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Fallen Heroes of the Awful Waffle

$11.00 $6.50

Product Description

poems by

Shane Manier

ISBN: 978-1-59948-633-8, ~36 pages, $11

Projected Release Date: June, 2017

A Discount Price of $6.50 will be available for a limited time prior to publication and may be discontinued at any time.

PLEASE NOTE: Ordering in advance of the release date entitles the buyer to a discount. It does not mean the book will ship before the date posted above and the price only applies to copies ordered through the Main Street Rag Online Bookstore.

About The Author

SManier_Px_bookstoreShane Manier is a local artist and poet based in Kannapolis, NC. She is the founder of activist/outreach art collective Guerilla Poets with branches in the US and UK. As a poet and artist, she has been featured at many shows, events and venues all across North Carolina and completed many outreach programs through her work to enrich the lives of others through the arts. Her poetry is mostly known for its passion and depth and has been published in various journals and online magazines.

Comments

I know it’s been said before, but these carefully crafted poems really do sing---and vibrate and beg to be heard aloud. Shane Manier has managed in this concise volume to tell whole vivid stories that value the overlooked among us. Her words are powerful and imbued with the sorrow and joy that often governs our American nights. ~Tim Peeler

Samples

Apron Angels

 

Sweet Southern Nurses,
with grease stains on their knees
pour warmth to counteract
the coldness of the street.
Tattooed with glory and grief
they've accepted everything
a woman has ever been called.

Harlot,
Healer,
Hysterical,
Lover,
Survivor,
Mom.

There's a gap in their Mississippi mouths,
where the travelers dock on the muddy water
of their riverbed tongues.
Sluice the sweetness of their drawl,
slick as catfish.
Sing hallelujahs to the juke box
Pluck the bones of living prayers out
their teeth, say “Honey, it ain't
nuthin' but one them things.”

Strong women with hearth hearts
bellowing sighs like a dove's rising breast.

Do their sad molasses eyes
see their own beauty
in each drop of fried sweat?
In each morsel served from the road?
Each sugar sweet tea smile that makes
the Truckers feel at home?


A Lean Night

 

“I'll do what I want” Click.
The waitress flicks her hair
brushing off the phone call
from a sucker fish boyfriend.
The manager's pregnant
fiancé behind the counter
doesn't even flinch.
The soccer team to the left
isn't paying attention -
they're all business.
Neither is the seat to the right
where a couple explores
the hidden coves
of a new relationship.
Who dumped out
Hellion's rebellions here?
It's so calm that the buzzing
ball of light is putting up
more of a fight than us.
Is this the edge of the world?
Flat as my napkin, or is this
a poster of “Nighthawks”?
Easily a framed image
saying so much more
in its silence.


Untold Story

 

I sit waiting on truckers,
peels of asphalt to haul their

mud flapped bones in the door.
I question my coffee,

the only warm body present,
other than the staff.

A waiter who keeps asking
if I am writing about him yet.

Where is the limping
tread of life--

I swear I caught sight
of a blood trail

spiked in my hound senses.
I try to dilate my eyes

out the window but I’m
stopped by my reflection.

Looking like a
wounded animal.

Maybe tonight...
I'm the fallen hero...

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