This collection by Don Boes features quick shifts in tone, subject, and language as a way to discover and track the moving targets of life. Each poem offers an experience based in serious wordplay and deadpan seriousness. Poem titles like "History of Appliances" and "Retain this Portion for Your Records" hint at the jangly conglomerations that we will read and enjoy and then read again.
We are the publisher, so all of our authors get five stars from us. Excerpts:
SOFT TARGET
One professor, sitting cross-legged, continues his composition class under the skimpy tree by the stadium while his students reckon the number of dogs and detectives required to respond to a bomb threat. The semester is weeks old but already the football team has lost four games, two by shutouts.
Imagine jabbering about paragraph development in the exasperating sun. Better yet, imagine listening to such jabber while volunteers with megaphones tell stragglers to pick up the pace or run the risk of being buried beneath tons of rubble. Don’t all lectures make a little noise and then go missing in the parking lot? Only rookies think October is too early to flunk out.
There’s no explosive device, just a chagrined sophomore who has a few issues with his geography syllabus and has assembled a scale model of the administration building out of paperclips. He lingers on the line in case one of his score of enemies wants to trace the call or say hello.
WHAT’S LEFT OVER
Broken toe, pinched nerve in the neck, strained ligament in one of my knees, root canal: that’s my list of highlights so far. If I want to be comprehensive, I can add my midnight appendectomy and, of course, my case of gout. And as a boy I experienced one, maybe three concussions.
So I don’t attack the creepers that cover the patio and one side of the garage or paint the porch every four years. So maybe that’s why I am seldom loud like my neighbors. Last night they tossed firecrackers. They poked hissing sparklers into their own shrubs. A few harmless bullets entertained the clouds.
What scares me is what might be heading down the pike: bifocals and biopsies and perhaps a hearing aid and all my chow prepared in a blender. Others will manage the paperwork. No health plan will cover the trepidation. And what’s left over will be no surprise: potato salad and defective fuses, the glare and the shouts, the expense and the fallout.
I received this book for free through Goodreads First Reads.
I didn't understand most of these poems. Many of them seem like a series of random thoughts all strung together haphazardly. My best analysis is that the poems are meant to reflect the odd and endless stream of thoughts that run through our minds during both ordinary times and extraordinary life circumstances, events, and crises. The poetry seems to describe the instability of life and of people and of objects, underlying the resolute march of time toward our inevitable deaths, with the underlying question "What is the point of it all?" permeating the book's pages. Having said all of that, it is quite possible that the meaning of these poems is way over my head (as interpreting obscure poetry has never been my forte). Despite my confusion, I found the book as a whole to be oddly entertaining.