You might not be able to tell at first glance, but some people could be bears and others nothing at all. Misfits governing a neighborhood without anyone there knowing it. Perhaps a devoted parent of vintage dolls. Or a visitor who seems so like us. All of them doing their best, using the right tools at the wrong times. These are tales of people living in the most dangerous lands, their own minds.
In the boozy aftermath of exciting sex, when mind and body become one, and from the space between mind and body, where the longing that travels physical distances comes to us not as undeviating lines but as radial waves, Liz Lampman’s poems urge us to remember those we have truly loved and those we have craved after.
How are you at change, friend? Do you carry yourself with grace and dignity, or fall apart, dissolve into insignificance without humor? The Last Payphone on the West Coast is calling. Its nine stories feature a shopping-cart tramp, a freshly released ex-con, a 1979 Cadillac hearse, and other folks from the periphery negotiating the age of smart phones and instantaneous expectations.