Jack Rabbit's High Desert Poetry by Donald W. Chance
Thirty-one poems. One desert bar. No apologies.
This is a book about the things that accumulate when you've lived long enough to stop pretending - the absurdity of aging in a body that's done keeping secrets, the crooked humor of staring down a grave and talking back, the strange comfort of being an outsider who finally stopped trying to fit in.
The poems here find philosophy on a lily pad and menace in a refrigerator. A man negotiates his burial plot and requests something warmer than a sycamore - maybe under a cathouse in New Orleans. Roses accuse their killer. A child flattens an anthill while giant hands descend from above. A helicopter wops overhead on an otherwise quiet afternoon, and Vietnam comes back whether you invited it or not.
Beat-inflected and desert-dry, the voice owes something to Bukowski and Ginsberg but belongs entirely to one man - sardonic, tender when it counts, and too honest to chase polish.
If you've ever wanted poetry that sits down next to you, orders a drink, and tells you something true - this is that book.
The neon's still on. Pull up a stool.
Related Subjects
Poetry