A tongue-in-cheek reflection of a debut novelist on the social peril of getting published.

The moon, not the finger, pointing is a sort of memoir – a collection of 67 lyric poems that trace the course of a life from the Texas Panhandle through Chicago to China and back, with the window open “because everybody knows / by now there is a poem out there.” In Chicago, “a street musician / plays Vivaldi on violin not two blocks from / a kid s…[Read more]