Unfolding (Ligeia Magazine)

Fucked Up [excerpts] (drafts)

Dennis Cooper Blog: Please Welcome to the World…

Other Work (Neutral Spaces)



Slip through the aqueous mist whispering nostalgic sweet nothings. Embrace this invitation to become enveloped. Your breathing slows to a controlled pant before settling into its new tingling default, a hum of vacant reception, a reassuring murmur of inviolate presence, an ontology of de facto delirium. You mind meld with Dale Brett’s narrator, lapse into a state of mind malleably purposed to your bagged bones and jerky, spastic energy. Cruise control with unblinking techno-addled fascination in an oblivion of echoing sorrows passing epsilons of diaphanous clarity through a carnival of lewd and cerebral pleasures decadent and ancient, a love letter to an amorphous city of reverie rendered as bleary-eyed consumer simulation, a reveille for the overwhelmingly sensate, atomized into arresting poetic narrative constellations. Brett’s nameless metropolis is a promised land for active psychonauts and enthusiasts of stupefacient pastimes, veteran readers with a taste for narcotic drip allures, the world-weary human tourist pining for exotic lands while wired to a modem. For the wandering alien of existence whose faith tabernacles are a vivid, stroboscopic carousel of interpassivity, a Bohemian Bermuda gesturing at a Xanadu of qualia, the shambles of eternity but echophenomena. Chasm or cataract, all terra incognita, microdosing damnation, a gospel for raffish waywards of Otaku and other esoteric persuasions, continuity as tundra of pulsing melancholy. A lucid high for burnout syndrome. Exhilarating, charming mythopoeia for the modern computer mode sentients of the new decade, an aesthetic rarefaction to a world beat. By turns whimsical and winsome, by orders alchemical, etheric, cosmic, alethic- ride the inexorable plunge to lush latitudes, sink into egalitarian opulence, not substance impairment but rapt surrender, a living end reminder you haven’t lived ’til you’ve downloaded this sim, this proto-dystopian technological Mecca, this deconstructive underworld, brain molten and photosensitive, erogenously tactile. Quintessentially vibe-compatible. Comical, blissed out. Incomparably lovely. Dale Brett collapses wide-eyed wanderlust with the Promethean inertia of the zeitgeist. A word machine marvel. A seismic arrival for a protean raw talent. A resonant confirmation that visionary gusto remains unabated in literature.

Faceless in Nippon is perhaps the most sincere contemporary novel about banality, modernity and existential ennui to exist, this side of 202X. With surprising ease and admirable restraint, Brett competently weaves the tale of one individual’s attempt at self-discovery and extreme escape. It is powerful, mildly depressing at times, almost always funny, rarely cynical and completely unironic. I wholeheartedly applaud any writer capable of crafting a complex (but easy-to-follow) story structure without the employ of meta-narratives and post-everything tropes. Brett presents a writing style that is both exuberant and attentive—enough, to present juxtapositions that alone, pretty much approach silent excellence and supreme intellectual sophistication. The not-so-subtle anti-groupthink motifs within the text posit a very important question vis-à-vis the perceived status quo, and what is to be expected of humanity, as a whole, in the years to come. There are several breathtaking moments and unique descriptors, like: ambient observations RE: the different colours of the sky, the muted magnificence of neon lights and their effect on the substance of the night, abstract ideas of the ethereal and its ineffable properties, the magickal aspects of vapourwave music, the stunning ethnographical discourse and of course, Blade Runner. If any or all of this sounds familiar, I assure you, Brett takes what you think you know, and turns it into the unfamiliar.

—Mike Kleine, author of Kanley Stubrick and Lonely Men Club

The time has come … pick up … put down those bread knives … Dale Brett has written with a livid expression … attacking the aluminium fascia of literature … kicking the coffee cans of Asia. Dale Brett wrote a book. A meditative trance of a novel … full of nocturnal sounds … painful blows … the menial tasks of modern society … the strange feeling from a variety show … the bitter taste of cheap drinks … cup noodles … late-night advertisements … J-pop … and beautiful human bodies. The broken murmurs of inner loneliness … the blank mass of social media pleasure-feeds … the convenience store. Faceless in Nippon. F.I.N. Fin. Begin. Finnegan’s Wake. The beautiful skins of previous worlds. Apartment buildings full of hentai magazines. Glass containers of bizarre taxidermist creatures. Dale Brett’s novel isn’t some mandatory script … it is a mental scab … a burnt-out body encompassing kawaii and key chains … the public intimacy show … excessive mayonnaise … Styrofoam and corporate entrails … warm waves of gaudy sashes and electricity. Nameless in Japan. Eyeless in Gaza. The overhead ramps of your social conditions. Turbo jets inside a fancy shell. Wasteful conglomerations of real people. This book contains the night’s forgotten moments … the hard times … the artificial light … dirty river … facial expressions … Japan … flip phone … capitalist perfection. Inside … on these pages … the glossy lustre of Jesus … aluminium fascia … cigarette ash … greasy convenience store debris. Don’t be a suspicious customer … read this.

—Shane Jesse Christmass, author of Belfie Hell and Xerox Over Manhattan


5.5 x 8.5″. 266 pages perfect-bound. Cover Art by Arturo Herman Medrano. 


(U.S. only, email for international orders)

Interview with Dale Brett

Huddled (Hobart)

Faceless in Nippon (Back Patio Press)

Passengers (Muskeg Magazine)

Ambit (RIC Journal)

Disruption of Flow (Misery Tourism)

Escalation of Contentment (Silent Auctions)

Strip Club Train Station

Alt+Tab Persona

Your 7:45pm Class has been Cancelled



Fall lockstep in line with the new faith of frisson, the new New York noise, the hypermodern literature, dispatches of the zoning, medicated mind, the crystal clean conscience, the pathologically hygienic, dietetic, horny male mammal, freighted by ambition, informed by grief and trauma, addicted to creature comforts and committed to fitness, stability and speed. What Anthony Dragonetti has fashioned is no less than a permanent answer to the Lishite school of consecution and craft. A deliberate show of writerly finesse and agility that subverts readerly expectations with exacting cruelty. A poignant meditation on loss, on parasocial relationship dynamics. An anti memoir. Open your heart to the hypnagogic masses getting killed out there in the gig economy. In eighteen stories, dialogue zig zags like radio interference, engrossing textures seduce. A calming voice, Anthony Dragonetti has savored the zeitgeist, distilled social ills and malaise, captured the lens flare and shuffling of perspectives, the chaotic mental tug of war, concocted a bad batch of antidote. Ingest at your own pace, miss at your peril, let it massage and depress your meridians and linger in the limen. Anthony Dragonetti’s CONFIDENCE MAN is a novel/short fiction collection hybrid with one of the most compelling narrators to shatter the fourth wall and tickle the proverbial earworm, a rolling snare. The nature of persona and practiced systematic living is confronted with lucid humanity.

CONFIDENCE MAN is good medicine. Get banged up, fucked up with a dash of thunder peal poetics and majestic prose, fill the holes in your life with this truth: CONFIDENCE MAN is a debut to lace all future American literary tropes with its singular style and invective. A bludgeoning. A reckoning for the American dream.


5.5 x 8.5″. 134 pages perfect-bound. Cover Art by Arturo Herman Medrano. 


(U.S. only, email for international orders)

Interview with Anthony Dragonetti

The Sentinel

Old Damage

Grab Ass

The Passenger (X-R-A-Y)

Walls Are Thin (Surfaces)

The Birthday Party (Surfaces)

Manifesting (Soft Cartel)

The Night I Spent With Pre-Accident Montgomery Clift (Soft Cartel)

Names (Philosophical Idiot)

Betty Ford (Neutral Spaces)

Machine Learning (Neutral Spaces)

Subprime Mortgage Crisis

Three Poems 



The acclaimed and accomplished author of Valencia and Distemper returns with a collection of seven unclassifiable, genre-bounding, style-splicing stories spanning the thematic breadth of a novel, seven stories of modern alienation, techocratic dystopia and embattled love. In veiled tributes to male models and ex-basketball players, James Nulick delves unblinkingly into scarred psyches and the mentally ill fringe, examining soul-harming designer drugs, desperate homelessness and wasteful capital punishment with radar eyes on the clinical, dog ears tuned to the humane. The nature of cruelty is confronted in “Peach,” a searing portrait of abuse and trauma.  In “Husk,” Nulick subverts the macabre to cross-examine aging, decrepit libido and codependency. In “Vinyl-Hearted Boy,” Nulick punctuates the eras of his youth through music and frank sexuality with a poignant tenderness and rhythm in his heart. Adolescent prurience and wide-eyed exploration, as well as a longing for the familial, glows off the page in “The Most Beautiful Question in the World.” And, in the novella-length centerpiece “Body by Drake,” a sprawling creation to single-handedly spawn new literary movements, a future world both bleak and arrestingly human is imagined— a love triangle, Biblical themes and satire of corporate culture collide in dazzling, heartrending fashion. Like a breathtaking album that’s over much too quickly, you’ll want to reread Haunted Girlfriend the second you turn the last page. This is no less than a virtuoso shrug from a master of forms, a writer who gleefully flies in the face of rules and orthodoxy to remind us why we read, to expand our minds and empathy, a writer impartial to evil, unafraid to walk among the wretched, the crestfallen, and the nuanced, shadowy contours of this world with the irrepressible fascination of a preternatural saint. Nulick’s stethoscope to the human condition serves as a penetrating diagnostic of our times and the frightening days to come. His writing is invariably informed by the bracing audacity and radical clarity of a life fully-lived and learned, dangerously and poetically, with concessions to no authority. Make contact with strange life while you’re on this rock. Haunted Girlfriend is a once-in-a-lifetime literary homecoming. Let your heart break so it can form again, open.


5.5 x 8.5″. 198 pages perfect-bound. Cover Art by Arturo Herman Medrano. 

(U.S. only, email for international orders)

Interview with James Nulick

The Most Beautiful Question in the World (Terror House)

Husk (X-R-A-Y)

Record Store Day (Surfaces)




This is not the way a human being writes. NOT YET is an updated Book of Revelation that reveals more than you may want to see. It is an Epistle from the Eschaton in progress that you miss at the risk of dying without ever having truly seen anything at all. This is language that edges against the inexpressible. Manuel Marrero has downloaded the zeitgeist like no other contemporary writer has. This book is a grimoire. This book possesses real secrets. Writers like to claim they’re risk-takers, like to talk a big game, but with every word they write they carefully stay within the lines proscribed, keep as close to the middle of the road as possible, shrewdly eyeing the boundaries to ensure they never cross them, maintaining the largest possible audience and the loudest possible accolades. Hooray for them. Marrero pays lip-service to no false gods, kneels before no plaster idols. He writes like one of the sainted possessed, with an immediacy and abandon that is pure poetry. He writes as if there were no lines, no laws, no tomorrow, no road behind him, no road ahead at all. The blacktop upon which he lays his luminous sentences is the stuff of pure space itself, a highway limitless marked by stars to the black hole that swallows all light and all of us with it in the ultimate orgasmic dead end. A Big Bang. A 911 call to save your soul.

– Meeah Williams

5.5 x 8.5″. 1104 pages. 2 volumes perfect-bound. Cover Art by Arturo Herman Medrano.

(U.S. only, email for international orders)

Old Flame + Rib Age (Joyless House)

Peking Doves

You Had Me at Ello

Vamp on E (Terror House)

Decathexis: Prologue (Soft Cartel)

Not Me (Surfaces)



A drifter stalks the streets of a nameless metropolis in an obsessive pursuit. A couple are terrorized in their home by an implacable infestation. A bizarre domestic incident is recounted from memory to a probing presence at a squalid diner. A road trip through shifting, majestic abysses and infernos forms the center of an unlikely pilgrimage. An alluring specter seduces an honest man to murder his darlings in a recursive, cathartic trance. A working stiff shows an apartment and gradually descends into a nightmarish reverie at once claustrophobic and transcendent. Eric Cecil bounds into the literary landscape with six stories of nerve shredding soul searching, of introspection and acute, unsentimental humane observation. Tunnels is an otherworldly funhouse of unsettling architecture, of hidden spaces in the psyche and impossible structures. At each turn, the nature of reality is challenged, revoked and returned. These six stories take the familiar and strange, run them through squalls of cognitive dissonance, exploring a vision lurid and serene, twisted and soberingly beautiful, populated by pulsing throngs and whispering torments, a sun-scorched wilderness of rumination tethered to a stately, suspenseful narrative form. Tunnels is a startling debut of terror and rich interiority from a studied outsider. It ventures to exotic, psychotic places and single-mindedly restores the promise of adventurism in literature. Fire walk with me. Oblique, arcane forces compel you to read this.


5.5 x 8.5″. 260 pages perfect-bound. Cover Art & Illustrations by Ali Abdel Mohsen. 

(U.S. only, email for international orders)

Interview with Eric Cecil

Friends – Eric Cecil

Tunnels (early draft) – Eric Cecil



The artist known as Homeless turns a corner and laps a milestone with his long-awaited comic fable finally in print. “A children’s book for adults,” This Hasn’t Been a Magical Journey So Far is a vulgar cartoon, a picaresque road trip into the surreal, and a heartbreaking love story all the same. Join Sid, the leather-studded uncouth cat, and Hank Williams, the world-weary lovelorn protagonist, as they weave down the freeway of their strange imaginations on a decrepit van named Nancy, through the most peculiar of detours and fast times high and low, with a menagerie of oddball characters toward their destination, the haunted memory of an old flame named Patsy Cline, love of non-country music legend Hank Williams’ life, who he crossed paths with in a mental hospital and who made the downpour of centipede rain in his head stop. This Hasn’t Been a Very Magical Journey So Far is whimsical and frank about the human condition in a fairy tale context that belies its wry title. It’s that rare crop of novel that chokes you up while making you smile through and through, nothing short of a literary miracle. A singularly magical journey with a hefty sum on its mind. Should you desire a companion for your emotional hangover, fellow travelers will keep you in gear with a cool head through this intoxicating spell down the dedicated arteries of catharsis. This Hasn’t Been a Magical Journey So Far is a powerful and indelible testament to that aching span between love and loss. Get in loser, we’re going to the place in our hearts where we hide.


5.5 x 8.5″. 258 pages perfect-bound. Cover Art by Chris Noel Stone. 

(U.S. only, email for international orders)

Interview with Homeless

Well This Trip Fuckin’ Sucks So Far

This Hasn’t Been a Very Magical Journey So Far

Much Like a Cat

I Quit



Ryan Bry is the two-tone technicolor bubblegum bopper turned dadaist from St. Louis, born and bred and melded in the desolation of perhaps the most singularly American city. Information Blossoms: Poems & Hybrids is a sort of anti-chapbook. It is a poem tome recalling the salt of the earth sprawling majesty of Rimbaud’s youthful exuberance, Brautigan’s mechanist naturalism and the terminal whimsy of Adventure Time. Its range of vernacular invention leapfrogs the gamut from cacophony to euphony, from Lettrism to glossolalia. Percussive, or more adequately, concussive, no one else in poetry bounds, lopes and vaults with this intrinsically wild abandon. Information Blossoms indulges the mother tongue with rapidfire din, delves into dreamscapes and videogames, pauses for reflection over a common memory pool, grapples earnestly with mental illness and alienation, callow and eternal love and camaraderie in stuttering, frenzied staccato machine gun blips and bloops and deliquescent diphthongs. It is a collection of poems in the tradition of great oratory in that it begs to be recited aloud with unstudied fervor. Its dulcet moans and abrasive keening are a new kinetic kaleidoscope, a stethoscope for the wandering bard soul. Let this one snare you from dimple to divot, undulate pigstock nightmares, uncanny okey doke delirium, cherry shampoo, lose pieces of yourself in the mist. In MK, enemies and brothers are the same. Ryan Bry is an old soul with young lungs. Self abasement, Wilhelm screams, fire in the kiln smoldering proudly against the cynical contretemps, ludic absurdism, intoxicating metaphors, colorful contrails, pitch and sway to these randy cadences, daybeds and bay windows, nubile skin in the game, wet fingers on live wire, piss and vitriol throwing down simulations for you to get lost in, leaving the door open, a coup on your conscience, against the stodgy, unmusical nature of modern poetry. Effortlessly follow the pious dreamer, you refugees of the great viral schism, into the cartoon ruins. A dopey bodhisattva awaits you there. The illiberal eclipse casts a long shadow, and Information Blossoms hearkens back to when poets were outlaws, wayward in the wings. Mojo awaits the dream warriors armed to the teeth with mystique, fluidly evocative, tuneful and tuneless, everything and nothing. The antibodies are kicking in to unfuck poetry. Obstreperous, prolapsed future. Plucky and pithy, succinct icebreakers for lovers and great lakes to be submerged in. A salve, a heart valve; squint with me and take a long view of quintessence. Foliate, pineal gland overdrive, serotonin calculus, filaments of gleeful candor refill your feedbags forever. Cerebral shunts, art bullets emporium, winning you over by inches, residual gunning for human debris, solemn observance of semblances of alacrity. A counterculture maverick with the most invasive eyes that wander, irrepressibly eking by on moonshiner glories, vindictive voluptuaries infinitesimally sexy. A brand new Louisiana Purchase for the brand new Parisiens. Long in the toothy and toothsome, be misunderstood, micturate daydrunk eulogies and daydreams, sequelae of a life well-lived, heuristic challenges of scribblings and shavings, of spontaneity. Cantankerous psychedelia, thoughtful and introspective, pleasantly meandering. Information Blossoms.


5.5 x 8.5″. 200 pages perfect-bound. Cover Art by Arturo Herman Medrano. 

(U.S. only, email for international orders)

Interview with Ryan Bry

Odds & Ends


Six Poemz

The Cycle of Swords

The Things that Went Through my Head While Conveyering Screw-on Eyeballs for Mantella Corp.


Last Night Ends Here

The Circumstances (Surfaces)



“Change is necessary, I say. To write bibles, I must become bibles.” The nature of authorship is challenged, the reader-writer relationship is thrown into upheaval, normie literature is forever undermined and the stylistic consequences of this book will reverberate through the annals of psychosexual adventurism. Currentivism breaks books. The heteronym bibles @Appropouture is a veteran of currentivism. Author of Hosanna in Hand, Psychopompous, and Antiquity Fails, the appropouture is a divinely guided vessel. A web search for appropouture yields a dazzling panoply of writing and art across various mediums and through time inexorable. Bibles writes on his telegram channel, on twitter, on any platform and to any audience. It’s all writing. Currentivism is the here and now. Here on channel prime one currentivism, reality and dreams are in confluence. The most important book of the Trump era, this book engages with you directly. It reaches into the interiors of your soul and pulses near your vitals and pressure points. It is full of secrets, a vibrating conduit. It has mystical properties, it is mutant memoir, it has spiritual magic in its movements. The Better Face of Fascism is the story of a year under the Trump administration as bibles tracks the birth of his first child in the Utah desert, surrounded by Mormons, a bizarre cast of characters both familial and strange, real and unreal, you and not you. Birth and death are connected in a miraculous seance of grand literary sweep and ambition. Sexual mores, perversion, tender beauty and chaos are juxtaposed. The Better Face of Fascism contains multitudes: it is by turns hilarious, dark, terrifying, obscene, hallucinatory and realistic. It is a visionary, powerful statement from the unchained id of a singular artist. If you get lost or confused, it’s only your imagination galloping away from you, and your reliable narrator, bibles, will take care of you, whisper the words you didn’t know you longed to hear. The Better Face of Fascism walks with balletic grace on the razor-thin cutting edge of literature. It is the music of the spheres, percussive primal bleats, a wry sense of humor, neobeat filth, romantic poetry within a blink. Submit to this primordial concoction. It goes down better than hemlock.


5.5 x 8.5″. 194 pages perfect-bound. Cover Art by Arturo Herman Medrano. 

(U.S. only, email for international orders)

Chicory Knife Slave

Vanilla Pump (Heavy Athletics)

Race Relations (Terror House)

Never Negotiate: bibles @appropouture

Kecked Out

A Note (Surfaces)




The premise is a Kafkaesque conceit. A man suffers a head injury. What a lovely way to burn… Renny Ramone crashes the literary scene with this nervy and soul-baring debut, a slim volume of omnipresent menace, steely tenderness and sprawling hallucination that could only have spawned from the debris of past lives and their attendant hauntings. Fever is an audacious act of redemption and reclamation in progress, a synthesis of loving cinephilia, frank sexuality, wonky intellectual neurosis and a heartrending portrait of a damaged antihero. Follow this unreliable narrator through a ghost story, a love story, a comedy of errors and nightmare all at once, through the seedy dregs of Miami nightlife, glamor and posh decadence, the allure of the feminine gallery, the refracted lens of memory, the shenanigans of friendship, loose change and growing pains of transformation, and the hilarities that ensue when a person possessed by the past collides with the present day debauchery and saturnalia of the vile swamp he calls home. Abort the human, birth the artist. Take the febrile plunge. 

5.5 x 8.5″. 110 pages perfect-bound. Cover Art by Renny Ramone. 

(U.S. only, email for international orders)

Chapter One

Interview with Renny Ramone




An archaeological conclave stumbles on a possible skeleton key to unlocking space and time. The Biblical crucifixion is gleefully reimagined as a carnival of mistaken identities and archetypes. A nodal literary figure is resurrected and interrogated on the salacious subtext of his novel as canonical concordance is thrown into carnal upheaval. A chance encounter on public transit becomes a fulcrum of entropic derangement. A species of arcade-style games conceal a vicious intent. The mysteries of a fictional planet are explored. Faith, science, and all manner of human constructs and earthly intuition are tested by Theresa Smith’s otherworldly imagination. The human condition is laid bare through inversion and surgical inquiry. Curiosity is the engine that drives Theresa Smith, the quintessential voice in science fiction you can’t afford to sleep on, and the thrum of her electric heart the compass. Tune in to her signature madcap, boundary-defying innovations in these ten stories with illustrations.


5 x 8″. 98 pages perfect-bound. Cover Art by Arturo Herman Medrano. 


(U.S. only, email for international orders)


Theresa Smith Draft Directory

Interview with Theresa Smith



Welcome to Huber Cell, where time served is time borrowed, and the ephemeral conflicts and friendships yield lessons to endure a lifetime on the outside. Follow Ted Prokash, the droll, incomparable narrator from A Fool for Lesser Things, The Brothers Connolly, and Journey to the Center of the Dream (available through Joyless House Publishing) through the jejune pranks, hearty laughs, and wistful musings of involuntary confinement, and hold a stethoscope to the pulse of small town gossip, pining, solitude and solidarity through iron bars and intermittent recess. This is Ted Prokash’s fourth novel, his voice singularly warm, robust, and indelible as the memory of rustic seasons passing immemorial through long albedos and horizons. It is a hilarious, moving account of one man coring out his degeneracy and laughing as he tosses the rind. It is a characteristically louche tribute to irreverence and that most American of dissents.


5.5 x 8.5″. 112 pages perfect-bound. Cover Art by Sam Pink. 


(U.S. only, email for international orders)

The Electric Jailhouse Acid Test

The Incredible Squirting Woman of Cabrini Green (Fluland)

Interview with Ted Prokash


“Mallory Smart is gloriously miserable. She’s down in the dumps, but full of music and magic. She writes about how perfectly sad it is to be in and out of love, as her sights are set on anxiety, drugs, loneliness, dank memes, and a big fat heap of post-grunge. She is a perfect wrecking ball, with a smiley face painted on the side.” – Bud Smith, author of Dust Bunny City

I Want to Feel by Mallory Smart is a collection of poems rich in impish humor, pop culture confessionals, and a self-consciousness that’s as cutting as it is healing. In a poem titled “Sometimes I Like to Imagine Pulling the Mask off my Face” Smart continues the thought in the two lines that follow: “But I can never bring myself/to delete Facebook.” Dude, I totally feel you.” – Alexandra Naughton, author of American Mary

“I’ve never seen an image of a person with their smartphone made into a beautiful portrait, but a description can be near metaphysical. Or not. (Smart does both.)” – Beth Murphy, girl in Times New Viking

Mallory Smart is a writer from Chicago, Illinois. Her work has appeared in Thought Catalog, Metatron, theEEEL by tNY Press, among others. She runs a small press called Maudlin House and is the author of the chapbooks I’m Antisocial Coffee Never Lies, Hipster Idiot and Fear Like a Habit. This is her first full-length poetry collection.

5.5 x 8.5″. 65 pages perfect-bound. Cover Art by Arturo Herman Medrano.

(U.S. only, email for international orders)

Sad Feminist

Interview with Mallory Smart


“Joseph Harms invites us to enter a world of language in BEL, a universe populated by musical strangeness and linguistic surprise. To read this work is to be reminded of all the magical power contained by words, and the effect of that power when it’s unleashed by a gifted poet. Syllables themselves begin to hypnotize, and the form and invention of these poems, individually and as a complete experience, heighten the reader’s awareness of the luminous force that is the human impulse to make meaning. As a poet, Harms is our shepherd into this new landscape, made of the familiar and the uncanny, and BEL becomes as much a life experience as it is a book to be read and reread.” – Laura Kasichke

“In a niche all his own, Joseph Harms challenges his readers to a dizzying, high-wire act of verbal exuberance; a dazzling, unabashed revel in the ways language–coiled, charged, harnessed–will express the mysteries, the disorders of the human heart. What characters are forged here. What thrilling takes on American landscapes. No way to experience this work but to surrender to it.” – Donna Masini

“Joseph Harms’ Bel announces a significant moment in the tradition of sonnet sequences. Speaking to and across centuries of sonneteers, this volume pays homage to the form while also exploding its conventions, preoccupations, and ethos in order to reform and re-form. By turns poignant and savage, lyric and fierce, Bel startles with searching meditations on love, sexuality, connection, and hope. The poems dazzle in their sheer joy for the rhythms and possibilities of meter and language. This glorious volume gives voice to a singular wordsmith, one with roots in a legacy that hearkens back to Anglo-Saxon verse, that is sure to inspire future generations of poets.” – Lynne Greenberg

Joseph Harms is the author of the novels Baal and Cant.

Bel was a finalist for the 2015 National Poetry Series Award. Poems from this sequence first appeared in the following literary journals: Red Ochre Press, Poydras Review, Lines+Stars, SPECS, IthacaLit, Mad Hatters’ Review, Niche, Mandala Journal, Otis Nebula, Poetry Pacific, Out of Our, Wilderness House Literary Review, Stone Highway Review, The Olive Tree Review, Phantom Kangaroo and White Whale Review.

5.5 x 8.5″. 123 pages perfect-bound. Ships Jul. 29th.


(U.S. only, email for international orders)

Four from Bel

Interview with Joseph Harms

Featuring an eclectic array of visual art from painting to collage, photography, sculpture and “whatsits,” the eleven artists hail from the all over the country and abroad. They are Chris Noel Stone, Kathryn Marks, Kiki Valdes, Catiebelle Bulmer, Gab Marras, Natalia Arbelaez, Leonard Kogan, Nathan S. McKenney, Michelle Garcia, Ronny Roman and Victoria Rose. 164 pages perfect-bound. 8.5″ by 11″ with one handmade, detachable centerfold per artist. 




Your Aeon Poetry & Prose Collection by Atticus Davis. Cover by Courtney Min. Book Design by Arturo H. Medrano. 5.5 X 8.5. 132 pages.


(U.S. only, email for international orders)


The building blocks of this work are from the stones that melted before evolution

from the primordial semens of earth.

Without the word we would still get on.

I use the tools I’ve been given.


This book is a reading experience unlike any other. Some lines have the love and life the American


the belligerence is social. Violence is an eternal natural state, an undercurrent, neither love/nor hate.

From which compounds all the beginnings of life.


Other lines are bloodless, brutal, and conceptual.

Atticus begins sculpting an entire new world through perception with his, like a toddler learning to shoot a gun, grasping at ideas larger than his life\mind.

Its execution is more electric and experience based than most poetry. His ‘Hard-concept’ works like ‘FF Compositions,’

or ‘Clay’ works like ‘Purgatory,’ all deal with abuse/abusive logic/abuse of logic, manipulation, evil in the open, and the good hidden in everyone. The truth hidden in a lie. Every lie that comes with chosen truths.

Influenced heavily by metal, post-hardcore, composition is vital. There has to be a constant chaos.


Feelings of nausea, alarm, horror, desire, are all combined.


Paranoia leaks spitting foam from the pages.

Some of these narrative poems are exhausting or exhausted.

A section of aphorisms called ‘Tailor Made Pain,’ presents concepts that may or may not be true.

May or may not be moral. And may or may not be sheer failures as truths or lies.


Keep your head out of it. Think for yourself. ‘Trust you like a friend/treat you like a stranger.’

While others are like his fiction, Ansel Adam’s inspired, ‘head on.’ What he calls, ‘American Floral.’

The nature of man is different in the modern world. Is it fatigue through a godless will?

The ancient is kitschy. No altar for most of us to subscribe to.


There is a certain necessity that comes with indecision: one must have a relationship with that which he believes. He must ease in slowly. The difference between the drop down menu of beliefs versus ones tailored truest to your experience. And then decide. Belief before experience but be bright enough to gauge it.


‘The cities are swallowing the villages…like you forgot to paint blood on the door…’


Atticus Davis is a 25 year old poet and artist living in California. He is a modern day seer.
He is the author of the collection ‘Dumb Stuttering Free’ from Bedouin Books and his work has appeared in Metazen, The Scrambler, Housefire, Hobart, Vivimus, Pretty Owl, Whole Beast Rag, theNewerYork!, and Keep This Bag Away From Children.

Your Aeon.PDF


Thousands of Lies Novel by Manuel Marrero. Book Design and Cover by Arturo H. Medrano. 5.5 X 8.5. 314 pages.


(U.S. only, email for international orders)

When Agent Rx, chronic criminal and fugitive, goes off on a dust binge, he hits rock bottom and hits the road, leaving a trail of tears, violence and infamy in his wake. Meanwhile, Jordan Strong uncovers a highly classified method of time travel under the fixed scrutiny of various government agencies and chapters of the occult all coveting his guinea pig tits ‘n appeal. Enlisting Rx’s blue-collar bred double helix for tedium and accumulation of detail, they exploit parallel realities and paradoxical time lines to mine Thousands of Lies, a collaborative novel transcribed from the voices of the dead, for the sake of preserving their own track of time. They stage the Phenotypical Exploitation, a kidnapping of the perfect woman, their mutual ex-girlfriend Jane Bale, and subsequent sale as art to the nation’s cauldron of incestuous activity, New York City’s dance music circuit, purveyor of all things drugs, sex and art. But their interests unravel when Agent Rx tries to reverse engineer the domestic trial of the century, bringing the novel, its author and the Exploitation’s fatally erotic subject into notoriety for dollars on retrograde dimes. Together, they embark on a literary crusade of self-sabotage that threatens to fall off the cutting edge of a techno thriller, picaresque odyssey and log of skeletons.

An upscale Polish call girl develops a posthumous reputation as the poster child for the right to die movement. The simultaneous advances in medical science and life expectancy coincide with the human colonization of Mars. A transgendered stick-up thug pulls off a career robbery, befriends a US President, gets used by the CIA, and becomes a father. A media star attempts to change her image. Paranormal visitations threaten the sanity of hard drug addicts, all the while a support group for movement disorders braces as a roundtable therapeutic free-for-all. Is a telephonic method of time travel the real deal, or an exploitation in itself, a device for dredging up juice from a cold vein? This is the story of two men among hundreds of ghosts and trees, from Cuba in the 1930s to New York in 2046. I know folks from the rust belt to the dust bowl who’ve never seen these trees. Go see them. You owe it to yourself.

Manuel Marrero is a writer and publisher in Queens.

Thousands of Lies.PDF

Screen shot 2014-09-08 at 5.08.55 PM

ExpatlitJournal Print 2. Featuring works by Jeff Bergemann, Gabrielle Bischoff, Erick Bradshaw H, Leah Cobelli, Ed Constantine, Lancer Kind, Manuel Marrero, Tiger Moody, Patrick Pineyro, and Theresa Smith. Cover by Arturo H. Medrano. Design by Dan Brat. 8 X 8. 134 pages.




90’s Teen 45 record. Engineered by Rat Bastard of To Live and Shave in L.A.. a1 Rat’s Lullaby: Foreskin Harmonic (Escalator to Hell) b1 RIP MTV b2 Sleep Paralysis.




Screen Shot 2012-11-03 at 10.33.30 PM

ExpatlitJ Print 1.

5.5 x 8.5. 84 pages.



(U.S. only, email for international orders)

All Publications

90’s Teen 45


ExpatLitJ Issue #2