Mark DeCarteret’s Comments

all these poems (w/the exception of “mouthsums”—I believe brought about by some bargainstore business of boosting, talking off w/assorted publisher’s/poet’s entries/examples from an old Poet’s Market) manage this almost makeshift nostalgia, that feeling of glumness & languishment often bred by both summer & youth, employing these half-baked soliloquies (even a dab or two of Victorian slaver) seemingly dreamed up in part by the dash’s crackling speaker or concocted in the lab-like conditions of a sedan's interior/suburban lawn (not to mention the confines of memory/page) as well as being seasoned w/this sensation even more solemn, unsound(ed)—an (un)settling in, a recollecting, like something dark-finned we’ve dispatched toward the past, radio-controlled, as to secure us some self-composed souvenir we will come to half-savor, deplore