a cat can't live off books alone

My copies arrived! I'm stoked. The book looks great. I had to fix a few things from the galleys. "Irreverent" in one of the blurbs got misspelled as "irrevernet," which I admit was kind of of cool. Irrevernet is irreverent internet stuff.

And of blurbs, this is what they say:

If Mary Robison listened to more punk, grew up in Las Vegas in the 80s before the 80s sucked, did whippits while reading Ben
Marcus and scrolling the alternative personals for golden lines to crib, she might have exploded into the post-post-Beat sentence index that is Prose: Poems, a Novel. But she didn’t. Jamie Iredell did, and in reading this lean but dense meat-eater of a sui generis story cycle, one realizes there might still be a way for books to compete with porn.

— Blake Butler, author of Ever and Scorch Atlas

Absorbing, fascinating, strange in the best way. This “novel” reinvents the novel, the short-short story and the prose poem, at the same time. Iredell’s spiritual uncle, Richard Brautigan, is happy in heaven, drinking with Raymond Carver, who’s happy too. A delightful book.

— Tom Franklin, author of Poachers, Hell at the Breech, and Smonk

Jamie Iredell’s wonderful command of rhythm—the hypnotic, irresistible way his sentences push the reader to the places they could not imagine going on their own—makes it impossible to stop reading until you reach the end. This novel, these stories, these poems, defy classifi cation and demand your attention.

— Kevin Wilson, author of Tunneling to the Center of the Earth

Jamie Iredell’s prose poems (a form that’s been mostly dormant the past 30 years or so, but is making a big comeback in the hands of many younger poets) are among the most unique I have read: quirky, irreverent, surprising, funny. Welcome back the form and hat’s off to this splendid new practitioner of it!

— Thomas Lux