<p/><br></br><p><b> About the Book </b></p></br></br>In Connie Mae Oliver's science fiction fiction, luminous intimacies are drawn across the page-some shifting over a generation, others shifting over an hour-all with the delicacy of clouds rearranging.<p/><br></br><p><b> Review Quotes </b></p></br></br><br><p>Connie Mae Oliver's poems hold the moon between thumb and index finger. In her retrospective framework of adolescence, memory's scaffolds are showing. Thought is spatial; the mall is a circuit where the mind walks around itself and back again. Science Fiction Fiction knows it's an incomplete record of a disappeared Miami. It's also a trailer for eternal life as a computer, where we attend to what has passed through us and remains encoded in the obsolete technologies of younger days: "the internet nymphaeum." Against experts and toward experiences, in the digital archive of memory impressions, Oliver goes skimming.<br /> Charles Theonia</p><p>In Connie Mae Oliver's science fiction fiction, luminous intimacies are drawn across the page--some shifting over a generation, others shifting over an hour--all with the delicacy of clouds rearranging. To read her poems is to hear "something inaudible in the chaos" the weight of the voice of a friend, sifting through layers of digital mediation; the ecstatic texts of ever-new sensations, ever-receding into the unsaid.<br /> Tom Haviv</p><br>
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