From Kirkus Reviews
paper 0-8195-6335-8 Explaining in prose what your poetry isnt is not the best way to introduce a first volume, even if you rightly suspect that your work will be reduced to its surfaces as a series of elegies for victims of AIDS, which this is, but only in part. Over the course of his rough and rude debut, Powell develops beyond the unabashed homoerotic-confessionalism that provides the shock- value here (between scotts asshole and his mouth I could not say which I preferred). An anthropologist of gay rites and rituals, Powell captures the sweaty rhythms of disco culture in the '70s, borrowing key lines from his favorite Donna Summers songs to measure his life as hustler and high-risk behavior posterchild. Mixing camp and high art, the poet imagines Sal Mineos dying words, Robins lament over Batmans lust for him, and Walt Whitman as disco diva Diana Ross. Powells unique and sometimes compelling stylelines too long for a standard page width, erratic punctuation, fragments connected by colonsbegins to seem gimmicky with repetition. This ambitious debut would have benefitted from some formal promiscuity. -- Copyright ©1998, Kirkus Associates, LP. All rights reserved.
"A fine debut . . . Powell's discoed-out flippancy and attuned formalism are like the kiss of life to that age-old pair of sleeping beauties, sex and death . . . the poems record a fractured existence, full of foreboding desire and disappearance." --Publishers Weekly
"Powell has done something genuinely striking: he has invented a new prosodic instrument and played it almost flawlessly . . . This is a brash, gutsy, entertaining and moving first book. Keep it on the living room table."--Lambda Book Report