This massive volume of poems collects much of Wilson's poetry that has not previously appeared in a book. Selected by mIEKAL aND. "Peter Lamborn Wilson is a poet to read at length, preferably under a favorite tree near a flowing body of water, fully prepared to ignore all sense of imposed duty. And happily the work comes in some quantity in Lucky Shadows, enough to drive home the view that imagination itself is the ur-anarchist. It takes time and text to outfit an unexampled reality, a temporary autonomous verbal path ...
Read More
This massive volume of poems collects much of Wilson's poetry that has not previously appeared in a book. Selected by mIEKAL aND. "Peter Lamborn Wilson is a poet to read at length, preferably under a favorite tree near a flowing body of water, fully prepared to ignore all sense of imposed duty. And happily the work comes in some quantity in Lucky Shadows, enough to drive home the view that imagination itself is the ur-anarchist. It takes time and text to outfit an unexampled reality, a temporary autonomous verbal path leading to yet another zone of possible free life emergence. The mind- and side-splitting intensity of verbal assemblage comprises an under-linguality, a speaking/writing reality harnessing our hopes, fears and unnamable aspirations. It inspires further anticipation conceived as living precariously on the magical verge of new world irruption. Lamenting our losses seems suddenly to lay a foundation for gaining the impossible, the kind you welcome in your dreams. Sure, it's high fantasy in one sense, but it feels like the real life we have so much trouble finding. And now that possible world intensity comes vividly to mind by way of a certain sublime hilaritas. The laughter unto tears suggests itself as a path through the ever hard to bear. The utopian can only sneak up on us as the unseen flip side of negative assessment suddenly waxing pataphysical. His celebrated volume upon addictive volume of discombobulating prose has long offered an imaginable substratum to "civilization as we know it," and here we find it played out in poem after poem of heretical jouissance. At last we know the magus speaks a spagyric patois, transmitting the alchemic power to tearfully die laughing. " -George Quasha
Read Less
