Name: All the Times we Passed Mcdonald's Between Chapel Hill and Tuxedo, North Carolina (en Inglés)
Price: 18.24 USD
Availability: InStock
Author: Dally, Andrew
ISBN: 9781934832660

portada All the Times we Passed Mcdonald's Between Chapel Hill and Tuxedo, North Carolina (en Inglés)

Formato

Libro Físico

Autor

Andrew Dally

Editorial

New Michigan Press

Idioma

Inglés

N° páginas

Encuadernación

Tapa Blanda

Dimensiones

20.3 x 12.7 x 0.3 cm

Peso

0.06 kg.

ISBN13

9781934832660

Categorías

Estados unidos de américa
Poesía

All the Times we Passed Mcdonald's Between Chapel Hill and Tuxedo, North Carolina (en Inglés)

Andrew Dally (Autor) · New Michigan Press · Tapa Blanda

Libro Nuevo

$ 18.24

$ 36.48

Ahorras: $ 18.24

50% descuento

Envío normal

Origen: Estados Unidos (Costos de importación incluídos en el precio)

Se enviará desde nuestra bodega entre el Miércoles 17 de Julio y el Viernes 26 de Julio.

Lo recibirás en cualquier lugar de Ecuador entre 1 y 3 días hábiles luego del envío.

Reseña del libro "All the Times we Passed Mcdonald's Between Chapel Hill and Tuxedo, North Carolina (en Inglés)"

"Andrew Dally's poems turn the ubiquitous McDonald's in the American landscape into touchstone, into rhythm, via a language that feels brand new. Like a perfect playlist for a long road trip, this book fuses disparate elements to build a moving, intimate mythology for our time." --Melissa Ginsburg"Andrew Dally's poetry is smart and it smarts. Charles Olson sd the problem with America is space. Gertrude Stein sd Anybody is as their land and air is. Dally answers all of that on his speakerphone while rougeing a fry & otherwise going 777mph & watching where he's going like Creeley sd we must(ard). Herein Dally trellises--with seasoned alacrity and tiny good saltpackets of humor--Japanese wanderliterature tradition to the giant cheesy M on high. It's sad. It's loving. It's lovelorn. And it's damn lovely. I don't know about you but I live for some kinds of etched sadness. And Dally doesn't disappoint. I am 100% satisfied that three winters from now these ketchupy lung songs, all the ghosts in the white spaces, will still be not quite tiring across the tars of my ears." --Abraham Smith