A free-admission release party for Love is Meat, a collection of poems and short stories by Rockford writer and musician David W. Pedersen, is set for 7 p.m., Friday, Aug. 5, at Veterans’ Memorial Hall, 211 N. Main St.
The event, hosted by Doug Shiloh, will feature live readings from Pedersen and other local authors/poets including Thomas L. Vaultonburg, Michael Whyte and Xen.
According to the book description: “Born in the back lot of the slaughtering house in which his parents fell in love, David W. Pedersen delivers an eccentric take on The Erroneous All American Dream. Pedersen takes on the challenge of dictating the predictable, classic Midwestern American Mindset, with the penmanship of a nauseated outsider.
“Love is Meat delegates the mundane from the surreal, the cynical from the optimistic, and the sensate from the senseless. Topics included are: lottery winners, teenage Catholic pregnancy, synthetic love, carnival sweeping, feral suburbanite hounds and over prescribed housewives, bacon-infused neighborhoods and overwhelmed bowling victors.”
Pedersen’s first book, Love is Meat “can be considered a mixture of Midwestern observations, dark humor and the realities surrounding our current post-economic downturn,” according to the author.
Love is Meat (79 pages) was produced, printed and financed completely in Rockford, with contributions from 29 local donors. The book is being printed at Johnson Group. For more about Pedersen, visit www.davispedersen.com.
The book can be purchased at the Aug. 5 release party for $10, or online at amazon.com for the same price with shipping costs. The Amazon sales won’t start until Aug. 6, including the Kindle version, which will be 99 cents. Pedersen said he also plans to do more shows at book stores in Illinois and Wisconsin.
Following is this week’s selection from Love is Meat:
To weaken the blow,
Of breathing without knowledge.
To define a previous life.
The impossibility of aging without regret.
The passing by of a former encounter,
A ring positioned around her tiny left hand —
A hand that once held your own.
Its purpose is overwhelming,
Though the word itself is meaningless.
For we are at the present time,
The eaters of our own foul endeavors,
Shifting through our condensed generation,
Upon minute distances —
A weekend vacation on a short fleeting highway.
A carved piece of granite to state the fact,
That we were an inhabitant of this particular planet.
Our vessel buried beneath a rock,
With a face that cannot be summoned simply by remembrance.
We shall not know the enormity of emptiness,
Until we have had a conversation with death.
Through the depths of forever,
To the occupied corners of the universe,
We can all hope that our affection will touch something beyond
We can all pray,
That when we finally rest,
We will only dream Of Love.
From the Aug. 3-9, 2011, issue