Too much Brautigan (is there such a thing?) on leaves of grass?! Not enough Whitman and trout fishing in America?! Perhaps visa versa or merely another ring in the tree of musings until dislodged, dissected and juxtaposed within the arbor of one's mind. Dangerous as splinters yet safe as sheets of paneling right off the sale truck. Primarily an assembly of disparate short poems but all interlaced and held together by more than a facade of binding. A piercing quasi-confessional that goes from a dark that no one knows to a ...
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Too much Brautigan (is there such a thing?) on leaves of grass?! Not enough Whitman and trout fishing in America?! Perhaps visa versa or merely another ring in the tree of musings until dislodged, dissected and juxtaposed within the arbor of one's mind. Dangerous as splinters yet safe as sheets of paneling right off the sale truck. Primarily an assembly of disparate short poems but all interlaced and held together by more than a facade of binding. A piercing quasi-confessional that goes from a dark that no one knows to a light look inside that might renew you a bit if only for a brief chuckle. Inspired by life, art, music and what goes bump in the night the poems seep into your soul like an old friend of song yet erupt with fresh rhythms and surprising sensations. From the tragic (yet humorous) to multiple layers of nonsensical shellac (or is it?), vibrations and words to slap, sway, save or stain anyone who would heed. So poke yourself with slivers and/or settle into that newly paneled rec-room and drift away.
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