THINGS TO COME . . .

MIST

In his groundbreaking obra Niebla, Miguel de Unamuno gives us that apocalyptic moment when his protagonist Augusto Perez stumbles across his Lord Creator at work at his desk. No pillars of salt, no burning bushes. Just pen and Ink. I never liked the ending, so I changed it. By what right? Unamuno provides the answer himself: it is my prerogative.

--Matt Barton

Seeing and hearing something happen doesn't guarantee knowing what happened any more than knowing what happened guarantees understanding what happened. Matt Barton's "Mist," for example. The story is not complex. The characters tell you what they want you to know in language that is strict and not at all tricky. No cheap games are played to the wool over your eyes. Oh, there are games played, they're just not cheap. A good thing, because if it were walk-in-the-park simple it would be boring. And this piece of work is anything but boring. In other words, think of Matt Barton's "Mist" as a parable written by Eugene Ionesco, adapted by Gary Shandling, and directed by David Lynch. Enjoy.

--Charlie Newman

DRAMATIC READING

MORE PRAISE FOR "POSTCARDS"

Terse imagery, tightly expressed, and tautologically complete. DeGenova weaves his poetic language into poems that are tough. They express what the world needs to hear form the dark shadows and raw alleys of 21st Century America. Haibun. Fresh haibun like the off-tune remark getting swiftly punctuated by the soft, warm open palm slap from a scorned woman. Yes, his haibun and short poems are fresh. Expertly wrought and forged from the authentic iron of experience. Postcards to Jack is wonderful. Kerouac would have been jazzed to read them.

--Jeffrey Winke

POSTCARDS TO JACK

These poems are bright islands in the black of the back-wood highways that still criss-cross our country. They are the thin blue notes of jazz that circulate under the neon signs of all-night diners. And, yes, they are postcard messages across time and space to a simpler and more vital period of American life when a young man might follow his hopes and sensuality forever into a younger country lost in the promise of its destiny. Jack Kerouac put an American landscape of the post Eisenhower years into his own words, making that landscape his own for generations to come—a long scroll into the passions, loves, and loss of our poor small bones. That landscape has now departed and fallen beneath the bulldozers of the most powerful nation in human history…the two lane, three lane, four lane interstate highways scattered in the rubble of superhighways of indifference. But there is a time and space still for postcards to that inner world that Jack wrote of, and our survival as a civil and progressive society may well depend on our ability to write and read those postcards. Albert DeGenova has found the right notes to sing in this volume of the open road.

--Jared Smith.

Terse imagery, tightly expressed, and tautologically complete . . . DeGenova weaves his poetic language into poems that are tough. They express what the world needs to hear form the dark shadows and raw alleys of 21st century America. Haibun. Fresh haibun like the off-tune remark getting swiftly punctuated by the soft, warm open palm slap from a scorned woman. Yes, his haibun and short poems are fresh. Expertly wrought and forged form the authentic iron of experience. Postcards to Jack is wonderful. Kerouac would have been jazzed to read them.

--Jeffrey Winke.

ROSE COUPLETTE

This

kiss

of

love:

a

gay

sin

in

our

half—

powerful—

dull,

savage

age.

My

shy

Rose

rose

from

some

shit,

it

grew

through

this

piss

and

sand,

smiles

piled

on

wan,

base

faces

escaped

(caped

like

kites

on

drawn,

low

bowstring

stems)

from

numb

earth

–mirthless

nest—

to

bloom

‘mong

strungout

louts,

ape

shapes,

crime

time

T

V

and

bands

of

love-starved

dwarves;

I

tried,

too,

to

plant

phantom

mums)

more

poor,

thin

sins)

but

cut

them

when

my

shy

Rose

froze.

© 2010 Duane Vorhees

NO COMMENT