Vibe is located at 909 W. 23rd St. in Cedar Falls on the second floor of Bought again Books. Persons needing access accommodation should call 266-7115 by the day before the event. For more information, contact Jim O'Loughlin.
Now Available from
Final Thursday Press
Ghost Wars
Poetry by Vince Gotera
In Ghost Wars, Vince Gotera, Editor at the North American Review, brings together a career of poetic considerations about the experience of war and its aftermath in this timely chapbook. Denise Duhamel writes "The poems in Ghost Wars are the tickers off the bottom of CNN's screen pushing out of the TV and flourishing like vines in our living rooms." Allison Joseph notes "Lively, compassionate, and intelligent, the poems of Ghost Wars are a necessary balm for our uncertain national psyche."
Ghost Wars is a signed and numbered edition limited to 500 copies.
$5.00 32 pgs. 8 1/2 by 5 1/2
ISBN 0-9742764-0-5
Laugh. Damnit.
Poetry by Ahkos
Feeling pretentious? Walk away now. The poems in this collection target poetic self-importance with humor and a bit of an edge. Formed in (and in response to) Boston's open mic scene, "Laugh. Damnit." will make you smile, or else.
$1.00 16 pgs.
Bad Men
Microfiction by Jim O'Loughlin
Four short short stories that made their debut at the Final Thursday Reading Series. They weren't originally intended to be part of a collection; it just happened that way. Find out what happens to the lounge lizard, the ex-con, the slacker student, and the serial monogamist.
$2.00 18 pgs.
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from Black Dirt, Muddy River
Chapter 7, "The Wind-Twisted Cedar"
Out back, after the show, Anne introduced me to Mark, the keyboardist, as he loaded his gear into a beat-up station wagon. “Mark, this is the kid I was telling you about—Nate. Nate, this is Mark Jung.” He looked like Joe Cocker, beard slicked into ringlets. I put out my hand for a handshake, and he batted it away, hollering “Hell, pardner, gimme some love!” and then picked me up in a hug and carried me to the street, slipping in the greasy puddles of light summer rain, collapsing on me, on the hard concrete. “Nice to meet you,” I said, limp under his sweaty bulk. He smelled like speed. “Damn nice meeting you!” he bellowed, and jumped to his feet, raised his arms above his head in the street and turned his face to the sky. “I am a cello in a country-western world! Sweet Schizoid Jesus Night! God! Stars!? Hey. Uh, it’s raining. Can you drive?”
In the car, lost on unfamiliar streets, I asked Anne about him, learned he was adopted by Karl Jung’s nephew, and there were jokes about childhood psychological experiments. Mark claimed that he was the collective unconscious. The band shared a roof-top apartment not far away. Mark’s portion of rent was $35 a month—he lived in a walk-in closet. “Most psychedelic closet in the Western Hemisphere!” he screamed, hanging out the back window like a dog, howling in the wind.
When we pulled into the alley behind his place he exploded from the backseat and hit the gravel rolling. “Dammit son, stop the car before I get out!” he yelled from the ground, and sprinted up the wooden stairs to join the rest of the band. We followed.
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