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HOTEL ALEXANDER: Poems by REBEKAH MORGAN

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Cows remain at graze in the field
I’ll never be good again

So, I’m here
With a taxi
With a stranger
With a coffee and a sweater
With a dog on a train
With nothing

I buy vodka just to see
Your name in print
A L E X A N D E R

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PRAISE FOR REBEKAH MORGAN

“Like being dipped in gasoline, Rebekah’s work is a thing that reminds you that you are alive, and how grateful one should be to have that life, in whatever form it comes.”—ELLE NASH, author of Animals Eat Each Other

“[Hotel Alexander] is some brilliantly, deeply felt and disturbing shit. And I mean that in the sense that Morgan’s truths are inescapable. One of the best poetry collections I’ve had the pleasure of reading in a long time. This is a book to read closely and take in. Then read and re-read, again and again.”—TROY JAMES WEAVER, author of Temporal

“With echoes of the apocalyptic spit-words of Nicole Blackman and Diamanda Galás, Rebekah Morgan’s work comes straight from the solar plexus [and is] reminiscent of a time in poetry when poetry wasn’t crafted, but expelled. Hotel Alexander is a face-push.”—MILA JARONIEC, author of Plastic Vodka Bottle Sleepover

“In Hotel Alexander, Rebekah Morgan writes poems that are beautifully crafted, rough around the edges, the perfect combination of pain and pleasure. These poems do what they want. They’re no Novocain. They will make you feel everything.”—BENJAMIN DEVOS, author of The Bar is Low

“Rebekah Morgan’s poems read like they were written by a couch-surfing mystic world traveler and self-annihilator, who returned to America to write what I can only describe as Country Realism.”—BRAD PHILLIPS, author of Essays and Fictions

“[Hotel Alexander is] what happens when an artist does exactly what they want and says ‘fuck you’ to every lame institution in this world.”—BUD SMITH, author of Double Bird

Hotel Alexander is a reminder of what it’s like to die on the inside, and what that means in terms of survival, having been struck, dried up, flattened. Let these poems release what has hardened your squishy insides, your heart that continues to beat (do you feel it?) despite the better sense of overwhelming odds. When stale roadkill inevitably speaks, it just might recite you these poems from memory. They’ll speak country grammar to your inner dog-child, all disturbed and maladjusted. Time to fatten up for the age of the detritus queen. Better times may or may not forth-come. When loss is all you have, hold onto these poems for dear love.”—KIM VODICKA, author of Psychic Privates

“Rebekah Morgan once asked if he could call me ‘muffin butt.’ I said, ‘You can call me whatever you want.’ And after you read Hotel Alexander, you will let Rebekah Morgan call you ‘muffin butt’ too.”—JOSEPH GRANTHAM, author of Tom Sawyer

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120 pages // Paperback

$4 shipping (United States) // $7 shipping (Elsewhere)

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REBEKAH MORGAN lives in Appalachia. His writing has appeared at Hobart, Anti-Heroin Chic, New York Tyrant, Bad Nudes, Instant, For Every Year, Faded Out, and X-R-A-Y.