“All the Rage” and Other EWP Happenings

Dear Friends,

If you read our issues or follow us on Twitter or Facebook, it’s likely you already know about our recent chapbook release, “All the Rage” by Kevin Ridgeway.

For those who haven’t read Kevin’s work, skim through our issues, or punch “Kevin Ridgeway + poems” into Google. You’re bound find something in his work that you will enjoy. We’ve heard such great feedback about the book so far.

From writer, JL Martindale:
” Although All the Rage, Kevin Ridgeway’s collection of poetry, is fun, there is nothing light about it. The poems are ghetto fabulous, traipsing humble hipster landscapes, stalking beat ghosts like a character out of a Salinger novel seeking meaning. The poems in this collection will make you laugh and then choke on your sudden inhale of harsh epiphanies that taste like burnt coffee and stale cigarette smoke. I suggest you be a little selfish this holiday season and purchase this collection for yourself. Wrap it up and sign the card, “from Santa.”

Or, get to know Kevin a bit in his recent interview with Catfish McDaris of ppigpenn.

You can pick up a copy of Kevin’s work from us in our online shop:

Also, our next chapbook is coming soon! Keep an eye out for “The Old Masters” by Jeffrey Graessley. It will be available at the below link early on in 2014.

Next up is Issue #8. Until then, enjoy our recently shared archive posts on Twitter!


“The Typos” by Bud Smith

Carl worked two jobs. He’d rather not talk about either one of them to you. He wanted you to think of him as a writer and nothing else.

That’s what the guy at the deli would say about Carl, “He’s writing a book!”

That’s what the mailman would say about Carl, “Yeah, he’s writing a novel.”

About what?

That’s not important. Don’t ask Carl either; he gets very suspicious when you pry into his personal affairs. He has the habit of looking over his shoulder a lot. He’s being followed. The rooms are bugged and his million-dollar idea will be plucked out from under him when he’s not paying any attention. His grandfather invented the spatula, but it was stolen from him.

Carl has found that most people are also writing a book. Or they would like to write a book. Or they know someone that has written a book. Many of them want things from Carl; it drove him bananas. They’d readily tell Carl their ideas and those ideas were slop. Junk. Trash.

“My ideas are golden,” he tells Lulu the bird. His novel will radiate magic light, he explains to the postman. “I must protect my idea at all costs,” he tells the Spanish kid who slices his bologna.


Ask him further about the novel and he will talk very crossly to you, walking away in a red-faced fury.

A bit about Carl: He spends his evenings writing and rewriting his manuscript on an old Underwood typewriter in his dining room, listening to records from members of the now defunct Rat Pack. He has a tropical bird named Lulu. He lives alone. He is fifty three. He eats most of his meals out of a can but he doesn’t mind. His fingers hurt because he never learned how to type. He has never been to a single writing class. He liked it that way.

This year, he took two weeks off of work: both jobs, sat around the house, going over and over and over his manuscript. He told Lulu, “This time, I’ll really finish it. Really send it out.”

Lulu said, “Ooooooh Ooooohhhhh.”

Carl flipped over the Dean Martin Vinyl, placed the needle back down. “You’re Nobody Til Somebody Loves You” filled his mother’s house, but she was dead. The place smelled like Chef Boyardee.

The keys on the typewriter went clank clank clank and Carl looked nervously at the calendar from the Chinese restaurant down the street. He had until Tuesday to finish the necessary typing. Then, it was back to real life.

It started to rain. There was a flash of lightning. Rumbles of thunder. The record player slowed down as the lights flickered and then died completely. Carl lit a halo of candles around the typewriter and continued to type.

By dawn, his work was finished. He stood up and said, “Ahhh ha!”

Lulu said nothing.

Carl was prepared. He had a list of publishing houses that he was very interested in. He photocopied the manuscript at Office Town, shipped the box off. Waited.

Then he waited.

Then he waited.

Christmas came. The snow fell. He went to Jade Temple Garden and got a new calendar for the new year. A Chinese Fu Dog in gold foil. Wanton soup, fried rice. He bought the newspaper, not to read, just to line Lulu’s cage. He went for a walk over to the deli and told the Spanish kid in the hairnet, “Well, Pablo, I sent it off.”

“Sent what off?”

“None of your goddamn business.”

Steve, the mailman came up the walk. Carl always kept a close eye on the window those days. As soon as the mail truck pulled up, he flung open the door and shouted, “Anything?”

“This may be something?” Steve said, shaking a manila envelope. “It’s from New York City.”

Carl bounded down the steps, snatched the envelope away. Ran back into his house.

The crocuses were out. The lilies were just popping up in the gardens. It was nearly Easter. Steve put the rest of the mail in the box, went off to the next house, whistling a familiar song to all, that none could place.

The manila envelope contained a single sheet of paper.

It said this:


Dear Mr. _____,

Thanks for your interest in ______ House Publishing. Generally, as a rule, I don’t send out a personalized rejection letter because there is no time for that kind of thing. I am taking the time today to send you this note in hopes that it finds some resolution in the idea of you and ______ House Publishing working together in any capacity.

First of all, your manuscript is unworkable. It is not something that we would like to represent. Frankly, the subject matter was very distasteful and ill. The best part about your manuscript, by far, were your typos. Wonderful typos. We loved that part. Otherwise, no. No. No.

Please, stop your daily phone calls to ______ House Publishing. Halt all correspondence. We do not appreciate being sent Holiday cards, flowers, cakes, pastries, muffins, singing telegrams. We do not accept gifts of any kind from anyone. The autographed head shots that you sent us were given to local police regarding a few strange incidents involving some of our staff and someone matching your description.

You sir, are a sick individual. Get some help.

There is no need or desire for any future communication between ourselves and you. Consider this letter, a legal warning.

A copy has been forwarded to our lawyer, as well.


________ _________, esq.


Carl sat down at the kitchen table, broke out his list of publishers. He took a red marker and crossed _______ House Publishing off his list, “Their loss,” he sung.

Then he spun around to face his bird. “Well, Lulu, got some good feedback on my manuscript. Won’t be long now til me and you are living the good life in some posh mansion.”

Lulu squirmed around in the cage.

Carl took out the manuscript, plopped it down on the table. He took a new sheet of paper out of the pile, stuck that in the typewriter.

He began to painstakingly make every single word in his entire redraft a typo.

“Gotta give these publishers what they want. They want typos. I’ll give them typos.”

On the fourth of July, there was no mail. But Steve came by in his personal vehicle and he knocked on Carl’s door.

Carl answered in his bathrobe. He’d grown a big beard. he looked disoriented.

“This showed up last night at the post office,” he said.

Carl opened the letter. It said this:


Dear Mr. Carlos _____,

We would like to accept your novel The _____ _________ as a title to be carried by ______ _____ _____. Please contact us here at our offices at your earliest convenience at this number ___ ___ ____. Thank you for considering ______ _____ _____. We have never received a manuscript with such care and foresight placed into the text.
Every single word a typo! Brilliant!
We are prepared to offer you a three book deal, and hope earnestly that you accept it.


_____ _______
“What does it say?” Steve the postman asked.

“They love my book,” Carl said, shrugging. “They want it.”


Carl clicked his tongue, tsk tsk tsk.

“You don’t seem excited,” Steve said.

“I’d be a fool to accept the first offer,” Carl said. “there will be many more. There’s never been a book like this before.”

‘What’s it about?”

“I’m gonna have to ask you to leave now, Steve,” Carl said with hate in his eyes.

As Steve drove away, hurt, Carl walked back inside the house and continued to work on his next masterpiece.

Not only was every single word a typo, but it was over 400 pages long, without a single space between any of the words.

“We’ll be rich, Lulu,” Carl said, placing the needle back down on Sammy Davis Jr. “Soon your cage will be made of solid gold, and you’ll be a happier bird.”


Bud Smith is the author of Tollbooth, a novel. Check it out on Amazon.

All the Rage: Available for Preorder

Friends and Contributors,

It is our pleasure to announce that preorders are open for Kevin Ridgeway’s All the RageWe will begin shipping on the date of official release, which is September 24, 2013

More info here.

A quintessential Kevin Ridgeway poem inhabits a small studio apartment cramped with old blues records, unsteady stacks of books, the occasional dust-jacket a safe place for keeping family polaroids. The air is thick with gray-blue cigarette smoke. Yellow shades pulled to the sills during an unprecedented heatwave.

A Kevin Ridgeway poem has maybe shattered a few church windows by batting  a rock with a stick. A Kevin Ridgeway poem was once a Kool-Aid kid who saw the streetlights come on at dusk; it says “I was there, and it’s over, but at least I was there, and I did it; I made it.”


“Kevin Ridgeway’s thought provoking book, All the Rage, will make you sit up and take notice. I felt sort of like a blind man being led by a seeing eye dog and every so often a maniac would blow a silent whistle and I’d be dragged through a cacti patch. Then I’d eat a few poems and I’d be digesting cherry ice cream with hot fudge, walnuts and jalapenos. ‘Kool Aid Mustache,’ ‘Pubic Slapstick,’ ‘Noodle,’ ‘Cowboy Killers,’ ‘Flying High’…an Elvis impersonator in ‘Sober Living Blues’:  This is a good collection, now I’m going to remove my blue suede shoes.  Buy this motherf*****; you won’t regret it.” 

Catfish McDaris, Writer

“You don’t just read Ridgeway’s work, you ‘get into’ it, the way you would with Ginsberg or Bukowski. All the Rage is a vibrant, personal document–a great work from one of the most assured voices of the literary underground. ” 

Matthew Guerruckey, Writer and Editor-in-Chief of Drunk Monkeys

Issue No. 007

This issue contains work from return contributors Kevin Ridgeway, Owen Lucas, Tim Pilgrim,and Jeffrey Graessley. We are glad to welcome new contributors Joan McNerney, Morgan O’Connor, Samantha Seto, Neil Ellman, Neil Fulwood, Ally Malinenko, Susie Sweetland, and Richard Luftig. Thank you for joining us. We hope to see more of you in future issues!


Print edition information will be posted here in September 2013: http://electricwindmill.storenvy.com/collections/305038-issues-print-editions


“Pick-pocketed by the Alchemist” by Ally Malinenko

I didn’t go inside Nicholas Flamel’s house
when we finally found it down Rue Montmorency.
We were exhausted.
It was after the Pere Lachaise cemetery. We had been walking all day
down cobblestone avenues of littered with graves.

But we leaned against the other building to take pictures,
which honestly don’t do it justice.
It’s from the 1400’s, understand?
It’s just been sitting there for ages, you see.
Weathering harsh winters and blistering summers.
Rainstorms, vandals, the endless chatter of Frenchmen.

But I also didn’t go in because it scared me.
It looked fancy and we just wanted a place to sit down, have some wine
before we figured out what to do about food.

Right there I lost the map, leaning against that wall,
it slipped out of the back pocket of my jeans,
as if I was pick-pocketed by the alchemist, himself.

We wandered off, and it wasn’t until much later that we knew it was gone.

“It’s just a map,” I said. “We can get another one.”
But we both knew that wasn’t true.
It wasn’t just a map. It was an archeological treasure,
ripped already from repeated folding, the paper gone soft like parchment
and numbered in wet ink so we could find all those old ghosts.

#17 – Hemmingway’s first apartment
#5 – L’Hotel – Oscar Wilde’s death,
and so on, you see. It charted our every day.

The man at the café didn’t speak English but I went back in there anyway
to see if I left it on the counter.
We retraced our steps in exhausted silence.

And we found it back at Flamel’s place,
laying on the floor, taunting us.
French men and women stepped around it.
All hope was restored.
This time, you put it in your pocket, with a nod.

Flamel, that old codger, with his empty grave
and his death-less life.
Watch your pockets.
He could be anywhere, you know.

Ally Malinenko occasionally gets stories and poems published online or in print. Occasionally she doesn’t. It’s all relative. She is the author of the poetry book Wanting Bone by Six Gallery Press and the children’s novel Lizzy Speare and the Cursed Tomb published by Antenna Books. She lives in Brooklyn which is amazing except for when it isn’t.

  • Affiliates

  • Books by Contributors

    Scorpio by Thomas R. Thomas
    Poetry Chapbook / Free Download
    Publisher: Carnival

    Burn through Today by Kevin Ridgeway
    Poetry Chapbook / $7.00
    Publisher: Flutter Press