by Diane Wakoski ‧ RELEASE DATE: Nov. 1, 1971
She takes the wail of a downhearted frail (herself) and passes it on direct in poems about men who've already loved and left and her still-tormenting Max's Kansas City beau ideal, with his motorcycle and mustache. It's no mean confession to admit such a soul-shuddering weakness for with-it macho paraphernalia, or to bite down on the fact of being plain -- as she does and insists she is -- till the last itemized drop of gall spurts out. There's a lot here, in fact, that must be respected as real self-disclosure; and her roaring testimony, when it really roars, can have a dumdum impact on women readers, at least. Since she doesn't censor herself (and who would expect it of the Beats' queen regnant?) there are skidding moments when bedazzlement and self-pity almost take over and odd histrionic episodes in which she claims identity with the moon. At such times you may suspect that she's flaying herself with a rubber knife, but no question that it's Diane beneath the blade. As in the past, her readers should prove truer than her lovers.
Pub Date: Nov. 1, 1971
ISBN: N/A
Page Count: -
Publisher: Simon & Schuster
Review Posted Online: N/A
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Nov. 1, 1971
Categories: NONFICTION
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