Good God it used to be easy to get published. These stories are a cross between bad Bukowski and bad Carver (and even good Carver wasn't all that good). Some of them are merely vignettes, which are less painful than the long, meandering narratives that go nowhere and end abruptly. I read he was primarily a poet - perhaps he should have stuck to that.
Dawson' short stories can be a trial sometimes, a fact that I forgot as I started reading this book, but usually a trial that is worth it. About fifty per cent of the stories in this book are more experimental exercises than stories, and they are both difficult and dizzying. The other half of the stories, the more narrative types, are fantastic, especially in the way that I never understand exactly where they are going. Sometimes they are not really going anywhere, but Dawson often creates a strange, other-world sort of feeling in my head while reading that I can't quite sort out. He creates mysticism out of banal occurances, and that is the thing that I most enjoy about him.