From Publishers Weekly
If Garrison Keillor were in his early 30s, hailed from Texas and had a terrific sense of the poetic narrative line, Winter's debut might be his latest dispatch. From a sestina based on the names of "My Women" to "Hair Club for Corpses," the book exudes "the smell of Aramis and tweed,/ and, for some strange reason, ketchup."
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Book Description
FROM THE BACK COVER
Hypocrite reader, mon somblobble, Jonah Winter will New York School you in the woodshed of his imagination! These poems remind me of Robert Bresson's Four Nights of a Dreamer, in which a tape recorder spews out the blurts and ravings of the heart at inappropriate moments. Maine is a hemorrhage of the goofy, the sinister, and the sublime. - James Cummins
Jonah Winter's poems are relentless attacks on the status quo. They turn pop culture on its head in hot pursuit of untainted love. And they are funny, if whiplash can be funny. Winter is a serious, new poet, with talent galore, blazing a trail, along which unknown treasures are sure to be found. - James Tate
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