Even the Sun Itself Has Faded: Featured Poetry by Norman Dubie

Our series of poetry excerpts continues with a poem by Norman Dubie from his new book, Robert Schumann Is Mad Again, an eclectic and inventive collection. There’s often an irreverent touch to Dubie’s lines, but his language is painfully precise—with an unnerving feel, as if we are looking at the world around us with new eyes. “Zone” begins with a “flag utterly bleached with years of sun, / seemingly made thin with turpentine” — lines that imply color, texture, smell, age, decay, and more. His later description of the flag “rioting with the wind” is such an arresting image, its precision unsettling; a preface, perhaps, for the darkness that invades the rest of the poem.

A flag utterly bleached with years of sun,seemingly made thin with turpentine, isan achievement in the yard of yellow grass.Even the sun itself has fadedsetting in the bee tenement of bearded palms.The flag, nearly detached from its pole,is somehow rioting with the wind.
This is just the first of six months of heatand already a neighbor has been founddead on his patio with a revolverof glassy obsidian fallen to his sandals.He told the maintenance man in the afternoonhe believed those bees were wasps and they,they were going to attack him and his tea, flyinglike zeros right out of the sun that will have blinded him.
John said the lawn mowers prevented himfrom understanding what else he said, the facetruly reddening with the small success of evening.

Copyright 2019 Copper Canyon Press. All rights reserved. Posted here with permission of Copper Canyon Press.

Panel Mania: ‘BTTM FDRS’ by Ezra Claytan Daniels and Ben Passmore

In this quirky satire of gentrification, race, and cultural appropriation, Darla, a young, hip black designer, accompanied by her ditzy, trend-crazy white childhood friend, look for a cheap apartment in a now-gentrified urban neighborhood only to discover a monstrous new kind of urban blight.

Written by Ezra Claytan Daniels (Upgrade Soul) and drawn by Ben Passmore (Your Black Friend), BTTM FDRS is a savvy, grisly, comic urban monster story for the social media generation. Below is a 10-page excerpt from BTTM FDRS, which will be published in June by Fantagraphics.

This piece was produced in partnership with Publishers Weekly and also appeared on publishersweekly.com.

‘Riots I Have Known’: Featured Fiction from Ryan Chapman

In today’s featured fiction, we present an excerpt from Ryan Chapman’s novel Riots I Have Known, out today from Simon & Schuster.

Publishers Weekly called the book—which features an unnamed narrator attempting to put into words his philosophy and history during a prison riot—”supremely mischievous and sublimely written.” And our own Nick Moran wrote, in our First Half Preview, that “Chapman’s satirical jab packs a full-fledged punch.”
Riots I Have Known
Lopez, right before they stabbed him in the yard—this was maybe last winter or the winter previous—you know what he said? He said: “Time makes fools of us all.” To say it at the end—he knew it was the end, as he must have known and as we all must know—such clarity! Lopez cut through years of hoary usage and conferred a real sense of gravitas upon the moment. We all felt it, all of us rubbernecking in the yard. I confess I missed the casual-Friday jab to a bit of shadow from a racing cloud, it was dark and then light and Lopez was resting against the squeaky weight bench. Everyone avoided that bench, its high-pitched chirps neutered the masculinity an otherwise strong set was meant to advertise. Lopez: the bravery! Those moments stick with you, dear reader. Months later I remember watching a Brando-esque scene chewer in some Lifetime movie—it’s one of the few channels we’re allowed—and the actor whispered to his teary ex-wife, “Time makes fools of us all.” I shook my head and exclaimed to no one in particular with surprising volume, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Lopez, who was almost definitely stabbed in the yard last winter and not the winter previous, you remember from Volume I, Issue Two, “So My Chains May Weep Tonight,” that execrable short story. For readers stuck outside the pay wall, I’ll summarize briefly: “Rodrigo,” on a dime for arson, covers the “Southton” yard’s cement square with soulful chalk portraits of a daughter he’s never met. He guesses at the features: her mother’s nose, his own plump cheeks, big doe eyes. Lopez wrote long, dolorous paragraphs about those drawings, drawings never trampled by fellow inmates. (Credulity: strained.) Anyway, the portrait’s subject grows from infancy to young adulthood, or so Rodrigo believes; upon his release the buoyant Rodrigo receives a conveniently timed missive from his ex-wife: she aborted the fetus a week into his incarceration. (NB: The Warden loved this O. Henry–esque twist and demanded the story’s inclusion. Your humble editor’s protests fell on deaf ears.)

Thinking about it now, as the riot gathers momentum in A Block, and the WXHY Action News ActionCopter buzzes past in a tireless orbit, its camera surfacing whatever rabble it can find, I commend Lopez for wresting meaning out of such a trampled phrase, “Time makes fools of us all,” instilling a measure of sublimity in the death act, a sublimity otherwise absent from his treacly prose. Might he be Westbrook’s own Harry Crosby? Readers quick with Wikipedia will learn that Crosby, a Boston scion-cum-flâneur, failed as a poet but succeeded as a patron of the arts, publishing Joyce, Eliot, some other guys, he exited spectacularly with his mistress in a ritualized murder-suicide. True, Lopez was much less foppish and much more bellicose. Still, I would suggest the old impresario lives on in our departed colleague. We envy those who go out in their own way, we all hope for the same for ourselves and hubristically we all secretly expect to go out in our own way ourselves. I’ve seen many men, at least four, bawl and curse their attackers, be they physical, chthonic, or oncological. We expect such a response: it is common and it is natural. How am I to go? I wonder. Enviable old Lopez, he took possession of his ending there in the yard, stabbed last winter, possibly the winter before, whichever one was the year of the new jackets. He collapsed by the gates, I remember, under the small pointillist cluster of black ash on the wall where everyone stubbed their cigarettes. The tenor of my own shuffling off this mortal coil will be determined by whoever first breaks down my meager barricade here in the Will and Edith Rosenberg Media Center for Journalistic Excellence in the Penal Arts: two upended footlockers, a standard teacher’s desk, a nearly complete set of Encyclopedia Britannicas (2006 edition), and a scrum of Aeron chairs fish-hooked over each other just so. If I am lucky it’ll be Warden Gertjens first over the transom, he no doubt sympathizes with my present situation and, I would hope, admits complicity in my present situation. He could be counted on for assistance in a boost hurdling the A/C panel, knocking out the tempered double-paned glass, and running into the embrace of my fans, followers, and future lovers. Everyone else would surely stab me in the face.


I deserve it, and this is the truth, or a truth, and the one I claim and will verify for the scurrilous Fox News fact-checkers whose emails presently flood my in-box. I am the architect of the Caligulan melee enveloping Westbrook’s galleries and flats. Must this final issue of The Holding Pen be my own final chapter? Can any man control the narrative of his life, even one as influential as mine? I suppose not. And so the The Holding Pen winds down in real time, complemented by Breaking News updates from breathless, iron-coiffed correspondents on the scene; eighty thousand tweets and counting; protests by the Appeals on the north lawn; and blush-inducing slashfic on TheWildWestbrook.com of improbable but emboldening reunions with my sweet McNairy.

Were I petty, or spiteful, or the kind to assign blame, I’d say this is all the Latin Kings’ fault, an accusation supported by Diosito’s narco-sonnet “Mi Corazón en Fuego y Mi Plan de Fuga” from Volume I, Issue Eight (“Journeys”). The same issue, I remember, with the popular fold-out guide to rat-tailing one’s bedsheet for sliding tobacco down the flats. Spanish-speaking readers must have gleaned the Latin Kings’ intentions from stanza one, to which your editor can only express irritation for having never received even a friendly word of warning. Yet I accept in full the public drubbing that is my due, however accidental and unforeseen its cause may have been, a public drubbing that will likely take the form of the aforementioned face stabbing. I wish only to spend my remaining time clearing up a few inaccuracies.

Excerpted from Riots I Have Known by Ryan Chapman. Copyright © 2019 by Ryan Chapman. Reprinted by permission of Simon & Schuster, Inc, NY.

My Mother Once Gave Up Her Savior: Featured Poetry by Tina Chang

Our series of poetry excerpts continues with a poem by Tina Chang from her new book, Hybrida. “Mankind Is So Fallible” is a lovely, ambitious poem about the mysteries of belief. Chang’s lines are simultaneously gentle but jarring: we are eased into the murky and mystical place of faith. In Chang’s poem, the narrator’s mother sets aside God—”She no longer believed in the unseen”—leading the narrator to wonder with what one might replace the divine. Perhaps belief “could be as simple as sleep, curling inward / toward an avalanche of hummingbirds.” This poem thrums like that small, beautiful bird’s wings.

“Mankind Is So Fallible”
We lie down to the day as if we could fleefrom the body’s burden. On the ground are notes,candles, a saint’s face painted alive with gold.
Where does God live if not in the shadowsof struggle, marching next to the living,with battlements and a slogan, knowing
faintly more than we do? Someone dispatchesa call for help. Someone notes the patcheson a man’s jacket. Somewhere there is a circle
of people praying and dying at once, the lossof which makes a narrative rain downin news feeds across frames of light.
My mother once gave up her savior,walked into our living room to professher love for the here and now.
She no longer believed in the unseen,could no longer bow to invisible idols.She sat on the chair in front of me
more mortal than she ever was, face lit with resolve, done with faith,done with the promise of rapture.
Somewhere, glass breaksand the one who shatters itwears a mask of God’s many faces.
How would the body be summonedif we started over? Imagine a blank bookin which the body is drawn.
Would the body lie horizontal like a violinwhose music plays off-key or would it standupright like a totem pole against its own weather?
I place a book under my pillowas the ancient Japanese courtesans didto dream the body into being.
Wind gathers from the past until I am walkingin snow. The arms and legs move in unisonwith the mind, an engine of sinew and meat.
How should I draw it, not the bodybut what it contains. Not its contoursbut its tensions. Not its stew of blood
and clattering bones but its promise.I prefer now to think of the body’s debtand what it owes to the ledger of the living.
I imagine the courtesans rising from sleep,hair rushing to the waist like ink. They rubtheir eyes of dream, tighten their robes
as they lift the book from beneath their pillowas if urging a stone from its bedrock.How would they think of the body then,
having wakened from that placeone could describe as near death.Instead, the body startles forward toward infinity.
The courtesan runs her hand along the page,feels the blank space, an urgent bell summons her.Dips her brush in ink and draws a line through emptiness.
When a young man enters a church,he seeks a furnace to burn away his hatredand a foundation on which to kneel.
He seeks his mother’s mercyand his father’s vengeance. He passes throughthe doors and we call this worship.
If it could be as simple as sleep, curling inwardtoward an avalanche of hummingbirds, the mindfreeing itself as the body lets go its earthly wreckage.
If it could be like enduring the wholeness of a dreamso real we dissolve into a veil of the past,wind dragged backward, so brutal in its disappearance.

Reprinted from Hybrida: Poems. Copyright © 2019 by Tina Chang. Used with permission of the publisher, W. W. Norton & Company, Inc. All rights reserved.

Panel Mania: ‘The Silent Invasion’ by Michael Cherkas and Larry Hancock

First published in 1999 and revived last year, Michael Cherkas and Larry Hancock’s The Silent Invasion is back with another volume of the original material.

Filtered through the lens of anti-communist witch hunts, alien flying saucers, and loopy cult conspiracies, The Silent Invasion is a byzantine sci-fi mystery/thriller that stylishly recreates 1950s middle-class America in all its kooky, paranoid glory.

In this 13-page preview, dogged reporter Matt Sinkage is on the run from mysterious forces and determined to uncover the truth about an alien invasion.

The Silent Invasion: The Great Fear Vol. 2 will be published this month by NBM.

This piece was produced in partnership with Publishers Weekly and also appeared on publishersweekly.com.

This Is the Fruit I’ll Never Die For: Featured Poetry by Paisley Rekdal

Our series of poetry excerpts continues with a poem by Paisley Rekdal from her new book, Nightingale, a careful, hypnotic work. The book opens with “Psalm,” a poem about a narrator’s observation of her impatient, earnest neighbor, who, despite the “ice-sheathed” branches, “waits, with her ladder and sack, for something to break.” In “Pear,” the longing for fruit returns in a meticulous poem that shows Rekdal’s vision and storytelling gifts. “It is not a sin / to eat one,” she writes, “though you may think // of a woman’s body as you do it, / the bell-shaped swell of it / rich in your hand.” By turns sensual and sweet, Rekdal’s narrator captures the many facets of hunger.

Pear                                                                                                      after Susan StewartNo one ever died for a biteof one, or came back from the deadfor a single taste: the cool fleshcellular or stony, white
as the belly of the winter hareor a doe’s scut, flicking,before she mates. Even an unripe one
is delicious, its crisp bite cleaneralmost than water and its many namesjust as inviting: Bartlett and Comice,
Anjou, Nashi, Concordeand Seckel, the pomegranate-skinnedStarkrimson, even the medieval
Bosc, which looks like it droppedfrom an oil painting. It is not a sinto eat one, though you may think
of a woman’s body as you do it,the bell-shaped swell of itrich in your hand, and for this reason
it was sacred to Venus, Juno, all womencelebrated or dismissedin its shape, that mealy sweetnesstunneling from its center, a gold
that sinks back into itself with age.To ripen a pear, wrap it in paper,lay it in cloth by an open window
or slip a rotten one beside iton a metal dish: dying cells call alwaysto the fresh ones, the body’s
siren song that, having heardit once, we can’t stop singing.This is not the fruit
that will send you to hellnor keep you there;it will not give you knowledge,
childbirth, power, or love:you won’t know more painfor having eaten one, or chokeon a bite to fall asleep
under glass. It has no usefor archer or hero, thoughanything you desire from an apple
you can do with the pear, like a dark sisterwith whom you might live outyour secret desires. Cook it
in wine, mull it with spices, roast itwith honey and cloves. Time sweetensand we taste it, so gather the fruit
weeks before ripeness,let summer and winter bothsimmer inside, for it is
a fall fruit whose name in Chinameans separation, though only the fearfulwon’t eat one with those they love.
To grow a tree from seed,you’ll need a gardenand a grafting quince, bees, a ladder,
shears, a jug; you’ll need waterand patience, sun and mud,a reverence for the elders
who told no true storiesof this fruit’s origin,wanting to give us the freedomof one thing that’s pleasure alone.
Cool and sweet, cellular and stony,this is the fruit I’ll never die for,nor come back from the dead
for a single taste.The juice of the pearshines on my cheeks.
There is no curse in it. I’ll eatwhat I like and throw the restto the grasses. The seeds
will find whatever soils they were meant for.

Copyright 2019 Copper Canyon Press. All rights reserved. Posted here with permission of Copper Canyon Press.

Panel Mania: ‘Cannonball’ by Kelsey Wroten

Kelsey Wroten’s new graphic novel, Cannonball, is by turns a satirical social portrait of a queer, binge-drinking, abrasively ambitious young writer and a hilarious meditation on artistic purity and self-delusion.
Dumped by her girlfriend, surrounded—in her opinion—by philistines and sellouts, and usually broke, novelist Caroline Bertram escapes her abusive middle-class family home determined to write a literary masterpiece and settle a few scores. Obsessed with a cheesy female pro wrestler and driven by rarified artistic ambition, Bertram is relentlessly entertaining, no matter whether she’s wallowing in boozy self-pity or spewing lengthy, hyper-articulate rants at friends, enemies, or anyone who will put up with her.
This is a 10-page excerpt from Cannonball, which will be published this month by Uncivilized Books.

This piece was produced in partnership with Publishers Weekly and appeared on publishersweekly.com.

I Wait for the Sudden Sunset: Featured Poetry by Tyler Mills

Our series of poetry excerpts continues with a poem by Tyler Mills from her new book, Hawk Parable, a fascinating verse consideration of the atomic age. From test to terror, Mills unfolds the dizzying destruction of a world, cindered and then forgotten. In this poem, laughter precedes the “sudden / sunset,” a pungent “tangerine” unleashed on the landscape. Connie Francis is the soundtrack to yet another test—which, like the others, remains surprising in its violence.

“Declassified Test Film”
They eat close to the surf,laughing as water un-combsplum threadsfrom a surface that flickersquickly in and out ofsunflowers.
I wait for the suddensunset, tangerine, sun-less as it blooms.One of the soldiers has a question.He rubs his nose with his thumb.Is it that silver
speck up there?He’s in the cotton whitet-shirt you like to wear.I fold your sleeves in a mess and press themto my face—your stinkin the boat
seam of fabric.|“Where the Boys Are” by Connie Francisdrones from a radio speaker, her breathmingling with the gold-painted mesh.They dig their feet in the sand
peaking here and there like buttercream.Suddenly, the songstupidly playingbreaks outof shape, and everyoneflinches
then staresright at the sky.

“Declassified Test Film,” from Hawk Parable by Tyler Mills. Copyright © 2019 by The University of Akron Press. Published and reprinted by permission of The University of Akron Press.

‘Ungovernable’: Featured Nonfiction from Therese Oneill

In today’s featured nonfiction, we present an excerpt from Therese Oneill’s Ungovernable: The Victorian Parent’s Guide to Raising Flawless Children, out today from Little, Brown.

Publishers Weekly praised Oneill for keeping “her tongue firmly in cheek for this dark-humored, enlightening look at Victorian-era prescriptions for upper-class childbirth and child rearing.”
How Do I Prepare My Sacred Vestibule to Best Receive My Husband’s Life-Germ?
The Ins and Outs of Fruitful Conception

Try to assume as close to a left-bend forty-five-degree angle as possible to shorten the male-gender ovum’s journey through the fallopian tubes.

Q: Do you have any advice if I’m still on the fence about having children?

A: Yes. Every moment you remain childless is another beat of your heart echoing down a meaningless eternity. Your time on earth will have been a blip, a glitch, and no trace of you will escape the blankness of death, and when you are gone only the poor estate agent who has to try to rid your home of your stench will mourn your passing.

Q: Oh. Well. That’s a pretty tight argument. Except I have child-free friends who are doing just fine.

A: Child-less is the proper Victorian term. Actually, “barren” is more accurate. “The Lord hath turned His mercy against you” is also appropriate. Your childless friends seem happy, with their disposable income and spare time. But how they weep at night. Weep in their clean houses after eating expensive adult food and wine and watching rated-R movies on the big screen in the living room. Bitterly weep.

But this is moot! You already know, in your heart, that children are your highest purpose as a woman! Otherwise you’d never have picked up this book. Let’s get started! Your work as a good mother begins long before the birth of your precious children. It begins even before conception! Preparation for motherhood as the Victorians did begins the moment you awkwardly allow your new husband to bunch your thirteen pounds of nightdress around your waist and accidentally elbow you in the chin while blindly but earnestly trying to navigate the cartography of your lady parts. If things get weird, just remember, you’re doing this for the baby!

Q: Wait—do I have to wear the nightdress? Weird how? What sorts of things am I supposed to do to prepare?

A: Slow down there, feisty filly. I don’t mean to mislead you. While it is the highest and most noble desire to start a family, it’s not a privilege to be allotted to all women. First, you must ask yourself, “Is it a good idea to put more of me in the world? Would my offspring bring good to society, or would I just be mushing up all my own deficiencies, from my foul temper to my freckles, into a squalling eight-pound plague to unleash on civilization?” Now is not a time to mince words, so I must say with great solemnity: We don’t more need more stupid and ugly in this world. If inferior goods are all that’s on offer up your baby aisle, best to just convert it into a dry goods department.

Dr. L. C. Winsor wrote an editorial in an 1887 edition of the Obstetric Gazette called “Should Conception Be Controlled?” about stupid people making new stupid people. Lack of sense and restraint was, in the doctor’s opinion, killing America.
It cannot be disputed that the majority of our race are conceived utterly regardless of the conditions, time, or of the fitness of the parents to procreate. Such being the case, is it strange that we hear now and then rumors that the American race is becoming weak? That hollow chested, round-shouldered, debilitated fathers, and worn, dyspeptic mothers, complain that the children are sick so much that they are turning home into a hospital?
And what is to blame for this degradation of the American breed? Says Winsor, “Men and women are too prone to marry on simply the one quality—that of love.”

There it is. Mushy, squishy imprudent “love.” Ruining humanity by not factoring sensible breeding into the equation. Winsor continues:
Often the fitness as regards health, temperament and inclination are totally disregarded. Few men are as strong as their ancestors were. They are not of the rugged puritan type, nor is the tendency in America to strength, but rather to weakness, and under these circumstances, with no especial preparation, conception takes place.
Q: Wait—“rugged puritan type”? Didn’t half the Mayflower Puritans die, precisely because they were too weak to survive freezing, sickness, and starvation, all within months of landing in America?

A: Ha! No! That’s just…I mean…like barely half! There were 102 Mayflower passengers and only 45 or so died by the first winter. Besides, the good doctor obviously isn’t referring to the ol’ “Oh, poor me, I can’t survive an unusually harsh New England winter in a badly built shelter with hardly any food and now I’m going to die because I haven’t the fortitude to walk off a little bit of scurvy” Puritans. He’s talking about the hardy survivors that built America! And look: An Object Lesson. Bring weak humans into the world, force the Lord to cull them out.

How cruel of you.

This is why you must be sure you’re worthy of procreation. Do not be one of the “thousands of careless, selfish and vicious couples” identified by Lyman Beecher Sperry in 1900’s Husband and Wife who are unfit to marry but do it anyway. You must self-govern. Because modern minds apparently consider it a “gross violation of human rights” to implement Sperry’s suggested solution: “Of course, it would be great gain if all those who ought not to reproduce their kind could be prevented from marrying; but at the present stage of human development such a method of preventing the multiplication of defectives is too radical to secure favorable consideration.”

“No, I’m really happy to be in the New World. It’s just I only brought this one cape and I don’t know how to make houses happen.”

Q: “Preventing the multiplication of defectives”…wasn’t that one of Hitler’s programs?

A: I’m very eager to answer all your questions, but we’d move faster if they weren’t all directed at poking holes in my historical narrative. Furthermore, if you attach Hitler’s name to anything it’s going to sound over the top. Granted, forced sterilization is already…rather fringe. And, yes, the Nazi Party enacted many laws to prevent the birth of “unsound progeny” by sterilizing people who were judged by an investigating panel as unfit…but… the Victorian eugenicists didn’t mean it evil. Victorians lived in a largely speculative world, full of ideas on how to improve their changing civilization. They weren’t great at factoring in the wild variable that is human behavior. Since they intended good, they wouldn’t easily conceptualize just how awful such a method would be when put into action. It doesn’t change the fact that you yourself have a moral duty to find out if you’re fit for reproduction.

Q: And how will I know if I am fit for reproduction?

A: Science will tell you! Victorian science, which is a little different from what you’re used to, since it’s not big on evidence or whatever. It was a system based more on…intuition! Of men! Who may or may not be scientists but who do love to write books with big, big words! So, listen.

Obviously you should not reproduce if you are cursed with any sort of illness that might be passed on to your offspring or impair your ability to care for them. Neither should you reproduce if your IQ is below average, but that’s rather moot. As Sperry tells us, dumb people are always the last to know of their condition. Nonetheless, let’s look at some of the ladies who are fouling the gene pool and need to be banned from the “recreation” center.

Tight-lacing the corset of a twelve-year-old gives the appearance of fuller hips and breasts, but that is usually only an illusion brought on by organ displacement.

Girls Under Twenty Years of Age—The Physical Life of Woman: Advice to the Maiden, Wife, and Mother by George Henry Napheys was reprinted decades past its original 1869 publication, so popular was his advice regarding the weaker sex. Even though early marriage was far more acceptable in the past than today, Napheys recognized that a woman under twenty is rarely physically or mentally prepared for the demands of motherhood. Plus, she’s probably going to die: “It is very common for those who marry young to die young. From statistics which have been carefully compiled [he doesn’t have those statistics on him at this exact moment, but trust him, they were wayyyy carefully compiled], it is proven that the first labors of very young mothers are much more painful, tedious, and dangerous to life, than others.” If young mothers don’t die right away, Napheys warns, they will certainly suffer barren wombs. Or, unpredictable little tarts that they are, go completely the other way and live a long time and have way too many children. Seriously, anything could happen! Almost to the point that it seems totally random and not worth medical notation. Although you can be sure the children of a young mother are predestined to be societal burdens.
 Excerpted from the book Ungovernable by Therese Oneill. Copyright © 2019 by Therese Oneill. Reprinted with permission of Little, Brown and Company. All rights reserved.

Panel Mania: ‘Invisible Mafia’ by Brian Michael Bendis

Acclaimed comics writer Brian Michael Bendis takes the helm of Superman in Action Comics Vol. 1: Invisible Mafia, a lively new adventure about the Man of Steel.
In this nine-page excerpt, Superman has been falsely accused of causing a series of devastating fires and is forced to clear his name; Lois Lane, his wife and star Daily Planet reporter, has disappeared; and because the Daily Planet is losing readers, Perry White is pressuring his reporters for more and more scoops. If all of that weren’t enough, there’s a new and powerful supervillain in Metropolis who may be behind a growing and well organized criminal empire.
The hardcover collection of Invisible Empire Vol. 1 by Bendis and artists Ryan Sook, Patrick Gleason, and Yanick Paquette will be published by DC this month.
This piece was produced in partnership with Publishers Weekly and also appeared on publishersweekly.com.