(Who the heck are they?)
Centennial Press is the actuation of a dream humored once-upon-a-time (the year 2000 anno domini) in a bar on the outskirts of Milwaukee, Wisconsin. It was here a group of unknown writers living together in genuine obscurity coalesced weekly to discuss poetry, religion, film, philosophy, literature, art, and all other things grandiose in nature. And believing (as often unknown writers living together in genuine obscurity are wont to do) they could make a difference – really make adifference – together they made a pact to put their poetry into the world where it can live and breathe and dance and sing freely in the open air. And so, they did.
The bar where they met was called The Centennial. The writers who met there? Well, despite the modest successes of Centennial Press, the writers remain relatively unknown, living still in genuine obscurity …
(They wouldn’t have it any other way.)
WARNING: This website and all content found herein has been known to cause severe bouts of ennui. Prolonged surfing could also result in nervousness, irritability, and paranoia. Other side effects include (but are not limited to) temporary swelling or redness of the eye, blurred vision, muscle atrophy, liver damage, a red rash that is all splotchy and itches like hell, dysentery, lupus, impotency, narcissism, loss of sexual innocence, loneliness, botulism, dyslexia, unwanted enlightenment, trout fishing in America … and did we mention infertility, cysticercosis, genital warts, Gastroesophageal reflux disease, behavior befitting an Irish historian, and … SARS. One in ten visitors also displayed signs of regressive artistic appreciation and thusly became fans of Celine Dion. To these people especially, we apologize.
Disclaimer: Centennial Press hereby relinquishes any and all responsibility for any averse reaction you may receive by exposing yourself to the material found herein. (However, if you find yourself generally pleased … eventually enamored … and finally overjoyed with this site, to that, Centennial Press says, “Good, that’s precisely what we intended.”
The Savage was silent for a little. “All the same,” he insisted obstinately, “Othello’s good, Othello’s better than those feelies.” “Of course it is,” the Controller agreed. “But that’s the price we have to pay for stability. You’ve got to choose between CenPress and what People used to call high art. We’ve sacrificed the high art. We have the feelies and the scent organ instead.” “Yeah,” the Savage abjectly muttered, “that sucks.” – Brave New World, Aldous Huxley pg. 264