rile*books

A revolutionary way of seeing bodies and built environment that unites radical politics and trans aesthetics. 

From a leading author and queer theorist known for reframing many of the most pressing questions about counter-intuitive ways of being. 

Anarchitecture, a radical aesthetic practice of unmaking the built environment, staged a vigorous confrontation with urban renewal and gentrification projects in the 1970s. In Anarchitecture After Everything, Jack Halberstam identifies a powerful lexicon of transformation within anarchitecture, joining the movement’s practices of cutting and splitting with the destabilizing power of transness to detonate acts of formal violence in our time. 

Anarchitecture describes the aesthetic practice of splitting and cutting, dismantling and undoing, unmaking, unbuilding, and ultimately unworlding. The trans body splits bodily coherence, dismantles the gender binary, and unbuilds bodily meaning. In these chapters, Gordon Matta-Clark’s cuts, along with Alvin Baltrop’s 1970s images of collapsing warehouses and Beverly Buchanan’s post-demolition fragmentary sculptures, return with a vengeance through the contemporary aesthetic gestures of Yve Laris Cohen, Jesse Darling, Nicole Eisenman, Kiyan Williams, Cassils, boychild, and Every Ocean Hughes. Anarchitecture unmakes space and offers a new rhetoric for emptiness. In its conclusion, the book explores this rhetoric through Renee Gladman’s anarchitectural experiments with language. 

By reading anarchitecture through transness and transness through anarchitecture, Halberstam helps us see the trans body as a space of radical unmaking and as a portal to new lexicons for transformation.

Emerging from the dark ecology between lullaby and ghost story, The pedestrian meanders down a labyrinth of divinatory time where crimes demand a more defective detective. To conjure the source of this text’s trauma, the poet becomes a ritual detective, tracing the wound by its shadow. Meaning emerges through distortion and echo—courting what cannot be seen head-on to create a haunted grammar of grief. An ill pastoral of displacement, The pedestrian turns domestic spaces into underworlds, the body of the exiled child into a prophetic threshold—it listens as much as it speaks, attuned to forces beyond itself.

The pedestrian is a map to a terrain of shards and shadows. While reading it, I felt lost only to the land of the normative, a lush fugitivity. I traveled far with, because of, and in this book. Hsiung trusts in the politics of decomposition, making syntaxes that have been distorted by grief, and thus sharpened to what cannot be colonially extracted. Writers like this know that grammar, vocabulary, and the sentence itself are haunted, so they write not to exorcise or cure this condition of its ghosts, but to make a place for them to live, a place they belong.
— Johanna Hedva

What began as a project responding to the fiftieth anniversary of the ‘end’ of the Vietnam War became a project of inhabiting the Movement Research Performance Journal (MRPJ) from within the landscape of contemporary Vietnamese performance art. The result, Issue #62, is a window onto a community of insiders who reflect a set of concerns, questions, historical trajectories, and aesthetic legacies that differ from what has more often been foregrounded in our U.S./New York City-centric publication. Like other documents of this kind, which endeavor to portray a performance scene that will be foreign to many readers, the texts from this group of intergenerational, contemporary artists demonstrate a careful navigation of the dialectics of inside and outside, self and other, performer and audience, seeing and being seen, that informs every exchange across cultural difference. 

The texts are also not monolithic, suggesting a range of relations to the Vietnam of the past and present, from within Vietnam’s national borders and among the diaspora. Especially for contributors living and working in Vietnam, writing has also been a practice of choreographing words within a political landscape where to speak publicly, in itself, is a performance of negotiated risk. Embracing the complexities of these differing positions has been the focus of our editorial process—one that has asked the editorial team to embrace the limits of our own knowledge, to recognize we will not be able to recognize all valences others may discover in these texts, and not to edit these layers out of the works that follows.

Bodies and Technologies is a collection of texts that inspire modes of attunement to how technologies condition and rewire the experience of our bodies. To ask how different embodied ways of being in the world can disrupt the behaviour and performance of technologies, this reader compiles material from the If I Can’t Dance reading group in Amsterdam as part of Edition XI–Bodies and Technologies (2022–24). 

The reader includes texts by M. Jacqui Alexander, Alok, Gloria Anzaldúa, Tina M.Campt, Kai Cheng Thom, Arturo Escobar, BrandonLaBelle, Ursula K. Le Guin, Resmaa Menakem, Adrienne maree brown, Kate Morales, Rolando Vázquez Melken and Gloria Wekker, and with a sonic contribution by artist Ciro Monoarfa Goudsmit. 

Reportage, photography, and art from Palestine and Lebanon. Contributors include Alaa Mansour, Fady Joudah, Farah Silvana-Kanaan, Fatima Joumaa, Fouad Elkoury, Hadi Afif, Islam Al-Khatib, Philippa Dahrouj, Rawad Wehbe, Sakir Khader, and Wassila Abboud.

“Ishtar said goodbye to the elephants, goodbye to the clowns, waved to a group of admirers who had gathered on East 43rd Street, and was ushered into a shiny new Escalade, which the NYPD reserved for such occasions. ‘I am the earth,’ she said, as the cops forced her head through the doorframe. The motorcade, fit for heads of state, went 40 down the West Side Highway, past rollerblading homosexuals and New School undergraduates, who held signs with slogans like ‘ISHTAR WE LOVE YOU!’ ‘ARREST ERESHKIGAL AND GILGAMESH,’ and ‘DOWN WITH CAPITALISM.’” 

Nest is Gregory Carlock’s vision of Manhattan razed to the ground by Ishtar—Akkadian goddess of love, sex & war—following her liberation from NYPD arrest. 

This poem, in 31 sections, combines the 4000-year-old Gilgamesh epic, pre-Islamic poetry, Sufi snippets & Carlock’s own Emily-Dickinsonesque rhymes to vent sulphurous @ New York/Washington’s rape’n plunder of Planetary Mind. Illustrated by the Lebanese artist, Christina Atik.

In Hopscotch, Fatemeh Shams crafts a vivid liminal world of Berlin-based poems, a canvas where home and exile blur into an intimate middle ground. Her work, geographically and metaphorically situated between her birthplace in Iran and her current life in exile, evokes a “third space”—a realm of creative liberation and a sanctuary for the play of memories, language, and place. Shams frames this space with tangible metaphors—airports, suitcases, the thresholds of nightclubs. Her poems, like the game of hopscotch itself, leap over borders with a childlike agility, contrasting against the harsh reality of exile. They invite us to consider our own places of belonging and the potential spaces we inhabit—those rich intersections of language and lived experience. 

Fatemeh Shams is the author of 88 (Gardoon, Berlin), Writing in the Mist (H&S Media, London), and When They Broke Down the Door (Mage, Washington D.C). Her poems and translations have been published in Poetry magazine, the Michigan Quarterly Review, The Penguin Book of Feminist Writing, and elsewhere. Fatemeh grew up in Mashhad, Iran and is an Associate Professor of Persian Literature at the University of Pennsylvania.

Armen Davoudian is the author of The Palace of Forty Pillars, published by Tin House (US) and Corsair (UK). His poems and translations from Persian appear in Poetry magazine, the Hopkins Review, the Yale Review, and elsewhere. Armen grew up in Isfahan, Iran, and is a PhD candidate in English at Stanford University.

Blank Stare is the first publication in the CommonWealth series, published by Chillzone. 

Compiled of graffiti written in the streets of Iran, combining the urgency of emotional expression amidst the political suffocation of people during the 2026 government-imposed internet blackout.

Legal-high addict, gaming enthusiast, and principal shareholder of AstroLabs™, Lex Rameses, has recently discovered—and purchased—Proserpina: a planet with a near-identical ecosystem to Earth’s. Yet, although his humanistic, hipster pretensions mean that many people admire him, there is still one thing standing in the way of his space-colonization program: as of yet, there is no way to travel to Proserpina safely.

Enter a cast of mad scientists, Astro–Marxists, a neurorobotic AI hivemind, an extinction anxiety addict, the victims of an interrelated crypto-currency gaming scam, and a seemingly endless succession of ravers and gamers in search of the ultimate hallucinogenic, carcinogenic, neü-space-age high…

The Ultraviolet Catastrophe is raucous, hilarious, irreverent, and wildly smart, taking aim at techno-salvation fantasies, startup culture, and the eternal humiliation of having a body under the ridiculous conditions of late capitalism. Finlay's new novel is as unexpected and unique as all of her work. Read it now.
— Elvia Wilk, author of Oval and Death by Landscape 

A coloring book conceived as an artist book. Coumba Samba’s publication prompts you to explore geometric forms and structures with a small set of colored pencils. Using those simple materials one realises how interaction and experimentation challenge again and again the relationship between color, abstraction and internalised form systems.

Published in connection with the exhibitions deutschland at Kunstverein in Hamburg and Coumba Samba at MauMaus in Lisbon.

Thinking What We Are Doing is a new essay series reflecting on making and contemporary publishing practice, co-published by Impractical Labor and Alder & Frankia. This small book is not a how-to about bookbinding, but rather about the observations, thoughts, and feelings that arise in the process of this patient and meditative labor. A reflective essay by ILSSA Co-Operator Local 917 Shop RC Emily Larned written while binding a large hand-sewn edition of her Alder & Frankia book Our daily lives have to be a satisfaction in themselves.

Hervé Guibert’s novel The Gangsters opens at the front door of a Paris townhouse inhabited by the narrator’s elderly great-aunts, Suzanne and Louise. The narrator, distracted by a health crisis and his pursuit of an ambivalent lover, arrives to find suspicious renovation work taking place. But even after the great-aunts confess to being intimidated and extorted, neither he nor the incompetent police can stop the ongoing larceny. 

Readers of Guibert’s writing may already recognize the narrator (also named Hervé) and his great-aunts from the groundbreaking photo-novel Suzanne and Louise. As Guibert explained in a 1988 interview, “I started The Gangsters three days after discovering the events of which my great-aunts were victims, and I wrote the book in ten days. The story continued while I was writing and after I had finished.”  

Like his other books, The Gangsters is a work of autofiction. Here, he uses the crime-novel format to explore universal motifs, such as cruelty, desire, and mortality. “When I disappear,” Guibert continued, “I will have said it all. I will have striven to reduce this distance between the truths of experience and writing.”