Soft Apocalypse pirouettes in the anemic glow of late capitalism, its prose poems and lyrics performing in the civic pocket, in the offbeat, and by arrhythmias that offer improvisational measures for going on.
Instead of calculating toward a dystopic ending, this book bets on its softer wrecks, a futurity in an intimately rewired collective..
Soft Apocalypse insistently edges these unofficial exchanges and intimate apprehensions against the official orders, projections, violations, and isolations of our time.
Nothing here is done with ease, but irreducible gifts do slip surreptitiously from palm to palm: after all, we all need a little help sometimes / baby.
Chrome angels, strange beloveds, and cool-eyed speakers cut speculative lines through precarious spaces of the present--deserts and nightscapes, neon-lit strips, corner stores, foreclosures, pharmacy queues, and crumpled back alleys--making imaginative economies, queer kinships, and alternative ways of being in the world.
Soft Apocalypse pirouettes in the anemic glow of late capitalism, its prose poems and lyrics performing in the civic pocket, in the offbeat, and by arrhythmias that offer improvisational measures for going on
