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Tupelo Press, 2020

“Blurb excluding hot air and blowing smoke: In the negative space, in the life-shadow and image-silhouette, lurks an observer embroiled in all of humanity’s ecstasies, foibles, common miseries, latent beauties, political horrors, and humdrum goings-on. Exclusions keeps us off balance, stumbling forward, and absolutely alive with both the inventive possibilities of lyric poetry and that rare experience of watching the genre redefine itself in a pair of this art’s most capable hands.”
Michael McGriff, author of Early Hour

“Noah Falck's Exclusions purports to leave everything out, and yet somehow this book has everything in it: birth, death, rust, sex, smoking, shadows, floodlights, Olympic mascots, how "the sun flattens / into a sort of messy bruise / over the lake." Falck is a deadpan Nostradamus, dispensing fast-hitting predictions and sour flashes of the past. "Teenagers can't get drunk / fast enough is what you think of / when you think of home." These poems are fraught machines that crack and fizzle, that think deeply and resist the low ground, that come from a place of uncanny wildness and heft.”
Natalie Shapero, author of Hard Child

“No FOLO in this folio—that is, no fear of leaving out—but there’s always enough information for the reader to access the feelings of the problems herein. Falck’s gloom’s a playful one (this, as opposed to a willful obscurity), and his exclusions creep into and around our midst in order to ask a little something of us. Gentle but jarring, these poems let us in to where we are. The password is you.”
Graham Foust, author of Nightengalelessness

Poetry is often the art of what's left out: it offers the story behind the official story, the weather that weather reports exclude. The poems in Noah Falck's Exclusions conjure worlds in which what's missing shows us what matters most. Their generous whimsy and poignant metamorphoses are flinty and tender; this is poetry of radiant aftermath and post-industrial magic, of the conversation that remains after "all your lines have been cut / and I don't have a mouth." Whether he's musing among "groomed ruins" or eulogizing "revolutionary clumsiness," Falck invites us to see with more feeling, to grin with more bearing, to care like it can change us. "The heart is the most donated organ," he writes; in this book of absences, the heart is never missing.”
Zach Savich, author of Diving Makes the Water Deep