Stop Motion Poets and Live Action Lit-Figures

Eight books in, and Mark DeCarteret is still taking great pains, to making good poetic gains. So subtle, as to be, nearly invincible, to any eye untrained, in the far less than impartial arts. Whitman-maned. Dickinson, in-sonic-kinship. DeCarteret drops more proper names than a faculty meet-n-greet or a space opera. And cops to more spoken word strides than an unsteady diet of optically disillusioned manuals. Poked fun at by unfocused groups of Surrealists. At the same time, managing, to not take too many sides, with the overly psyched and/or miked--the perpetually maze-like, and instead, try to half-solve the dire riddle of all that’s lacking in vulnerability, love. Compose all those who’ve been put upon, spoken ill of. And given upmost to figurative panting, grief. And while Stop Motion Poets and Live Action Lit-Figures is mired in off rhymes, near misfiring. Phrases fiber optically raised from the pyre. Like these trip wires gone trippier. And these strip malls gone prettier. So that no whiz kidding pun will be left unattended. Unless it by an adult. Too young to have rendered it genius. So, you must sing with me now, all you wing-persons of note. Post-posting optimistically speaking. And let’s show these most stock of options, how to top of the un-toppable, pop. And put the art, back before the shopping cart, where it still, or will shortly be long, not just saved for later.