So what if I left language by the pier. Metaphor's a raft, declares
Andrew DuBois as he leads readers through a fractured past and
present -- from "slummy memories of streets" to a "a charnelhouse
(?) of possible clowns" -- defamiliarizing, critiquing, and
satirizing a wide range of conversational forms in the style of
Wallace Stevens and Michael Palmer. Yet, as "lives at time
degenerate into victory competitions," and the poet alternates
between searching for an escape from the mundane and accepting that
"merely being there together is a dull catastrophe," we recognize
that a formally wry, almost flippant, voice has become caught in
language's web. The surfaces of the poems begin to feel like thin
ice, a brittle coating over which we skate for as long as it lasts.
Danger lurks here: the poet must play the puppet, not the puppeteer
and we must surrender, body and soul, into language as element.
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