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This Wasted Land and its Chymical Illuminations by Marc Vincenz — review by Ron Kolm

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This Wasted Land

and its Chymical Illuminations

 

by Marc Vincenz (annotated by Tom Bradley)

 

review by Ron Kolm

 
 
This Wasted Land by Marc VincenzThis Wasted Land
and its Chymical Illuminations
by Marc Vincenz,
annotated by Tom Bradley,
Lavender Ink, New Orleans, April 2015
ISBN 978-1-935084-72-3
242 pages: $19.00

 
 

Marc Vincenz’s This Wasted Land is a fine addition to that long line of tricky texts that dot the periphery of Western literature. The denizens of this field that I’m familiar with are Swift’s Tale of the Tub and Battle of the Books, Joyce’s Finnegan’s Wake, Nabokov’s Pale Fire and my favorite: Flann O’Brien’s The Third Policeman.

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Home for Christmas, 1975 by Ron Kolm

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Home for Christmas, 1975

by Ron Kolm

 
 

Illustration Copyright © 2014 Dan Freeman

Illustration Copyright © 2014 Dan Freeman

 
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Enigmatic Tweets of the Food Service Industry by Jose Padua

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Photo by Jose Padua
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Astor Place Station by Ron Kolm

Posted on by urbangraffito Posted in Daily, Poetry, Ron Kolm, Writing | 6 Comments

Astor Place Station

 

by Ron Kolm

 
 

"Astor Station, NYC", Copyright © 2014 Arthur Kaye

‘End of the Line’, Copyright © 2014 Arthur Kaye

 
 
Astor Place Station

 

I’d just dropped off

Some consignment stuff

At St. Mark’s Bookshop

And had fifteen minutes to make it

To Grand Central Terminal

Or I’d be late for work.

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Hal Sirowitz: The People’s Poet — essay by Ron Kolm

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Hal Sirowitz:

 

The People’s Poet

 

by Ron Kolm

 

Author photo © Copyright 2010 Kim Soles

Author photo © Copyright 2010 Kim Soles

I met Hal in 1980 when he was emceeing the poetry readings at St. Clement’s Church on 46th Street in Hell’s Kitchen. Hal did a terrific job in mixing the knowns and the unknowns, and then making the unknowns feel like they could end up in the pantheon of New York City poets. At the conclusion of each event Sirowitz would read some of his own work. The first time I heard him I was instantly hooked. His poems were short and funny, and in them Hal was able to project himself through his mother’s eyes. To her everything was a potential threat — especially to her family’s belonging to the mostly assimilated Jewish middle-class.  Religion still played a part in his work, but almost more as a set of superstitions, than as a link to the ineffable — and it was more through the sensibility of the father than the mother. Hal’s poems were also incredibly concrete — they were filled with real things; real cats, real girlfriends, real condoms. And many of them began with the mantra, “Mother said…”
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