Anthony McCann seeks out the elusive Other with all the raucous self-loathing of a mad saint. Eroticized, debunked, adored, and despised, the sayer of these incantations ventures with appropriate fearfulness into the known, buoyed only by the persistence of the body in its current manifestation. His penetrating, pervasive doubt lends a perverse clarity to the journey.
I first ran across McCann's poetry some 7 or 8 years ago when I saw a few pieces of his published in the poetry journal "Fine Madness." Immediately I was struck by the singularity of his voice, the very human off-kilteredness, the fierce, aware intelligence and the vulnerability ("I am ranting / or I am groveling," reads one snippet, and in another: "I am feeling handsome and genocidal. / 'What kills bugs dead!' I holler. / Here in the hardware store / I am feeling tall and vigorous. / Walking home, / my poison in my bucket. / I lied. In reality my tummy hurts / which makes me small / and red. And I never leave the house."). If you like your poetry served with a dash of - or, in this book's case - a healthy, home-cooked portion of quirkiness (including not only citing the strange ["Do you have a raygun / or perhaps a stick of commemorative gum? I need to pretend / that I am under attack from the air."], but making the common ridiculous ["I am reading Newsweek / in the world"]), then don your too-tight starfleet uniform and prepare to be transported...
A little gem
Published by Thriftbooks.com User , 21 years ago
I came across this little gem of poetry quite by chance. Very fresh yet very accessible. And beautifully produced.
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