Opening with benisons infused with invective, Caroline Whitbeck's debut book reveals the armature of a classicist and the musculature of a crunk artist. The tone is forever-young exuberant; the vocabulary crosses every threshold, yet they are but understory to a flaming canopy. So, "strap a beefsteak to that, throw a / trainwreck. Hands / down where the money is these / days."
As is Jen Tynes:
The white breaks and silences are just as captivating and curious as the word-thirsty explosions in these poems; both are the buzz rising from an underground something: part sarcophagus (flesh eater? flesh keeper?), part dynamic new kind of wiring.