Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Sunday, December 28, 2008
I'm pretty chuffed by that. It's a great zine and I like the poems by me.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Friday, December 26, 2008
More coming tomorrow and the next day.
It's a great zine and I'm happy to be there.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Thursday, December 18, 2008
The dog really freaks out if I do Michael Jackson's voice from South Park. I either have to stop doing it or be badly bitten. Quite hard to choose.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Friday, December 12, 2008
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Monday, December 8, 2008
Friday, December 5, 2008
EDIT: My two poems are up there now.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
There's a book on sale by Humphrey Astley that can be ordered here. I reviewed the thing too below in this blog at this link.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
While you're here, before checking out Unlikely Stories, or after - chronology means nothing to me - navigate over to Shadow Archer and buy my damn cheap chapbook La morte vivante - a mere $7 including postage and it's here. It may well have girl on girl action like the film, despite my not liking fucking in poems, except the word "fucking" - I use that.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Do buy pushing lemmings too, I just read it for the first time since writing it and I quite like it. Order it from PayPal here or at the links below to the left.
This page is best viewed in Lynx, as they always say
Monday, December 1, 2008
Friday, November 28, 2008
Rob's own poetry rocks pretty hard, and I'm sure the zine will rule. Though he's a lazy douche. Looking forward to his book.
On a happy note, young Lucas has gone over two days without a single accident. Not bad for an eight week old puppy. The cats don't mind him. He will start a puppy blogzine himself - "The well shat-in tasty kitty litter tray." He dreams of it, the cats are crapping in trays on shelves now.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Also pleased to hear from another magazine that I have been nominated for a pretty prestigious award. Not sure if I'm meant to say which magazine, so I won't until I know it's OK.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Monday, November 24, 2008
Buy this, suckers, make the world a stranger place.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Note that the poems have nothing to do with Xmas and I'm not dreadfully interested in the holidays, it's not like you get cheap blow or anything.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Also news that Jack Henry's chapbook is on sale from Erbacce here.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Monday, November 10, 2008
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Monday, November 3, 2008
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Friday, October 31, 2008
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Monday, October 27, 2008
Also just signed the contract for a new book with Poptritus Press. This man is very professional and knowledgeable, and I'm confident that he will do an absolutely first rate job. It will be ready in May 2009. Very very pleased by this, it will be up to 60 pages or so. Cool. They are here. I'm determined that this will be my best book. It will rock.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Also noticed some other "David McLean" - that guy I mentioned before with the God stuff. Seems there are some poems at the website known as poetry.com. Be assured that this is not me. Hopefully we are easy to tell apart. Wouldn't mention it or draw attention to them otherwise, but I want to avoid being credited with them, and wouldn't want people to think that I would have work there.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Train to Chihuahua
by Travis Blair
book review by David McLean
Old Seventy Creek Press
Travis Blair's first full-length book is an anthology of his poems about Mexico, a record of his youthful trips to Mexico that are crafted to also homage a love, a relationship to a woman, at least i hope it's one woman who is the she in all the poems where a name is unspecified, and to time, death and aging. Frida Kahlo, Jesus and Janis Joplin are there. If the essence of poetry is nostalgia for presence, poems being then postcards from nowhere describing something we assume really existed, or ought to exist, then these poems are a beautiful revenge on ugly time and its “It was.” It's as though Mexico symbolizes a source of ineffable fertility and density of being, a color in the gray that life so easily becomes, a place where the actual living happens, in penury and abjection sometimes, but always alive, and Travis feels himself real there, not where we acquire large dogs, jobs, and mortgages without really noticing while we are stupefied by ambitious self-medication, but a special place the light and colors let him see what is inside him.
when I shook them to hear
their seed sounds
and feel them brush
against the skin
like our baby kicking
inside her belly.
the green maracas have hung
on a wall in my den
like moss in the trees
of Chapultepec Park
when love long ago
and we were young.
The poems incorporate descriptions of nature that are often quite phenomenal, showing a genuine ability to swiftly make anything from a heron to a seal live for us a moment with just the right number of words, an ability to create the colors in us. And these splashes of described life are contextualized into the poet's experience of his being, his need
Four months after death
tapped me on the shoulder
handed me a brainstem stroke
I return once more
to the Sea of Cortez –
a broken poem
void of rhythm and rhyme
clumsy-worded as my gait
empty of all grace
seeking a way back.
Mornings I laze
on a back porch hammock
gazing at the sea
drawn to the sight of seals
floating on their backs
noses in the air, flippers waving
above the whitecaps
their playful barks resonant
as baritones calling me
“Come play with us.”
But I am afraid to swim
out beyond the rocks.
All in all, the poems in this book hang together beautifully, and they are an intoxicating world of shades, hues, and odors where bulls sometimes gore bullfighters, where we do get to swim out beyond the rocks and the seals are happy for that, where owls sit vivid in dead trees and wait for civilization to fall asleep. One poem in the book describes finding a perfect beach off the beaten tourist track. That's what this book is like, a special afternoon from somebody's life that you get to share, to see and smell the experiences that made them a unique individual, in this case the poet Travis Blair. If you don't buy it then you may regret that your life is so gray, but it will be your own fault, not time's, because now is the time to do it and I told you so, fuckers, so go do it at this link.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Belinda and her Friends
chapbook by Puma Perl
reviewed by David McLean
This chapbook, the first by Puma Perl, is an exceptionally real depiction of life in a part of New York in the last millennium, where heroin or alcohol abuse is an integral part of life, where life is cold but full of a transient warmth, where hearts are larger than you might expect. It depicts a character Belinda and her encounter with a living in a world shared with several very vividly portrayed characters who manage to snatch some meaning from the worthless life to which the very poor are subjected everywhere -
so the red bandana tied around her forehead
meant nobody got hit yet not even any yelling
there was beer and twenty dollar
bills in two pockets it was a good day and it
happened twice a month and everyone was happy
The book steadfastly refrains from preaching, it does not whine about unscrupulous dealers and the evils of welfare, it shows instead of preaching. And it exudes an almost unbearable nostalgia like Burroughs calling down the centuries with no voice and lips for boys who are gone and times that are gone and maybe never really existed, except here the times and people were real, real as children and a mother's obligation
(our secrets shared and buried in benches
we drank beer through a straw
our kids raced across the playground
fearless wild-haired unruly
dropping juice boxes, crushing pretzels
we stayed for hours after everyone had left
whispering stories, picking up kids as they fell)
Puma Perl is an extraordinary poet, she captures a feel here so exquisitely and a sense of place that seems entirely appropriate to listening to Willie De Ville, it's “so, so real” now, and it's the sort of life he used to evoke as a young man. “I ain't no rocket just a shooting star”
I feel our last words as the sun streams down
We are the unknown ancestors
We are picture frames, empty as a midnight sandbox
Only imaginary friends left to tell the tales
of whispered secrets hidden in
brightly painted, but still broken benches
This poetry is nostalgic and beautiful, it is nostalgic in the sense that is a longing for presence and being and the ability of being to defy nonentity and lying time. Belinda died, like junkies tend to do, so she is absolutely absent now, exists nowhere. Thus the words do poetry's duty by pretending that she exists there. In a sense that makes the words a homage to life, assuming it to be something worth preserving, all the futile living, and this is what makes it sad and beautiful. Saying that we have souls is just another way of saying that we'd quite like to be immutable and dead like stones. Better to be Belindas and be temporary, finally go forever, but in the meantime get drunk and very, very stoned.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Dancing on Thin Ice
Chapbook by George Anderson
Erbacce press ISBN: 978-1-906588-29-8
reviewed by David McLean
This new chapbook is a cynical and funny account of life, sexuality, love, violence, and motorbikes. It is often raw and exhilarating, the language well-tooled and crafted
the elderly couple
leave the cinema
& in fast forward mode
visibly age. Die. There is
a solemn, quickly forgotten
the Bonneville circles
again. The dark visors of the
bars of light
There are really excellent images here and the poems work well together. They even become reflexive
I suppose some MFA student in the distant future
will ask what this or that line means
or the symbolism behind such and such image
but let me assure you dear reader-
there are no lessons to be learnt here,
no underlying meaning, no ironic commentary about existence
it all just happened as I tried to describe it
I can recommend this book both for the slightly brutal humor of many of the poems and for the underlying truth of its cynical take on life, like in a poem about photographing roadkill
the use of metaphor is acceptable
but keep it simple & always link it
back to the blurred line
between art & excrement
And it's seldom that poems ever reflect on the pleasures of kicking the shit out of somebody, they aren't usually that honest, that real. So buy this book for being the delectable exception.
It's at Erbacce-press.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Before and Well After Midnight,
Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
black book madness Vol 5
by David McLean
This new chapbook by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal is the fifth in deadbeat press' excellent black book madness series. They present us partly with glimpses into a magical world that we might not like to be in, partly with glimpses of a modern society we mostly don't want to be in. One poem speaks more than the 38 words it is.
People think the worst of me
because loneliness has put
its hat on my head. I have
no purpose in this world.
This makes me seem like a
dangerous man, like I could slit a
His most characteristic poems are those about the animals of madness, a frightening mental bestiary where worms from rotting apples bite you as you walk on the grass and make you younger, language falls away from you, and you drown crawling back to the womb, the origin of life.
Other poems deal with social issues, police objecting to “immigrants just wanting to dance all night,” with sick children seeking justice from a god who has unsurprisingly betrayed them, since he doesn't exist.
Favorites here are The President's daughter
I am making a statement by
not combing my hair. I don’t
care where I go from here.
Everything will take care of itself.
I am the president’s daughter.
and the before mentioned one about the girl querying God
to fix His
work a new
to make her
to prove that
He loved her.
All in all a phenomenal chapbook. Everything from love to political protest, but first and foremost tales of ordinary extra-ordinary madness, how we become invisible, how we become so little nobody will miss us.
Order here - You won't regret it.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Then there's a hat trick of reviews by me of Alan Corkish's Bum Rap here, Rob Plath's There's a little hobo in my heart here and Misti Rainwater-Lites' Pretty Red Berries here.
There's a link there to Rob's sellers. Misti's book is here, and Alan's is on sale here. I really recommend all these books. All their other stuff too. Alan and Rob need wine and Misti needs diapers and other stuff. Buy them, buy mine, and buy angels in hell by Boschetto. I have a couple of new books arranged next year too, so start saving and fuck X-mas, mofos.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Friday, October 10, 2008
Thursday, October 9, 2008
EDIT: It's up now here. Other good stuff to read in that section too.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Speaking of Misti Rainwater Lites, who narrowly survived Ike, my review of her excellent new chapbook is here, and forthcoming in Clockwise Cat, and I do think you should buy that too, in an orgy of conspicuous expenditure.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Parenthetically, and this has absolutely no relation to FPJ or my poem, but, generally speaking, people who don't like the almsot excessively groovy Tricky are dickheads, and/or just jealous. Tricky rocks. God bless him.
In Swedish, "October" is spelled "Oktober" - a lot of things confuse me, but not that. It's refreshingly similar. No one is similar to Tricky (OK, maybe god is), and my poem is not at all like Joyce.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Monday, September 22, 2008
Friday, September 19, 2008
There are copies of the book at Amazon now here.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Monday, September 15, 2008
Here's the full list, prose by John Oliver Hodges, Gillian Taber, Christopher Nosnibor, Michael Ray Laemmle, Pablo Vision, Christian Roberts, Adrian Ludens, Kevin P. Keating.
And so called poems, which is a sort of writing very like prose with enthusiastic line breaks, by Gary Beck, Darryl Salach, Joseph Reich, Patience Wieland, Geoff Stevens, Jack Henry, James S. Wilk, David McLean, Rob Plath, Felino Soriano, Ernest Williamson III, Robert S. King.
Also an interview with Gregory L. Hall
Friday, September 12, 2008
The Kitchen is Closed
chapbook review by David McLean
published by and available from http://deadbeatpress.com/Store.html
This is one of many books and chapbooks available from the almost irritatingly prolific Misti Rainwater-Lites, and IMHO it is one of the best, by her or anyone. This because she is in the process of perfecting her use of language so that her drunken boasts about being better than Anne Sexton are starting to come true. The control of words is quite astonishing in this collection. And the subject matter is the exigencies of day to day living in a crack whore shack in the face of a hurricane, but it could be heaven and hell and the apocalypse.
“Death is my newest distant lover.
I crook my finger. i bite my bottom lip. I wink.
He's leaving me to my bony thorny burn writhe fume
He knows I suck at blowjobs”
The whole voice and persona Misti has developed is very courageous, she takes the small tribulations she experienced, then, in her upbringing in the name of that cannibal suicide visionary Jesus the jerk-off God who defiles so many kids' tiny lives, and, now, in a country where they obviously believe that Jesus is basically OK but abortion and Arabs aren't. In the poem quoted above Misti discusses problems with food account balances and selling baby clothes on southeasttexas.com. Like she says, these poems are about being mad as Howard Hughes without his billions of exculpating pence, about trudging through the sludge of self-loathing.
You need to buy this book if you are, like me, happy to be a-normal, or if you are some normal bastard who wants to congratulate herself on her boring normalcy, or even if you just like poetry. Because Misti is obviously one of the best. Because we are all spiritually bereft; there is no spirit, and Misti's poetry teaches us how to live without it.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
By the way, you can now download and save a copy of the excellent Macaber Cadaver here as pdf.
I just received the chapbooks by Rob Plath and Misti Rainwater-Lites from deadbeatpress. Great books and I shall post a review of Rob today, Misti tomorrow. Good luck with the hurricane by the way, Misti.
edit: Now I'm really pissed off, putting it on the shelf in the Plath section (male), I noticed I already bought that fucker from Rob but obviously forgot to read the fucker, let alone review. Never mind. Now I can read it twice.
there's a little hobo in my heart who forever gives the finger to humanity
RS Plath/ black book madness www.deadbeatpress.com/Śtore.html
chapbook review by David McLean
This new product on the consumer market is one of many by Mr Plath, and it's one of his best. I love the thought of the demons in his head scrawling their anti-life slogans on his skull and making him write poems. And though Rob presents a world view that is pretty negative there is positivity here, he dreams in his nasty apartment, he sees more beauty in his world than other “aesthetes” see in their fucking sunsets and mother-loving glimpses into dead granny's eye.
Awareness of death and the feel of the weight of the sweaty balled feet pressing down on the stolid concrete, knowledge of how unspeakable our insides are, the stupid bones and the flesh around them just waiting to decay, that's what gives Plath the power to write words that are not a complacent mantra that basically reinforces the capitalist heterosexist status quo. And there is a certain moral superiority in this way of looking at things, no illusions, “my brain is an uncleaned latrine.” His poetry “knots nooses out of rainbows and hangs unicorns.”
Ultimately, the impetus behind the verse is existential. I mean, life is shit, the human condition sucks, we die and that's forever, everybody wants to survive death and nobody will. Rob is smart enough to see that one can take a certain satisfaction in phlegmatically coughing up a nice lump of phlegm. It's better than nothing. Not a lot, but it is.
There should be more corpses in poems, or at least nasty little hobos who know that their future is as a corpse. And nothing more. Angels are just there for the raping, for the devils' entertainment. Nice one Rob. It's on sale at www.deadbeatpress.com. Do buy it.
Monday, September 8, 2008
Whistling Shade is free around the Twin cities, and if you want a copy you can order four copies for only eight dollars if you live elsewhere in Ye Olde Great Satan. Details here. I would do so since they have good work in there, plus very entertaining columns by Dylan Garcia-Wahl, Joel van Valin, and others.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Friday, September 5, 2008
Here's a review
The most striking thing about Humphrey Astley's new collection of poems is that the young whippersnapper is evidently writing just poems. Identifiably so, where words are treated like a rare and antique coinage, working out the histrionic mysteries of naming, where they denote poetically, detonate semantically, and alert the reader to beauty, whatever that is. The verbal content is phenomenally well-handled, people say that they hone poems a long time. Generally speaking one wonders why, Humphrey however does the same thing and does it to good purpose. His works do what other poems purport to do. I quote briefly a brief one about Trakl
He bore witness to the accident,
and at stretchers, breathing gunpowder,
soiled his artist’s hands
tending wounds delivered by no god.
Saint Georg of the Hoary Ordure!
Born with glass eyes, glass eyelids, too;
poet-apothecary, dead at twenty-seven,
the age of man.
And that's it. In its entirety. The man who didn't dare cash the huge Wittgensteinian check perfectly captured.
The title is a reference, I suppose, to the place of pussy as a token of exchange in a poetic economy that is marked male, remarquably so. The inappropriately propriative Leonardo eye that functions, however, properly in arrogating to itself its poetic property. The psyche, Psyche, (a young lady) its self. Other meanings of tender are objectionable. “I want warmth and tenderness” she said, in a Swedish joke. “Ok,” he replied, vigorously driving her face into a radiator.
Who are the happy, and what the fuck is
This is how we assemble: shared aversions
stirred together. But this is no life,
on a punctuation mark
Briefly, Humphrey's poems are metaphysical in the old literary sense, the best sense. They are also exquisitely worked through, often very beautiful. I am probably wholly wrong in assessing their intent, but what the fuck, you pays your money and you takes your choice. In fact, at Lulu you takes your choice whether or not to pay, it's a free download or a real book, for legal tender, here. Maybe you could get a few copies for a good woman.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Monday, September 1, 2008
I've started to really appreciate living in our cottage here, it's cool. Though cold in the mornings when I wake up. It means that I have a harder time writing mails though until we get internet fixed properly in a while. Just now I am using wireless, which really gets on my nerves.
I just put up a postbox anyway so when I get them I shall be posting reviews of Misti Rainwater-Lites' and Rob Plath's new collections from deadbeat press. Soon I shall be fetchign copies of my pushing lemmings and sending to anyone who wants to order, these can be ordered either by mailing me if you know the address, from erbacce at the link on the right, where you can also order the chapbook a hunger for mourning, or at PayPal below in this blog. Cadaver's dance is also on sale at Alibris at the link on the right or at Amazon, where it is often out of stock.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Saturday, August 23, 2008
It's got other good stuff apart from me.
Friday, August 22, 2008
In totally unrelated news, other things are going really well. I could excite a certain dubious stalker with some readers' wives tales about doing an enormously complex but ultimately very successful world emerge on my laptop, but I don't want him to ruin his laptop by enthusiastically rinsing it...
My poem in it is actually in the online zine Red Pulp used to do before they turned to anthology publishing full time. It, and five others, are here.
I can't recommend the book too highly, buy it, it shows that poetry isn't (just) some infantile hobby for effete aesthetes but a valid form of response to this fucked up fucking world.
Monday, August 18, 2008
EDIT: Here's a trailer thing they did on YouTube... Click below
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Friday, August 15, 2008
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Apparently there will also be a review of my Cadaver's dance there too, a review penned by Rachel Kendall as far as I know. Buy that same book here at Alibris, the papery little bugger is still apparently out of stock at Amazon. Details of Rachel's own excellent work can be found at Sein und Werden's Kiss the Witch site linked above.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Friday, August 1, 2008
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Monday, July 28, 2008
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Friday, July 18, 2008
He has a new chapbook by the way which is available here, and which I have reviewed here. Do buy it, it's an absolute poetic bargain and you'll have plenty of money left to go to Amazon and buy my 1st here and advance order my second here at erbacce. It's out of stock at Amazon but new copies are arriving there very soon, so it's very temporary.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Puma Perl, Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal, Travis Blair, and Jack T. Marlowe. Buy or download it for free here. But, in terms of porn, I really think Misti should use some of the cool pics I found. Nothing beats a nice clean old person.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Thursday, July 10, 2008
By the way just sent in some more that will apparently be in September's issue (seis).
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
The South Will Rise again (Like That Jesus faggot)
Chapbook from Catalyst Press
Authors: Matt Finney, Misti Rainwater-Lites
This chapbook is likely to be somewhat controversial in the eyes of the overly PC. The only open indication that the content is not meant as sexist racist homophobe rantings (apart from the reader not being completely stupid) is the title page calling them “Southern fried irony rich poems.” The protagonists are the redneck selves that their upbringing presumably called on the writers to adopt. The sort of folks I've largely seen on the Springer show – like the UK giving football fans permission to leave the country it's always amazed me that the USA allows its talk shows to be sold abroad.
But these two are the sort of people who redeem the stupidity of (some of) their fellows by wallowing for a few pages in the patriotic misunderstood Christianity of these people we marvel at on cable TV here.
A lot of the poems end exquisitely, Finney's being very noteworthy here, while Rainwater-Lites, as usual, writes acerbically but with a larger-than-life breadth to the perversity and humanness of her linguistic creation – but many times you are going to have to read the name at the end to know who wrote what.
Generally speaking, you can't parody people who hate “niggers” and “faggots” without using the words - sorry Oprah – and these poets, most explicitly Matt Finney, are concerned with the impossibility of escape from “white trash birthmarks” -
if I pushed this baby
the highway would never end
this place wouldn't
let my ass go
But the way to escape it is perhaps to live through it and show it for what it is – and that's exactly what they do. Buy the book at Lulu here.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Siva in rags
Author AJ Kaufmann
Kendra Steiner Editions
chapbook review by David McLean
This is the debut collection by polish poet A.J. Kaufmann, it is short, almost too short, for he deserves a much longer book, and those will be coming very shortly I imagine. But this collection is appropriately short, just seven poems over ten pages, for the language is electrifyingly complex and perverse. It's a successfully attempted recollection and a collection of the dusty beauty of dried blood and a cold nose of crystals that don't reflect any stars except the stars in your own heart.
There are several Leonard Cohen references and the poems are imbued with a beat spirit though Kaufmann is better than the original specimens of that ilk. He is compared for example with Corso, but is so much better that it would be doing Kaufmann a real disservice to align him with the worst in that tradition.
The ending of Accidentally last summarizes the spirit
a poem to summarize
the 2 A.M. coughing
Cohen's old songs
& your reddening
a poem scratched on asylum's
a poem a lifetime long
the poem the straight jacket hides...
the poem w/ one word only:
"holy, holy, holy..."
Though there are so few poems here, there is more content, more “poetry,” than in other books ten times the length- It should cost a lot but it doesn't, and can be ordered from this url http://kendrasteinereditions.wordpress.com/2008/06/28/a-j-kaufmanns-siva-in-rags-kse-102-now-available/.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
There are five by me and other great stuff by Bro. Vic, A.J. Kaufmann, Isaac Seal, Juliana Vargas, Thamyris Jones, Olivia Carteaux, Tim Murray, Jack Henry, Puma Perl, Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal, Travis Blair and Jack T. Marlowe.
Everybody wants Pussy, I hope, so snatch some snatch at Lulu. It's great snizz, bitches.
BTW - Come to think of it, which I do, I just heard I'm back in the fast twat in numero Cuatro, coming in August.
Monday, June 30, 2008
And then Heroin Love Songs, a lot of poetry there, in particular me, of course, but even Puma Perl, Misti Rainwater-Lites, Lester Allen, Craig Sernotti, Thamyris Jones, Amanda Boschetto, George Wallace, Simon Philbrook, and, the highlight of the issue, one of Pablo Vision's absolute best shorts. Lots of other great poets, it can be ordered here and should be. Just a pity Jack Henry didn't include any of his own work. I've heard otherwise too, bit I think it looks nice and it's only $5.73 here at Lulu. There's a free download too, and it's online as well, equally free, here, poems by me here. I can recommend like fuck Pablo's piece "breaking the boy" here.
And also I got my copy of Pretty Red Berries by the brilliant poet Misti Rainwater-Lites, buy that sucker here and read my review here. She is going to be huge - and not just from all the tacos and burritos.
And I must again mention that Whistling Shade did a great job with my first full length Cadaver's dance, that book can, and should, be bought at Amazon.com at this link, or at Alibris here if it's out of stock at Amazon.
Not to forget a pretty good collection by me at Lulu with around 100 poems, and people have said there are no obvious faults with my layout etc. This is a button below here. It's reviewed by Misti here.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Ten Poems about East Asia and Kitsch Nebula Ampersands and
Coatalism Press 2008
Though Chiaia is an experimental writer, some of the work here seems timeless, the poems about East Asia, like Lian Penang, ending with the separate observation “An old Malay, he fishes” and Kula Lumpur with the presence of religion in the two short verses both ending “The Imam sings.” They are full of observation that lets you feel the essence of the place, and a regret too, for the violence and the decay of the ancient, the escape of traditional values “How could Malaysia let it get away?” I can read poems about the UK, where i lived the first 27 years of my life and think, “Where is this place? Who are these people?.” But in Chiaia's East Asia poems one believes one knows. The language is elegant and English but smells like Asia.
The second half, “Kitsch Nebula Ampersands and” is much weirder and heavier, it includes several conversations between a person and a mushroom about access to said person's Central Nervous System, and this is appropriate, these are hallucinatory poems but full of acerbic wit, broad humor, and a certain exile's nostalgia for the homeland that may or may not exist. There's a rude Ode to Americans, an exquisite Ode to Ampersands, and, my favorite in this second part, a brilliant two part Daiku (death haiku) that ends
butterfly slain here
beside raped caterpillar
This is a book you need, it's great poetry, it's very worth reading.