MORAN PRESS

TRADING FLESH FOR METAL
AUSTIN DAVIS

Trading Flesh for Metal

I.
I realized that poems nowadays
are measured by the lull between bullets
instead of a lover’s heartbeat
when I went to get my hair cut
at Supercuts by a woman
with a Pink Lady Handgun
staring me down from her hip.

The woman looked as if
she’d been attacked on her way to work
by the bubblegum monster
I used to draw on all my math worksheets
but she had a smile on her face,
something that was missing from me.

It’s SO CHIC-
my husband makes me take it
with me wherever I go
and at first I was against it
but then I got used to it
and now I feel SOOOOOO
safe and protected
and are you okay
because you look a little bit like
a skydiver wearing a paper parachute
who just noticed
he was a foot from the ground.

II.
Last year I had a vase
thrown at my head in Greer, Arizona
after I told a white man in white pants
that he was cleaning his assault rifle
as if it was a porcelain doll
because he felt naked without it,
not because of his OCD.
I told him that keeping
his bullets in a different room
will never stop them from crawling
under his pillow every night
and the man threw
his girlfriend’s vase at me.

If I wasn’t holding his gun right then,
the man would have shot me
and ended my life right there.
One moment would have shattered
into a million, but instead,
there was a silence
deeper than any grave.

The crickets
went back to their small talk,
the trees outside
held back their laughter,
and the scared old man
cried with his head on my shoulder
until morning.

III.
During March for Our Lives
almost a month ago
I watched Donald Trump
ride his motorcycle
to his Palm Beach Golf Course
and complain about
those young, shithead protesters
over a little wine and cheese
when just four years ago,
Trump had accused Obama
of “playing golf on the job.”

IV.
If saving 600 women
from being killed every year
because their insecure boyfriends
have small dicks
isn’t “part of the job,”
then I think we need to change
Trump’s job description
from ‘President’ to ‘orange cement.’

If standing between 2,555 children
and the bullet their fathers
forgot was in the rifle
isn’t “part of the job,”
then I think someone better add
“20% chance of death”
to the weather forecast
on the school announcements
every morning.

If preventing 13,000 homicides
and giving more than 35,000
Americans another day
to tell their girlfriends and boyfriends,
wives and husbands, sisters and brothers,
and mothers and fathers
that they love them
isn’t “part of the job,”
then I think we’re just letting
those who are malnourished of power
but are the least suited to hold it
trade our human flesh for metal.

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PHOTO - A Reader Stunned by the Brilliance of BONDAGE NIGHT - Pictures Don't Lie

4/13/2018

RESERVE A SPECIAL ART COVER EDITION

PURCHASE BONDAGE NIGHT

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The Art Cover PROOF of Love and Quarters Special Edition Pre-Order Post

4/12/2018

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ART COVER PROOF
LOVE AND QUARTERS

The proof is here for the art cover special edition of LOVE AND QUARTERS - the soon to be released poetry collection from Moran Press written by Gabriel Ricard. I've been sharing samples and video readings from this collection and now we can see it in book form. It's a beautiful cover and I can't wait for people to get this wonderful artwork into their hands.

The simple question today - would you like to reserve a special art cover edition of this book? If so, click the link at the end of the post. No money required - I'm looking to get a count to see if there's enough interest and for ordering purposes. Thank you.

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Letterpress Broadsides, Journals, and Poetry Chapbooks

4/6/2018

LETTERPRESS SAMPLES
FROM
DWRI IN PROVIDENCE RHODE ISLAND

I've discussed letterpress editions of Moran Press work on social media. Here are some samples from a local letterpress printing company, DWRI in Providence RI.

The idea is to produce

- poetry broadsides
- poetry and short story printed chapbooks
- handwritten special edition chapbooks
- special edition journals
- handmade printed editions

A number of people have expressed interest in the letterpress printed editions and also handmade editions. Let me know if this appeals to you. Look over the samples and tell me what you think!!

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VIDEO - Gabriel Ricard reads Creeping Splendor - #Poetry from LOVE AND QUARTERS

4/4/2018

CREEPING SPLENDOR
BY
GABRIEL RICARD
A POEM FROM HIS UPCOMING COLLECTION
LOVE AND QUARTERS

LOVE AND QUARTERS is in the homestretch to publication. The entire team has been selected and the final steps need to be taken before you see this amazing collection of poetry.

Here is a video of Gabriel reading CREEPING SPLENDOR. Enjoy the poetry. Soon I'll post a sign up list for a special edition of LOVE AND QUARTERS - that you can buy before it goes on sale at Amazon. Stay tuned.

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#Poetry - Still I Rise - Happy 90th Birthday, Dr. Maya Angelou

4/4/2018

STILL I RISE
MAYA ANGELOU

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

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Excerpt from ELLA - The Interrogation

4/1/2018

PURCHASE SIGNED COPY OF ELLA

THE INTERROGATION
EXCERPT FROM
ELLA

I hop out of the car and walk inside. There’s no need to turn around to know he will follow. The engine goes silent. His boots squish and squeak in the snow, coming closer until I feel him press against my back.
“Just open the door. It doesn’t matter anymore,” he grumbles.
Inside, I walk to the bedroom to change, not bothering to close the door. The wet winter clothes peel off my body. Putting on sweat pants, I enter the living room. His eyes lock onto my bare flesh and a smile changes to a frown as I pull a t-shirt over my head.
“Are you staying for dinner again?”
I know what the answer will be, so I grab the pots and pans for pasta and meatballs. Men will eat anything as long as they don’t have to cook. I notice him arranging my books in alphabetical order. Sighing, I turn my attention back to cooking.
“You look very pretty.”
I turn my head and stick my tongue out at him. “I’m wearing sweatpants, wise guy.”
“You’re barefoot and cooking me dinner.” He winks.
Men. “Forget that. You still haven’t told me what you think of my novel. You read it, right?”
“I read a few pages but couldn’t go on. How can I read a book that doesn’t have a title?”
“I don’t need a title yet. It’s a work in progress.”
“Make the title reflect the story.” He walks over and leans against the counter, watching me stir the pasta. “In other words, what’s this novel about?”
“The rise of women.”
Chuckling, he opens a bottle of wine and avoids looking at me. “Nobody wants to read about that. People want to escape reality.”
“What should I write about, fucking vampires that sparkle?” I accentuate each word by slamming the spatula on the end of the skillet.
“I don’t know. Sex and violence usually do the trick. That’s all I can say. After all, I’m a cop, not a writer.”
“That, I know.”
Despite my anger, I put an extra helping of meatballs on his plate. We sit and begin to eat, watching each other and drinking wine. He finishes and I get up to make him another plate when he breaks the silence.
“I must ask you one more question about that night.”
I slam my palm on the table, spilling wine on the tablecloth. Neither of us moves, and for a span of minutes, the ticking of my wall clock serves as the only sound in the room. I’m not going to talk about this with him. No. Not again.
“Why can’t you let this go? It’s been six months. You have asked me the same questions a hundred different ways. Why must you obsess over it?”
“Because a man died!”
“A man that three witnesses testified to seeing assault and rape me…”
He cuts me off. “Yes, but…”
I cut him off, too. “Roger, there are no ifs or buts. A man assaulted me. I killed him. The end.”
“There are…inconsistencies in your statements,” he says, measuring his words.
“I spent five years locked in a nut house, and you’re surprised there areinconsistencies in my statement? And they say I’m crazy.” My body trembles and my heart races.
He laughs, but his eyes probe me with unsaid questions and commentary. He pours another glass of wine, returning to his plate of pasta. His chewing slows and I feel his eyes on me. I can almost detect the sparks inside his mind—ideas churning in that cop orb that won’t let me out. My hand grips the bread knife, and the powerful urge to ram it into his neck comes over me.
“The part I don’t understand…” He stops to finish chewing.
I’m freaking out as I wait for doom, but I just listen.
“Where did all the money go?”
Money? What money is he talking about? He knows I have no money. Gulping the wine, I watch him for any clue. “What?” The word cracks in my throat.
“And why do you have men following you?”
“You should be able to answer that better than I can,” I murmur, sliding the knife off the table and into my lap. Can I reach him before he can react?
“One man seems to be a professional, though not a cop. The other one is…”
I try to speak, but my voice fails me.
“The FBI.” A wide smile rises on his fat cheeks.
“I haven’t noticed anyone following me.” I try to slow my breathing, the pace of my heart clouding my thoughts.
“You’d be the last to know.”
I wince. This cop logic seems sound, but what does he really know? What does he want me to say? After gathering my courage, I blurt out the only thing on my mind. “Tell me about the money.”
He taps his fingers on the table in drum roll imitation as I squirm in my seat, ready to leap at him. My phone vibrates with a new text message from an unknown number. As I grab the phone, Roger puts down his fork.
“Millions left to you have gone missing.” He shoots a sharp glance toward me.
“What? I don’t have millions of anything, let alone dollars.” I shake my head.
When I try to read the message on my phone, Roger’s eyes follow.
“All accounts are dated on the day of your eighteenth birthday.”
This can’t be true. Am I rich? But Roger has nothing to gain from lying. Why would he make this up?
“Tell me what’s in the FBI file.”
A wide grin spreads over his face when he opens the file. He appears proud to have this power over me.

   “5’ 5”, eyes pale blue, hair blonde, skin like porcelain. Very attractive, could be a model, and uses her sexual attraction as a weapon. Quite intelligent. Prone to lying and manipulation to achieve goals. No moral or societal boundaries apply in her mind. Abused by father for years, guilty of patricide. Molested by the--”

   Bolting out of my seat, I grab his arm and put my hand over his mouth. I clench my teeth. “Do. Not. Finish. That. Sentence.” If you do, it will be your last mistake.
Although he appears shocked, he remains still.
Shaking my head, I take my hand off of his mouth and finally read the text message on my phone.

   Get out of the house. Do not tell him anything. Walk to the end of your street. Run through the woods to lose him. There will be a blue ‘74 Firebird waiting in the abandoned parking lot next to the car dealership. Keys are in the ignition. Drive to 555 Holden Avenue in Newtown, Connecticut.

   I fall back into my seat and freeze. There are people watching. I feel my face flush, but before I can let the information settle in my head, the phone buzzes with another text.

   DO NOT KILL HIM. HE IS WIRED. GET OUT NOW!

I slam the chair back against the refrigerator and bolt up. Walking straight to the entryway, I throw on wool socks, boots, and a winter jacket. His expression switches from shock to curiosity. I suppose this isn’t how he thought I’d react to his secrets.
Ignoring the advice of the text, I take the time to pack my writing materials, a computer tablet, and an extra phone charger. Roger continues drinking at the table. Maybe he doesn’t notice or care that I’m getting ready to leave. Pulling a knit cap over my hair, I exit the apartment without a word.

Thank you for visiting MoranPress.com. I hope you enjoyed the excerpt from ELLA. Use the links below to purchase the paperback or download the FREE #Kindle e-book. Subscribe to Moran Press to receive updates on the latest releases and sales.

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#Fiction - Parable

4/1/2018

PARABLE

Mary turned the radio off as she left the highway and turned onto a country boulevard lined with maple trees. She rolled down the window and switched off the air conditioning. The scents of apple blossoms and wild flowers hung in the warm summer air. She slowed the car around a small bend, which gave way to a wide field of green dotted lazily with dandelions. The car stopped, seemingly of its own desire.

“I must get out of the city more often,” she said, stretching her limbs with pleasure. She smiled with satisfaction as she surveyed the field.

“Help me.”

She heard a voice, which seemed to come out of the very air. She spun and gasped at the appearance of a man tied to a tree, wearing nothing save a loin cloth.

“Please help me.” The voice asked, this time clearly coming from the man tied to the tree.

She took a first tentative step, a second, putting one high heeled clad foot ahead of the other, the going made more difficult as the pointed heels sunk into the soft grass.

“I should have worn sandals,” she said. With each step his features became clearer, revealing shoulder length brown hair. She saw signs of violent struggle or torture; deep red scratches upon his face, deep bruises on his chest and arms. Stopping a few feet away out of arm’s reach she saw the man was bound to the tree with thick ropes around the arms, torso, and around his feet.

“How did you come to be tied to a tree?” She asked.

“Come closer,” he said.

She moved forward, within a foot, seeing his wounds with more detail. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.

“Your smell pleases me,” he said and attempted to smile, but the effort hurt him visible, pain flashing over his face.

“Who did this to you?”

He attempted to shift his position, but the restraints prevented any movement and again, a looked of pain swept across his features.

“I don’t know how to answer. I have been tied to this tree all of my life.”

“You don’t understand me. Why are you tied to this tree?”

“I assure you I understand your meaning. I repeat, I have always been tied to this tree. It is necessary and natural.” His voice was deep and pleasant to her ears, containing little hint of the pain his wounds were causing him.

“Natural?” She asked, more confused. “A man tied to a tree is not the natural state of being for a human. You were born free, not shackled.”

She examined the thick red welts around his wrists, skin grown raw from contact with the ropes. Glancing down at his loin cloth, which not being tied tightly or of much substance, covered almost nothing. She blushed and averted her eyes.

“Your modesty pleases me,” he said. The voice sounded as if it belonged to someone she had known all of her life.

“Do you wish for me to free you?”

He let out a low laugh. “You have a strange notion of things.”

“How do you mean?”

“It is not possible for one responsible for my entrapment to free me.”

“Listen, I didn’t tie you to this tree,” she said, feeling anger at his constant absurdity.

“That is true, but maybe it is for your benefit that I am tied.”

“How difficult it is to understand you!” She said, feeling a trickle of sweat on her forehead. “Listen to reason. I didn’t not tie or wish you to be tied to this tree.”

“Reason? It is precisely since the age of reason that I have been tied to this tree.”

She growled in frustration, balling her hands into fists.

“Do you wish to be free?”

“The question you pose is seen from the wrong side of logical thinking. Do you wish me to be free?”

She stamped her foot and again shook blond curls in exasperation. She turned and started towards the car, half expecting him to call out to her. He remained silent for the time it took to walk to her car, retrieve a pocket knife from the glove box and to return to him.

“I see you made a decision.”

She nodded and moved to his side so as to reach his restraints. As she placed the knife against the rope, he spoke.

“Take heed when changing the nature of things.”

“More cryptic utterances.”

She worked slowly, taking care not to cut his skin. Soon the ropes began to fall away, first from his hands, then his torso, and finally, his feet. He tried to stand, but he stumbled and fell into her, unable to manage on his own.

Once again he inhaled deeply, slowly, which brought a dreamy smile to his face.

“You are quite attractive.”

He gripped her forearm, which caused her to cry out in pain. She attempted to pull away, but his strength surprised her. Her footing gave way as he pushed her, causing an explosion of pain as her head smacked on the ground. She heard, rather than felt, her skirt being ripped from her legs as the smooth skin of his palms parted her thighs.

“Be still,” he said. She knew no more.

She woke some time later, in the dark, but could not see him. Sensing movement to her left, she turned to see him standing over her, a thick branch in his hands.

“I gave you freedom and pleasure,” she cried.

He smiled and lifted the branch high over his head.

“I know.”

“Who are you?” She asked.

Instead of receiving an answer, the branch crashed into the side of her head, killing her in an instant.

“Call me James.”

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FREE #Kindle E-Book from Moran Press - ELLA

4/1/2018