Collected Blurbs


On Morgan Parker’s Other People’s Comfort Keeps Me Up At Night…

I can and have read Morgan Parker’s poems over and over. They make me high and think like this: “her mind & her thoughts can go anywhere in a poem. She pulls us up short, and when she says “the sky the sky” I feel that expanse. . . " I start taking notes. “She is making a map of what human can be. . . she’s raucous and engaged. . . indeterminate, visceral . . . collisions . . . these are full adventures in scale . . . “ Morgan Parker’s both intellectual and concerned. Where sentences come from (in me) breaks down when I read these poems. There are piles of masterpieces here. “I’m not the king of black people” to point you to one. She writes history and pleasure & kitsch and abstraction then vanishes like a god in about 13 inches and I mean that is really cool.

On Danniel Schoonbeek’s C’est la guerre…

Danniel’s written a travel book that doesn’t move in a way. Danniel is – his poetness, his despair his glory while moving around futilely in America in the absent of labor and landscape in the spaciousness of writing and time. How is this so readable when nothing/everything happens. I guess cause his c’est la guerre counts.

On Colin Channer’s Providential…

This is such a brilliant "toast", this swift and pained and skimming history of Jamaica sweetly written by a poet with a cop dad. In a compellingly light and darkly heavy hand Colin Channer’s Providential does justice to the diasporic reality of places being "there but not there" including of course America the poet’s current home. Lush lists and lighfootedness and keen word choices like "bosuns" – "men who drive other men as work" all restore a limb to our comprehension of colonial trauma and make his "Providential" be one of the most lucid and telling poetry books of this exact time.

On Laura Mullen’s Complicated Grief…

In a way (the way I’m taking it) Laura Mullen’s Complicated Grief follows (with giant dropouts) everything she knows about being a monster. Her aegis covers women, (young ones and aging) unnatural disasters and literature. If something packed could wander like Julianne Moore’s mind, to the benefit of everyone, but more like a whole department store or a library feeling snarky, shuffled itself and somehow it was wise.

On Daniel Borzutsky’s The Murmurs of the Rotten Carcass Economy…

Rich, rich filthy writing and reading. Reading that makes you shake your head. Makes you want to stay in and writhe.  Daniel Borzutsky’s The Murmurs of the Rotten Carcass Economy is thick and dense and full of time shifts. It’s moral and it’s trippy like an old kid cheering the demise of the world along. It starts and slows down. And that’s good cause you don’t want to miss even a bit of Daniel’s kaleidoscopic journey through American horror and global horror. Contemporary and historic horror. Mythic horror. Rhythmic horror. It’s a real aching disgusting pile of prophetic shit. It’s here.

On Mary Beth Caschetta’s Miracle Girls

What MB Caschetta’s novel brilliantly proposes is an underground railroad for girls. It feels like one of those girls grew up and wrote this. I loved reading this and rooting for CeeCee, the hero of Miracle Girls as she struggles to survive her own family and her saintly little girl voyage with the aid of intergenerational healing, and the vintage magic of radical nuns and priests from a time when they worked for peace and helped the lost girls of the world find home.

On Michael Friedman’s Martian Dawn & other novels

In pitch perfect vernacular that’s gauzy and precise, shallow and ambitious, and smugly hilariously Michael Friedman slaps our attention around like nobody’s business while delivering the impossible: totally intelligent writer’s fiction that’s also a porny distraction for anyone who’d might want to graze like a silver drone or a celebrity whale (there truly is one in here named “Monstro”) in the smarmy circles of entertainment culture, glam spirituality, eco culture and everyday dharma of the streets, restaurants, the bedrooms, and biospheres and of the hip haute global media bourgeoisie. It’s almost hard to read alone it’s so gorgeously nasty.

On Bill Evans’s Modern Adventures?

These are the poems of an urban man and a little sad a touch bitter but it?s raining out tonight and from where I am I notice Bill often likes to break into a little dance. I want to say that these are moral poems because in the hands of Bill Evans morality means feeling and whether he?s listing the parts of a "a little pilgrim" ("we're so/ proud of you") or snapping a joke what chiefly is holding his poetic together is heart which makes his work dangerous and rare in this disparate and deeply informed moment in time. We need his poems because he feels and so I kept reading and wanting more. These are the heart beats of an ancient man looking at history from left to right and now staring us right in the eye. We are not alone.

On Carolyn Zaikowski’s A Child Is Being Killed

She hears her mother’s voice, but it is caught between two echos and a jail. Wow. No blurb I would write could capture the expansive pulpy difficulty of this saint of a little book. Disassociated, far-flung, atomized. . . how do you dub the streaming pileup of someone lost, unborn, already dead. Porny anime? A hot mess? Female? Carolyn Zaikowski’s A Child is Being Killed, this tiny novel is a messenger not of “truth” but beautiful wrath.

On Sarah Rosenthal’s Manhatten…

I like Sarah Rosenthal’s Manhatten because it’s generous with self. Also alarmingly well written. And best of all, Manhatten awkwardly and beautifully makes the claim that heterosexuals are humans too!

On Kelly Cogswell’s Eating Fire: My Life as a Lesbian


To have a volume about lesbian activism that focuses on the most effective, most publicized, and most controversial group, the Lesbian Avengers, is almost too good to be true. Eating Fire is an intimate activist handbook that offers a generous ‘us,’ and we can happily enter its space from so many angles.

On Charles Bernstein's Recalculating…

Charles is writing in the simplest of forms, so simple they become
radical. I love reading his work because he's writing on the cusp of
what poetry is.

On Nicole J. Georges's Calling Dr. Laura

Nicole's masterfully absorbing graphic novel is a giant reminder of how intimate the changing shape of the graphic novel can be and Nicole J. Georges's is simply an epic for our time. Anyone with a family, who loves dogs, who needs advice and wants to understand the inner workings of a complex and magical female artist must read Calling Dr. Ruth. I couldn't put this novel down for a couple of evenings and I'm still shook by her animating, wide and searching squares.

On Caitlin Grace McDonell's Look For Small Animals…

I like reading Caitlin McDonnell's poems because they're frank, a little bit frantic, lurching and embedded in weather meaning what happens around the poem is frequently how the poet escapes herself – by noticing that there is a world and that it's changed.

On On Peter Trachtenberg’s Another Insane Devotion….

This is Peter’s best book and if you don’t know what that means just imagine your sweetest, most perverse storytelling friend asks to meet because he has a confession to make. When you arrive he informs you that he loves his cat more than life itself, or exactly that much and then he opens his shirt and shows you the cat tattoo and then he begins to tell you of his love and in a puff hours vanish and it’s absolutely riveting.

On Mary Jo Bang’s Dante…

Mary Jo Bang’s Dante steps wisely with a Mayakovsky-esque gigantism and a hard-boiled coyness all her own while maintaining a truly virtuous loyalty to that beloved living corpse, The Inferno, that startles the medieval masterpiece into coming alive, tout suite, blinking and twitching. Part of her utter contemporaneity is that she even (Thank God!) allows her Virgil (who feels like some wonderful old actor that we all know) to take a not-so-subtle potshot at Christianity’s rigid gate-keeping policy towards those (including himself) condemned to spend eternity in Limbo because as Virgil sniffs “They didn’t worship at the right altar.” Mary Jo Bang’s richly colloquial voyage through hell is not just towering and new, but deeply funny and knowable. As the sad planet of disaster looms closer and closer to us this is the book you want to be holding in your hands.

On Samuel Ace and Maureen Seaton’s Stealth…

Stealth, this reeling motet by poets Maureen Seaton & Sam Ace, feels like a Tarkovsky film, all of them strung together, about the end of the world, these poems continuously spilling themselves into other spaces ad finitum. And giving us a tiny window on that. It feels like a shell-game. Friendship and language. Stealth is excited and joyous, while dying, dragging one’s tired ass through a desert, hallucinating. It feels like The Wasteland but the footnotes are fun. Stealth is more boy than girl. I don’t think Philip Marlowe, I think of Philip Whalen with a pilot’s silk scarf tied around his neck. Man or a girl’s doll.
These multiples never get solved, only raised here. It’s a dandyish book. It’s a very high poem. I think I mean that stealth is simply the past tense of steal or living finally with everything you stole -living well in a paradise of your own.

On Anis Shivani’s My Tranquil War and Other Poems…

In his poems of reportage, Anis Shivani watches the horrors of history play out ghoulishly like sporting events. But mainly his writing seeks sanctuary by looking poetry and its makers (and a stray president to boot) squarely in the face. Pound, Whitman, Virginia Woolf, even George Bush. Though his Whitman is big and wide I ultimately think of Anis Shivani as a detail man, a miniaturist even, at heart. In his “To Robert Creeley” he nails it best when a creaking sign at night does awesome tribute to the man.

On Evelyn Reilly’s Apocalypso…

Evelyn Reilly’s Apocalypso holds a cobbled kind of futurist voyage that moves by belief and uncovered loss to quickly deliver an overwhelming sensation (allegory) that as in Tarkovsky’s “Solaris” we are on this journey too and have no hope (and want none) of getting off it. Turning these pages we discover that the museum of the future is a ship and Evelyn Reilly has scribbled our fate.

On Amira Hanafi’s Forgery…

Joining the illustrious company of other poet architects: Michael Ondaatje (In The Skin Of A Lion), Rene Gladman (Event Factory), Walt Disney (Disneyland), and Matthew Sharpe (Jamestown) Amira Hanafi takes us on a walking tour that prefabricates the history of a city (Chicago) as a live performance cooling on the window sill to feed hoboes, and enabling them (us) to walk on into the next story. History in Amira Hanafi’s hands is serious and weighty fun.

On Tom Carey’s Small Crimes…
Small Crimes is a heartbreaking and beautiful valentine between historical moments. Mexico’s early twentieth century art world, its Hollywood moment, is sweetly subverted in Tom Carey’s twitching hands. Reading it I’m grateful for his insouciant homoeroticsm and popping dialogue because they make this novel more memory than simulacrum. Meaning it really feels true.

On Jeanne Thornton’s The Dream of Doctor Bantam

Jeanne Thornton‘s incredibly surprising and awkward fantasy novel falls into an improbable space that feels like the terrible school of Robert Walser’s Jacob Von Gunten and also the acid-laced wooded setting of Angela Carter’s novella Love. Yet Thornton’s Dr.Bantam is pure Americana, cinematic and idly mean. It’s lush and trashy. I guess it’s the most graphic-novelly feeling book about loss I can think of. It’s all punk heart, messily thudding.

On JJ Hastain’s between diaspora and diapason

Flat as Barbara Kruger, and truly without humor and I’m thinking yet that there is actually so much fluidity and mood here so that the surface of the text keeps expanding with air and then not so much shriveling but more kind of rolling, stepping into another sequence of purposes so that this “writer” is just a perfectly reasonable ambassador from someplace else that is endlessly being proposed to you: yes I do like it here. It’s the background. . . no, it’s a kind of self effacement, yes but like a coat with really good buttons and so on - the coat changes and the buttons do too. Maybe there’s just no ownership at all. I mean nowhere. I mean anywhere. I mean certainly not in this work. There are many claims but nothing stays. Like the most elaborate sex, which I think is finally not so funny at all but you will like it. I know I do.

On Suzanne Scanlon’s Promising Young Women

About ten lives occur in this very short novel. One swiftly becomes the background of the next, then that one looms up fast and for a moment you think oh this is the life. And it is ending. I like the swift consciousness with which Suzanne Scanlon orchestrates all of it and even more I admire the true (and maneuvered) intimacy that holds me here on the page despite the fact that inside and out of this volume of Promising Young Women there are so many of us, lives, and women and female writers. You wonder if we matter at all and Suzanne Scanlon says in a multitude of quietly intelligent and felt ways that we do, helplessly, all of us do, no matter.


Bobby Byrd writes poems like a novelist. Epic ones. His lines are full of fiction, bullshit and beauty. He’s an emotional writer. He is often haunted by personal tragedy, his and anyone else’s. Bad things happen in this book. Existence verges on becoming a joke—if not for the sweetness that suffuses Bobby Byrd’s poems and says that a life lived, part by part, is holy.

On STS’ Golden Brothers

This is a novella or a thing-ie made out of the strange uncommon beauty that fills the empty spaces outside of capitalism. Scenes change as swiftly as music. Life and death are moments. The book is liquid. Read for yourself and see if this isn’t true.

On Ann Rower's Lee and Elaine

In poetic documentary prose Anne Rower undoes one of the crimes of British and American literature: the ghosting of lesbian desire. Lee (Krasner) and Elaine (DeKooning) are caught being hot for each other in the afterlife by literary sleuth Ann Rower who herself is coming out in prose that turns like the daily news if it were full of bondage, art history and female sexual nature getting off in the most lurid and dirty place of all—mid-life.

On Megan Volpert's Sonics in Warholia

What Megan made is so smart—an obsessive poet's collage of homage of deftly felt and cut opinion. It's an unvague Andy!

On Camille Roy's Sherwood Forest

Camille Roy rides the catch between poetry and prose like a girl who grew up riding horses. Her steed through Sherwood Forest feels a lot like R. Crumb—you know big women piggybacking little men and everyone living in a female forest (I believe) or else this reading journey feels like the rational mind on a weekend holiday with fantasy and lust bridled only by the limitation that it sound good and Sherwood Forest absolutely does.

On Jeremy Sigler's Crackpot. . .

These really change my definition of poetry. A little bit. If it was all sound – more or less, yet you walked away from that limitation at some point – maybe the end. The end just stands there sorta. You know what I mean by sound is rhyme. Yeah kind of rhyme. And then there's some sentiment. These poems are not so much sexy but full of love I think. In fact that might be what the rhyming's all about. The safety of love – perhaps. Whatever it is driving this it's more than an idea and it's not messy at all, or smug. It's some new definition of poetry. It doesn't rhyme with family but it's about that long and that complete. And open, finally. I think Gertrude Stein. But not too much. You'll see what I mean if you read this book.

On Rachel Levitsky's Neighbor. . .

Neighbor is a sweet saga of disconnection. A collectivity of loss . . .

On Ryan Adams’s Infinity Blues. . .

This is much better than reading a friend’s journal. It’s more like watching somebody you love in the bathtub talking to himself. You’re like, wow, he’s even good at taking a bath. After reading Infinity Blues (which I think is a great title), I give Ryan Adams the best compliment I ever got – and the only reason for reading anyone’s poetry. Ryan, I really like your mind.”

On Zoe Whittall’s The Emily Valentine Poems. . .

This reminds me that I would like to know everything about this person.

On Nona Caspers's Little Book of Days. . .

I like how she falls through the present into prehistory (of this or that specific thing) in a blink. Supported by the rhythm of the claws of love, a hand on the back of your head, the warmth inside of coldness of the daily fading world—an avalanche of quiet risk-taking, this book sings.

On Greg Fuchs's Metropolitan Transit. . .

congrats for epigraphing your book w audre lorde. You fucking man, I love you. This is extremely crowded work. I probably want to "cover" his book. His poetry ought to be recorded – with xylophone. He percussively uses good verbs: "penetrated, petted, perused." He's persuasive. It's news as it ought to arrive. If I were to call these poems fake weather reports what would I mean by the word fake. . . Greg's very nostalgic or is he just using the media sweetly as a kind of distinction. To be here and be here again
to say we are here?Not just history?treaties, appropriation, bills"

On Vanessa Place’s La Medusa. . .

Vanessa Place’s La Medusa is a novel of a million brilliant suggestions about the mind and time and us. What seems impossible is that she is pulling ‘it’ off in this impressive tome that moves like traffic when you have gotten it impossibly incredibly right. No wrong moves here. We get home fast.”

On Peggy Munson’s Origami Striptease. . .

This is sleazily insidious writing constructed as if you are already in it, I mean, smothered in sex and sticky frosty and the close proximity of death. I really admire Peggy Munson’s Origami Striptease. It’s a good, dirty book. “

On My Diva/65 Gay Men on the Women Who Inspire Them?edited by Michael Montlack. . .

A completely fascinating and lovely book. In every case the diva is a kind of saint – for her suffering, for the emotional warble in her voice, as she sang, as she spoke those classic lines. It's hard to miss the dovetailing of the gay male writer's psyche and the voluptuous (much more than her body) voice of the diva. She shines her light on the way. Man, does she ever.

On Michelle Tea’s Valencia. . .

Michelle Tea’s second book is really brave. If you want to know how dangerous and great and awful it is to be a girl you’ll scarf Valencia right up. There’s so much colliding and ‘sharing.’ I mean in the good way – sharing bodies, drugs, stories and clothes. The street today is full of girls if you haven’t noticed.”

On Ana Bozicevic’s Stars of the Night Commute. . .

Ana Bozicevic’s work is sort of animist – it’s either about silence or the racket of the world. How does she do it? Clicks the switch to say its silent & it’s happening then on a distant tiny stage. She’s muttering, and then it’s a story and a very good one. I mean in poetry at some point you don’t know what the writer means. In Ana’s work I watch “it” (the meaning) vanish (all the time) & I trust it.

On Maggie Nelson’s Jane. . .

A deep, dark, female masterpiece.

On Ellyn Maybe’s The Cowardice of Amnesia. . .

Ellyn Maybe is the best poet on her side of the country.

On Camille Roy’s Cold Heaven. . .

Not a play, but an exploding poem for two bodies by a bright new writer from the West Coast, Camille Roy.

On Ali Liebegott’s the beautifully worthless. . .

Ali Liebegott’s the beautifully worthless is an outrageous act of kindness.

On Catherine Wagner’s My New Job. . .

Catherine Wagner’s “New Job” might be the last great book of the oughts. Part of its delight is that it is not constant. Its eyelid adjusts and flutters throughout. It’s three books at least: fuzzy portraiture of energy and thought like early moderns: Arthur Dove and Georgia O’Keefe – and even like Pound, in Wagner’s familial way of tugging at language. It’s also a bit Don Juan (as in Castaneda). It’s a new age book:  searching, awkward and useful too – a momentary sex manual for girls—then a dirty adult notebook. My New Job is physical. A shucking work. One picks up some spin on Sylvia Plath but what I truly felt was Frankenstein. My New Job is tinkering with life. I found myself imagining Wagner wondering what else Plath might have done—not instead of killing herself but what if she just wrote something different. Frankenstein kept Mary Shelley alive for a very long time while Ariel simply pointed to Plath’s own demise. In My New Job “The women step out, the men go in” and the edifice C. Wagner’s made seems an increasingly wider and wider kind of turning—colossal and somatic—through her own body & the bodies of others. Cathy’s Job is a joyous multiple. It’s a lift.

On Julie Carr’s Sarah—Of Fragments and Lines. . .

As a reader I feel included a lot in Julie Carr’s hard and beautiful book. I can pretty much hear its author speak—a whispering that enables us into its world. . . a masterfully sutured journey, painfully useful. Sarah—Of Fragments and Lines is a book I know I will return to. And urge it on my friends who have lives too and write in them.

On Christine Hou’s Accumulations. . .

nice sweep!  the spine of her poems takes either side by surprise   a wide canny voice in conversation   really such a good book    it seems it could fade  get dark do anything it wants

On Gerrit Henry’s Time of the Night. . .

Reading Gerrit Henry’s definitive collection of poems you slam up against some big contradictions fast. Many of the poems here exhibit the glitzy ease, high art, smart remarks and chattiness that commonly gets associated with New York school writing. Yeah, yeah, yeah. But there’s so much else – poems jumping around -  alternately obscure, wise, goofy, trippy and romantic. And hard and sad, too. It’s such a rich cascade of viewpoints as a collection that this volume can be hard going for a reader in spots. I mean if you wanted one kind of a ride. But as you near the end, especially having read the poem that to me is his masterpiece: “Program”, how Henry’s contradictions operate now becomes clear. Each statement stands so tremulously, because what’s ultimately questionable to Henry is just “being” itself. What’s he’s done is both astonishing and bold. This is a whole collection of poems written by Hamlet.

On Laurie Weeks’s Zipper Mouth. . .

Zipper Mouth is a short tome of infinitesimal reach, a tiny star to light the land.
Huh. Laurie Weeks is one of those writers whose reputation is pure buzz, like every bit she puts out (and Weeks is a most delicate and cautiously productive author, kicking us a story of absurd greatness every few years – more we scream like hungry children, more with our reading bowls held out.) almost immediately becomes genetic material of a body politic. She’s like an avatar of the known. All her vile and delicious prose indicates directions, connections and patterns you’ve probably already been moving along but no one had used those exact networks before as apparatus to write fiction. Like as if that big monster in “Alien” were a sentence. Or a paragraph. A recurring one. Weeks is an architect of the strange and quivering interrelations of the world and plainly uses them, like how rooms in a big house are said to “communicate.” Zipper Mouth, the long-awaited, predicted book, is like a song we shall continue to meet each other through. Yeah that’s what I mean, this book is a drug and a rug, a magic carpet for a group that’s growing, and on it we get a very good and even paradigm-shifting ride. A going and a knowing. How does she do this by the way? Attitude, word choice, erudition, humor, and I will say of course that there is a blatantly female thing, and she writing right on it, with it where the most edgy and savvy and witty human is also the subaltern. Zipper Mouth is a glittering and gruesome and unforgettable poem cause it’s a pain that we know.

On Sara Marcus’s Girls to the Front: The True Story of the Riot Grrrl Revolution

“Hey girlfriend,” Kathleen was singing. “I got a proposition.” The proposition wasn’t that you would go back to her room, alone, it was that you would come out into the common space with her and all the rest of the girls. Sara Marcus’s Girls in Front is a great & true & real history.Thank, god. At last. If you teach make it get read in your school. If you don’t, do it anyway.

On Travis Nichols’ Off We Go Into The Wild Blue Yonder

This is a beautiful crackpot’s history of America. Travis Nichols takes us on a godly road trip through tobacco, love, and Boom Boom, landing us profoundly still at the world’s loneliest tourist trap. It’s a curious animal version of all those ‘I was looking for’ books because here the animal (the writing) actually changes when it reaches its destination. And happily Off We Go is also a book about a man loving women: ‘A toast,’ I say finally, ‘to the mother’s side’.”

On Filip Marinovich’s And If You Don’t Go Crazy I’ll Meet You Here Tomorrow

Filip is not a wailing. Oh no. He’s just deliriously glad to be waking the tightrope between leaf and leaving, Corso, Mayakovsky and DiPrima and McClure. O’Hara too. Sound old? It’s not. I couldn’t stop reading his seductive devastation. It’s an experienced text. I feel changed by Filip Marinovich tonight and if I heard him read this long poem tomorrow I’d feel changed again. He urges us all to make a mess, to stay foolishly alive across deaths and borders while splashing in a puddle of language. We get to do that? Yes! he proclaims, vehemently, author of such permissive verse, a dirty Dr. Seuss, endlessly capable of teaching us.

On Tim Dlugos’ A Fast Life

Tim Dlugos was a major figure almost inadvertently by responding helplessly and powerfully to his own need to write poems and be spiritual and sexual all in one and the same gesture. He could not help writing these wonderful poems, so full of history and desire.

On Jon Cotner and Andy Fitch’s Ten Walks/ Two Talks

Perhaps it was in the 5th century –I know this for a fact—that a certain government official in China chose to drop out of public life and devote himself to music and poetry, drunkenness and pure conversation. Soon he had a group of friends who had also left their “lives” and this group became poster children for the ideal life in Asia for a very long time. Even today. When Jon and Andy walk around Manhattan talking about thinking I feel like they are a moving page from that very fine idea in which small talk is large and nothing is more interesting or full or more entrancing than allowing the city to model for you—and walking around it too, becoming it.

On Jennifer Natalya Fink’s The Mikvah Queen

The first time I ever heard about how hard is was to be a left-handed person I whirled around and began to sympathetically imagine the difficulties of phone booths and toll booths and doors—all of it, the world, arranged for the comfort of righties. If anyone had next explain to me that part of what was so uncomfortable about being female was exactly the same—not just the machinery of the world but its dictionaries and handbooks, the bibles and schools-then I could have known why maneuvering it all in this car, my body was so inexplicably hard. With dazzling humor and devastating weirdness and skill The Mikvah Queen is one of the first books I would hand to a girl in the new world where we begin to tell it all and even celebrate the excess of females and their perversities and beauties the way everything generally likes to celebrate men. Jennifer Natalya Fink’s books is exciting odd and gross and disgustingly new. It’s so good to go this far with Roth and then I think no, she went past. She’s shooting by the discomfort in them. I feel welcoming The Mikvah Queen like a human for a change. Is this sci-fi? Females imagine and laugh? Their bodies are real and slipping into a bath they ask why. This compulsively readable book wants to know.

On Gail Scott’s My Paris

Gail Scott has redefined landscape to include all weather, inside and out, including sex and a female sexual vision—a vision of being that’s pure animation, an action made up of all the tiny windows of information constantly opening and closing in the rhythm of the way we know a place in time, for instance Paris. Her Paris is pretty stunning art.

On Maggie Nelson’s Shiner

Maggie Nelson has such drive in her language. Things do not dangle off this drive, but rather get resolutely pushed aside by her poem’s forward motion. Also, she exercises the infinitesimal pause that is great poetry. Her Shiner is totally cool. She delivers the goods with fiendish delight.

On Elinor Nauen’s American Guys

You could possibly figure out what poetry is by examining this generous collection of lyrics by Elinor Naunen. Is it when the opaqueness of the particular makes lists—beautiful long ones? Her work is boyish girlish. Though it’s not trans-gender, it’s trans-William Carlos Williams. Kind of a female anthem to male dumbness. I mean, obviously parts of nature are devouring other parts in a gentle way. It’s midwestern philosophical, that is, thoroughly practical while adamantly anti-work. Poet Nauen likes baseball and constantly writes about it. Her poetry has no existential dilemma, no interrogated “I.” The self simply goes away in a state of chuckling awe. It’s first a book with many long innings and a love of tight pants. I approve, hang around. In American Guys, all parts of the reader get satisfied, even ones she didn’t know she had.

On Miguel Gutierrez’s When You Rise Up

These are spacious, hot, lyrical, obsessive poems. Oh I guess you call them performance texts. I love this book.

On Janice Lee’s Daughter

Janice Lee is a genius.

On Renee Gladman’s Event Factory

Renee Gladman has always struck me as being a dreamer—she writes the way and the dreaming seems to construct the architecture of the world unfolding before out reading eyes. In Event Factory the details of her dream gleam specifically yet they bob on the surface of a deeper wider abyss we all might become engulfed in. It has the strange glamour of Kafka’s Amerika, this book, but the narrator, lusty and persuasive is growing up.

On Linda Norton’s The Public Gardens: Poems and History

The Public Gardens is a brilliant, wonderful book, a sort of a wild institution, intense and readable. Linda Norton looks at the world like a dog who likes to tear apart couches—repressed but not for long. Though full of shame, this book is shameless. A life is freely divulged as are the multitude of homeopathic bits from the author’s reading list. The overall experience of moving through The Public Gardens’ shuttling prose and poetry is quietly breath-taking. I have felt and learned much from this book! Her “Gardens” are both organized and entirely disorderly—anything and anyone from any point in history might saunter through, and that’s the meaning of public isn’t it? I find myself loving this writer’s mind, light touch, and generous heart and I, reader, didn’t want to go when it was done. My bowl is out. More!

On Noel Black’s Uselysses

I love reading Noel Black’s poems. They are fragrant and strong. Also there’s the basic thing—

he’s just got an interesting mind.