rating: 2 of 5 stars
Eh... I like Artaud-obsessed, drug-fueled, ecstatic firehoses of liberation as much as the next guy, but this book just didn't do it for me. I feel if I'd read this when I was 18, when everyone should go through a Beat obsession, I'd feel different. And maybe these seem tame now because of poets like McClure widened the hole through which poetry may escape, and I'm just taking it for granted.
And the guy did write "Mercedez Benz", so maybe this is just not the right book of his to hit.
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