World Series Chri$t imagines the whole of humanity as a series of small buildings. Billions and billions of buildings that make up the larger city, or mind. When you think of the book in these terms, it becomes easier to accept the constant destruction that hammers away at these buildings. It’s impossible to claim that William Seward Bonnie’s latest is about any one thing. However, if you still wanted to reach for that kind of perspective, you could say that World Series Chri$t is about the end of the world as Bonnie envisions it. The buildings are being burnt down. Or they’re just falling apart. Or they are simply being torn down brick by brick by malcontent citizens.
However you want to look at these strange, hellish poems/prose pieces, the concepts of death and chaos remain consistent. But again, you have to keep in mind that the book nonetheless refuses to be seriously and definitively connected to any singular theme. Things move quickly in these poems. Generations seemingly appear, fall, remerge, and join an increasingly complicated skyline of delirious proportions and combinations. Individual characters most certainly do not exist, but there are a variety of vaguely familiar, mostly human-shaped shadows that come and go. As Bonnie writes “I was an elegant masterpiece doused in kerosene”, you can see this protagonist. It might be Bonnie, but you really can’t say for sure. Or it’s that you don’t want to say for sure. Even as Bonnie writes about himself, or variations of how he perceives himself, you can easily imagine a much larger cast of these shadows we’re talking about.
To put it another way, World Series Chri$t does not feel like a one-man show. Whether Bonnie is really that good at creative subterfuge (it’s certainly possible), or whether he has chosen to suggest a single personality through thousands of mutated mirror versions, we can’t say. All we can do is keep up with his ferocious, maniacal attention to poetic structure, and make our meager guesses along the way. It helps that in the end, we realize that it doesn’t matter if we’re right or wrong. All that matters is that we stay to the end. You will.
Dani Neiley reviews Deer Michigan, a collection of flash fiction from Jack C. Buck.
Dani Neiley reviews Maya Sokolovski's debut collection, Double-Click Flash Fic.
Kolleen Carney reviews a poetry collection from Karla Cordero, Grasshoppers Before Gods.
Wait, why am I talking about myself when this is a book review? Oh, that’s right. ‘Setting the scene.’ Because you see, Mr. Brian Collins has also been reviewing movies. But unlike my lazy self, he reviewed a horror movie every day for SIX YEARS, missing only one single day early in the run.
After reading Brian Fanelli’s third poetry collection, Waiting for the Dead to Speak, I was immediately drawn to Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventure in Wonderland and, in particular, a scene where Alice asks the Cheshire Cat, ‘“Where should I go?” The Cheshire Cat replies, “That depends on where you want to end up.” Like Alice, Fanelli experiences life events in which convince him that adaptability is necessary for success. He grows into adulthood by keeping a level head as he struggles to live in a world that has been turned upside down.
Even if Gina Tron’s short story collection Eggolio and Other Fables turned out to be an uninspired, sweaty piece of literary garbage, we’d still have that cover. I have been reviewing books for a little over a decade. Eggolio and Other Fables may feature one of the best covers I have ever seen. Illustrated by the stunning, clearly underrated Cora Foxx (I’m guessing, but I will also venture to say that whatever Cora is currently making as an illustrator, it’s not enough).
Ron Kolm writes with a remarkable eye for detail and personality. He also often writes with the tone of a man who can’t quite believe he’s still alive. Certainly, his latest book Night Shift strongly implies that he is a man who can tell you where to find the best taco trucks beyond the gates of hell. Few writers working today can combine dry, almost weary observational wit with steady, charming wisdom.
George Wallace, former Poet Laureate of Suffolk County, Long Island, is a permanent fixture on the New York poetry scene. His thirtieth collection of poetry, A Simple Blues With A Few Intangibles, is plush with hallucinatory imagery and skillful language. His musical dialect is indicative to a drumbeat, or the lonely whine of a Fender Stratocaster, yet the melody here exclusively stands on its own. From the first line to the last, readers are catapulted into an abstract world bursting with lyrical wizardry.
Gabriel Ricard reviews Grig Larson's 2011 book Trolley, a steampunk fantasy.
Bradley Sides reviews Devil in a Sleeping Bag, the debut novel from Texas filmmaker Scott Honea.