Here is beatnik poetry ostensibly about beat existence in an unbeat world. This is an intelligent thoughtful man who enjoys Gerald Locklin and, obligatorily, Charles Bukowski, and who endures his own very personal dissipatory exercises in masochism. “woke up with blood/ on the pillow, blood/ on the sheets, blood/ on my breath and/ blood in my mouth/ and the coughing/ started again and/ i turned to spit/ at the trashcan and/ missed and i admired/ the new wall decoration/ as i grabbed a/ cigarette to start/ the bloody day.” Sounds like the opening scene of APOCALYPSE NOW. The collection is too brief for us to discover what pleasures might be had here, and to discover the scope of this man’s psychological peregrinations. A larger dose might be funner, albeit bleakly so. -- Dusty Dog Reviews vol. 11, 1993