Here's an unabashed plug for a book I recently very much enjoyed:
Ugly Duckling Press
Right from the start, Ostashevsky’s Iterature declares itself: the cover shows, apropos, the headless horseman rearing up, the wind blasting behind him. And, indeed, we’re in for quite a chase through Romania, Coke ads, Spinoza, safaris, and rhyming, rhyming, rhyming!
Ostashevsky plays with language and narrative as if they were taffy:
We did what we had to do
We rhymed pillage with village
The responsibility rests with language.
We had nothing to do with it
We’re just a bunch of fictional characters
We don’t have any other characters
Except for out letters, that is our characters
Iterature is so rad: it moves a whopping pace and, believe me, it’s a pleasant sort of work keeping up with the layered references, entendres, and linguistic gymnastics. Honestly, and strangely enough, despite the suffused wit throughout, Iterature is very nearly mythic.