Surrealist poetry that captures the defiant flavor of the American South. "Rail to ravine goes my scrubby feast/ On a rasher of hills-guts hung with/ Junk" begins one poem. It's like listening to a drunken good old boy shout out his life of hallucinatory splendor: "House of Baroque eroticism wrapped in vermilion thunder/ House of Gothic orgasm and Ozark rapture/ House of the diapason blasting planets in my girl's rosy fundament/ HOWDY HOWDY HOWDY!!!"--Thomas Willoch
This review originally appeared in TapRoot Reviews #4,
Contact the editor, luigi-bob drake, at Burning Press
Copyright Burning Press 1994, 1995.