Wow, The Chapbook Review interviews me about Eggs.
NewPages says it is Noteworthy.
HTML says things about Eggs.
The Prettiest Girl in School goes bloggy for Eggs.
A Salted says boys sing about the book…
That feels cool. My head does the Blue Fire, the beating of a kidney bean cup against a rainbow. Thanks all!
George Saunders new story in New Yorker goes POV coolness, usual satire coolness, and, George, George (are you even listening!), you screwed up the ending, George. No big deal. You just got in too deep, you got way deep, where the best stories go, where stories become something new, something like broken grasshoppers, Animal Logic, concrete (images of a winding driveway), something like my heart is cracking open like a San Fransisco cigarette right now as I sat on my deer stand and read your words, George, you went deep, George, you went Charlie Parker, all gravely voiced, all serious human blue, all thigh/predilections for Bad Faith/all lawn desert big patches of bluish-purple REALNESS, realness now, George, and you couldn’t get yourself out…
(The above [and this] I wrote while on my roof. It’s something I have been doing. Not sure why. Next door, right now, right this moment, a man is hammering on a a gigantic play-set. The air smells of cedar and velvet-lined fingers. A bird is chirping. I sit here on these roof shingles and my ass hurts. This is one downside to running all the time. Your ass will hurt.)