Jeff Walt takes the external world – the sky, the moon, bricks and barking dogs, rattling cars and smoke – and conducts a symphony of interior life – loss, shame, grief, and most heavily fear.

A thread of dismantling winds through the book with images of things breaking down: dying batteries, slowing dogs, broken appliances, garbage cans, rotting apples.

Place as a force is central to Soot, as Walt fills the landscape with heart beats – the dripping, pulsing, messy organ h More...

This is a wonderful book of poems. A hidden gem full of rich images that you will want to savor. The title comes out of the history of miners in Pennsylvania. In the title poem, ".... Night on their grave/faces. Monday blues black/every bituminous day of the week." His language is precise yet broad and elevates common voices to heroic.

In the poem, "Two Weeks After Your Death," he captures the grief in the details, ".... I look closer now,/at everything://a b More...

I had the privilege of officially "blurbing" Jeff Walt's chapbook. What did I say? His collection is filled with dirt, grit and dust. These tough poems squint in the bright light but focus, fear both real and imaginary dangers but still face the day, fall but get up to brush themselves off and move on. Make no mistake. This is not a collection of love poems, but there's love there, hidden in the cracks of sidewalks, in the fur of an old alley cat, even in the rows of an adult book More...

Jeff's book is raw, honest. I felt I went through the soot and came out sanctified in the end, like a middle-aged body! Read my interview with Jeff Walt.

My uncle Jeff . . .

IS FREAKING AWESOME .

duh . . .