Binding

Pineapple

Joe Taylor

 

Synopsis:  "Taylor’s unique novel, written almost entirely in rhyming poetry, is largely narrated by a character also named Joe Taylor (more affectionately known as Our Beloved Writer). His muse, Trixie, aka “Dixie” or “Pixie,” reads his pages and offers up effervescent, sexually charged critiques. His story is about four friends, their families, and associates in Los Alamos, New Mexico (“the town that spawned the atom bomb”). Dockworker Hank Riser has just bought a new, two-story rancho, and he’s anxious for his girlfriend, Carmen Brown, to move in. Hank has an inkling that she’s a spy; as it happens, she’s investigating a cartel that deals in science instead of drugs."  ~Kirkus Reviews.

ISBN: 978-1-944697-27-3    Trade Paper $22.00   

Sale price   $15.00                       

 

333  Pages

  About the Author:  Joe Taylor spent a good part of his life in Kentucky, where he earned an undergraduate degree in philosophy at UK. He worked as a waiter in West Palm Beach before moving to Tallahassee to earn his Ph.D. in creative writing.

 

 

 

 

Excerpt from the Book:

The trouble with comedy, people think,

is that it’s funny. It’s not. To prove this

impels my high intent. A cat at nine lives’ brink,

I swear to die if you derive the smallest bliss

 

from these sad lines that follow. I’ll take large chance

and lay it bare: The time has come

to talk of many things. Of bombs that dance,

charbroiling bones in fierce atomic scum;

 

of cabbages, kings, tortillas, refried beans,

and creeps. Right soon and here I dare to ask,

“Why is it, yes, that briny tears distract our genes

far more than one good laugh?” Me, I’d rather bask

 

in deepest belly rolls or e’en one small chortle,

but oh no-no, the critics, academics,

and philosophes all skip for brine’s dank portal

to cite their so-fine morals and polemics.

 

When filled, they mince, “Comedy? Toss that pabulum to

poor lowly dweeps.” If somewhere were a muse’s court

I swear I’d wing right up and sue

those critical creeps. Comedy’s fuse burns short,

 

exploding with a cackle. Tragedy drones,

its whine unending, intently sucking

a babe-like thumb. Catharsis? Empathy? Those moans

just one thing mean: self-preening and mucking.

 

With comedy, cerebra have to reach out—

and ring intense as Ma Bell’s finest cell—

then thought gives skip and slip, a boxing bout

that fires the brain to fume unnerved, unwell.


Home