Lines of verse veer top-speed around corners, producing
unexpectedly lucid interrogations: "The sun, Then, in a brief Case
blown open, Appears. But who is Here to have it, 2Bang4?..." Anger
is allowed in these poems, and disillusionment, and a general
mistrust of 'landscape' - the natural world owned and used - all
countered with the anodyne of an inebriate sensibility that loves
the liquor in which it bathes, the language by which it
collaborates. "I can co-locate here. I won't digress, not with
these. Metal parts in the desert wind. Not with a bank of clouds.
Stored on film."
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