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*On A Winter Morning* * * It's fascinating for five or so poems, then fades when others - truly * others* - take over. There is no recouping throughout. I go rhino hunting and hear clichéd jazz about jazz, as if the mention of Coleman or Mingus will save it. As if a ghazal were twenty couples in tuxes. Clever and crafted, widely spaced halves of lines tell stories left to right and top to bottom, though still like the woman I loved and had to leave because everything divided, added, or done was always point three three three. Amputating my arms is not the same as clipping a bird's wings. Those things that begin as mysteries and at the end you know were solved when they began . . . Curated by various editors, it's all nouns and open mouths when, in fact, cobblestones and frogs want to whack and swallow each other. And just how do italics remind you of talcum? The voices are clarinet and viola after piano and flute. Silk gowns dancing while bubble wrap is flattened. Thus it begins, eine kleine, naughty nacht. She adds Turkey to her breasts. Andy likes evasions. The page refreshes itself and you are gone. -- Jim The Salt River Review: http://www.poetserv.org http://www.poetserv.org/jvc/home/index.html http://www.hamiltonstone.org/catalog.html#temporarymeaning http://www.fieralingue.it/documenti/mr_bondo.pdf http://www.flickr.com/photos/jamescervantes/