In the Southwest we have personal agonies that are nothing in the face of that landscape.
Then, we go to New York and give self up to being a beautiful style, the New York School (I have done this), remaining haunted. Gabriel Kruis is a really formidable poet. Acid Virga is rather terrifying, also a tour de force and a formal breakthrough . . . a blend of narrative and lyric the way the mind is, mixing New Mexico and New York the way the mind does because it’s one mind, or the mind of one body. If you get very fast (using Jimmy Schuyler’s short line that after all is kind of slow) you can dissolve all the mental barriers we’ve been taught to erect between kinds of experiences.
“Meanwhile, in el mal pais, leaned out on mucinex, mixing dexy cocktails in the haloed pharmacy of the car...”
An unusually assured debut, Acid Virga is a memoir in verse cutting between a vivid Southwest upbringing and modern O’Hara hustle in New York City, deeply and seriously reckoning with the psychedelic heritage of religion and the psychological clarity of chemical consciousness.
It is both thrillingly propulsive and dense enough to read again and again, always offering up something new. Language is boundlessly specific, evocative of states internal and external, reading at times like a melancholy memoir stuck between stations, an epic poem or even a philosophical tract, always a true and important record of our American lives as lived now—an endless and reliable ticker tape of the soul.
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