The Jackalope Wars by Jeremy Bauer

I am stoked to announce the completion of a project I spent the summer working on: the debut chapbook of Jeremy Bauer.

This chapbook is the first release for Stoked Press. Jeremy Bauer has captured the words that were fighting their wars in space. Now, here they are in poem form, contained but still fighting, alive and kicking. CHECK IT OUT ON GOODREADS.

Some cool poet dudes wrote blurbs:

The poems in The Jackalope Wars are sort of violent, sort of sweet, and completely kick ass. I like Jermey Bauer’s words a lot. He presents a little corner of Hope in a big room of Hell. I want to quote a line from the book, but I keep getting distracted by other lines. Like how he writes: “Oh Baby, we are The Murder!” And I feel like, "Yeah, I hear you."

-Peter Davis, author of Poetry! Poetry! Poetry! and Hitler’s Mustache

In Jeremy Bauer's The Jackalope Wars, creation is an event that is still happening all over us. And as the Gods continue shifting our atoms, the only response is war. William Carlos Williams said that "a poem is a small (or large) machine made of words." Well, these poems are robots that have turned on the master in the sky. There is fire and blood and now my eyes contain lasers like swirling multitudes. These poems are large and they will eat you.

-Daniel Bailey, author of The Drunk Sonnets

Jeremy is a good friend of mine, and I'm real stoked to see his poems see the world on paper this way. I've been wanting to put out a chapbook for awhile, and to have Jeremy's be my first, DAG YES.

The official release is next Tuesday, and they will be selling for four bucks. If anyone is interested in purchasing one, let me know.

Here is a poem to convince you:

Divine Dog Heads

My hurricane is naked
dripping with birds
soggy with birds
Teaming with white-as-angel’s-blood
gulls

Crying ‘cause they’re hungry
Hungry for french-fried dreams
and salted maritime varietals

They’re dipshits
Their hobbled calls for the true gleam
that envelops with radiant, slobbering
energy but hovers beyond
any manner of vision or scope
or material real

They fly with the dog heads
Heads of wisdom and divine luminescence
But they’re all bleeding and old
Wrinkled, tired muzzles
Tinged with gray and white and lost love

Their beaks hardly open, they creak
like decrepit doors ready to
fall from the hinges