''Ah, writ happens.'' Like the con men who rely on thieves' Latin
to ply their trade, the poems in Peter Jay Shippy's award-winning
collection don't play well with other poems. They are difficult.
They rave. They are unsettling and blunt. They crash cars and ride
tsunamis and hitch rides on tugs. They also provide a contemporary,
ironic, and tender view of America, all the while layering
wordplay, cleverness, and sentiment. Shippy's narrators ''dance
like night writing''; they ''witness the reverse / side of
actions'' and ''take a walk on the wing''; they feel ''nothing but
articulation'' and attach ''our planet to the highest branch'';
they ''have a good feeling about most birds, and trust / that they
are a friend to man.'' In other words, their condition is
Beckettian, but they speak like one of Sam Shepherd's dusty road
angels.
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