Marks
 
 

 

 

Richard Martin

Marks

Paradise/Asylum Arts
5847 Sawmill Road

Paradise, CA 95969

96 pages $12

Richard Martin keeps an irascible sense of distance from everything that doesnít move. The poems are as far from the deadly serious experimental academic avant-garde as they are from conventional mainstream emotive/confessional modes. Somebody is bound to think Richard Martin is not serious. It isnít that these poems arenít alive, on the page . . . if you look closely enough you can see their little eyebrows move.

Words have volume.

Someone lit a match

And half of your vocabulary

Landed in the back yard.

                                                   ó "Gas Meter"

I walk in fear of saying something naÔve about these weird poems because they sound naÔve, cartoonish:

the can of headache in the back

of the head opens

He talks about cerebral things as if they were the subject of everyday debate. Richard Martin should have a guest-voice shot on The Simpsons. Then I would watch it.

Consider the world

We make with our brains

The soul is no treadmill

It careens inside of the body

Like a rubber hat

This will hurt you

                                              ó "Mushroom of Sensation."

What are Richard Martinís poems when you see them for the first time?

Itís no accident our brains are made of mud

Weíre fortunate to have words

Twist them into wings

Awkward animals fly

                                               ó "Elements"

óDennis Formento

     

Copyright © 2003 Dennis Formento.  All Rights Reserved.

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