I don't think there is a poet worth his grain of salt that doesn't know about Locklin. In this split-format chap Locklin captures new turf, talking about the paranoia he got while driving on the other side of the road on British soil, catching a French woman breaking into the men's room because she has to piss and the lines are shorter in that arena, and a strange attack of anxiety cured by his daughter while his wife doesn't really give a shit. These are the human touches that make Locklin more than human, and every time I see or read about a new collection of his work I want to know what he's been doing, because he has a way of bringing me right there. Mark Weber, on the other hand, has a different style of observation, and he captures things from an angle that is every bit as powerful as Locklin's, only with a meaner edge. When Weber screams: "do not go gentle into that Brautigan night/ rage! rage! as if your penis was on fire/ yelling at God the ultimate liar" I know just as clearly, as I do when I read Locklin, what is going on in his head. He has brilliant observations into talk show participants and the people who manipulate them, KKK members who make statements that leave one with no choice but to decide they are fucking blinder than we all thought, and he lets us know, in the midst of the confusion reality splashes in our faces, that he (and I) love the comforts of drinking and letting this world just happen as it is going to anyway. Gerald and Mark are both keen observers of the world we have been tossed into, and both of them let you know, point blank, what is going on in their heads. If you want brutal honesty, words that hit the mark, and people who know how to say the things that they have seen, this is a good place to wrap your fingers.--oberc
This review originally appeared in TapRoot Reviews #3,
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