The man in these poems, the poet in residence, is irresponsibly irrepressible, his wit barbed with warmth, his bait compulsively edible, his verve seemingly infinite. The cry is one part cock-a-doodle-doo, to two parts koo-koo-ka-choo. The flavor is somewhere between absinthe and strong black tea. The music is Mahler's lost symphony for solo accordion. Occasionally there are jalape os in the dark, merciful mineral waters in the white wine, bothersome...
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Poetry