Poetry. "Full of the will and the weather, that great skeptic Wallace Stevens walked to work and wrote his poems, poems you may well already love and believe. (Good, as they say, for you.) And as for Chris Tonelli, he walks in that integrity: read him, and be merciful unto yourself. His foot standeth in an even place. This book'll make you bloom"--Graham Foust.
I'm a person that writes in books once I know I'm going to try to keep them forevers. So, I've written in this book and turned down corners of many pages. (not finished yet, so i'm sorta assuming it won't all become a shit show, and going ahead with the 5 stars.)
That was my old review. My better more thorough less vulgar review can be found... where is it? I mean, literally, I cannot find my own review.
This is what thinking must sound like. This book reminded me of reading old school poetry, I mean the masters, like when I first read Rilke and Dickenson and Basho and Lorca and felt like I knew what silence and transformation meant for the first time. Poems that are crafted and felt, as if they've been there for a thousand years and will be there for a thousand more.