The terrible pun that is the title makes me want to stab myself in the chest repeatedly alla Eliot Smith. When Joshua Clover reviewed this book in Spin magazine, he discussed the choice of typeface. Nuf said.
While catagorically not "better" than Jewel's book, it makes me wonder what kind of fucked up things happened on the set of The Breakfast Club because Charlie Sheen has a book of poems also, and I swear this is not a joke: Peace of Mind. What's with the stupid puns? Maybe Judd Nelson's weed was the real deal.
Beam me outta here.
As narcissistic as a blog, but some neat lines.
I had read a few of these poems in Fence magazine... Some of the poems surprise with their images and language---always a good thing, yes? Obviously the problem with any critique is the context. I mean, in the company of the above "books," Jeff Tweedy's work is the Rothko among the finger paintings. I am listening to "Yankee Hotel Foxtrot"---a damn swell album--- as I write this. Does this make me biased? Also, the cover manages to creep me out in a good way.
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