Who are you, Anthony McCann, and why do you write such good poems?
Everything in this book is leaning—on a slant, a little bent, off-kilter, a little bit waiting in waiting, hoping for the future, headlong into the future. It makes me want to reflect on and connect to the world, to other people and to words, differently, physically, with abandon, apocalyptically.
And in Eric Lindley’s review entitled (take a breath now) “Repetition as compulsion: that you could make yourself believe a thing exists by tagging it, by making it again. Only, semantic satiation draws the word away from being, like the thin, drained smell of burnt rubber, rent into an air duct” is followed by some discussion between Lindley and McCann on the latter’s use of lineation and reading aloud, matters I’ve often obsessed about here.