Our Latest Book
The Complete Catalog
Sort the catalog by clicking the column headers. Click on a title to see more details, including reviews and a sample. Click on an author to read their bio. All links open a new window.
You can pay by check, made out to Moon Pie Press and sent to Moon Pie Press, 16 Walton Street, Westbrook, ME 04092. Please add $4.00 per book for postage and handling.
Or pay with PayPal or a credit card, which will ask you to choose ECONOMY shipping method, the only one available on the account, for all U.S. orders. $4.00 per book. Books are sent via media mail, the most cost efficient method. It may take a week or longer to receive a book. Email us at moonpiepress@yahoo.com with any questions, or about large or foreign orders. Thank you for supporting our small press and our poets!
Book Details
Reviews for To the Promised Land Grocery
by Jack Myers, author of OneOnOne
Like Tiger Woods teeing off, Bruce Spang's TO THE PROMISED LAND GROCERY is a line drive on the frozen rope of reveries and meditations over sex, gender, identity and morality. He brings to light signal American rites of initiation and passage that have been experienced from both gay and straight perspectives. Plain-speaking, smart, and incisive, these poems look hard reality in the face and ask it back "How do you like it ?"
by Natasha Saje, author of Bend
These often discursive poems access the mind of a child in the Eisenhower and Kennedy eras, a child who has trouble learning to read, but who uses that trouble to question what he is learning. This interrogation continues in the mind of an adult who questions politics, sexual orientation, race and faith. Bruce Spang includes important subjects in poems that are remarkably easy to read, and makes discursiveness a strength. With great attention to detail, particularly to compulsions of the human body, many of these poems work insidiously, tricking readers into entering a new consciousness, and once there, not letting them go.
Sample from To the Promised Land Grocery
Only This
From the kitchen window, snow wooed
the air, sticking to lank arms of ash.
Even the stern stems of black-eyed Susan
knelt under the weight of white. And beside
them, loosestrife withered and bowed
like sad musicians. My glance lifted
to the woods where a buck stepped gingerly
between willows and the far bank of the creek,
and behind him, two doe poised--
no surprise--I'd seen their two-forked tracks
before. But here they were, stepping
past a newly parted curtain like dancers
as the bow barely pulsed on the strings
of morning. My tea hadn't boiled yet.
A plow strafed by. They leaped. Gone.
Return to Catalog