BLOOD CALENDAR
By
A long collection of flaccid, monotonic and banal non-poetry which has previously appeared in little magazines with cute names like The Greater Golden Hills Poetry Express, Hanging Loose and Private Parts. Cheap plays on emotion, abound in virtually imageless poems about, for instance, napalmed babies (""O Child you don't/know north from south""), sad old people, or ""a pound of . . . black flesh."" We are also asked to read the poet's blithe suicide threats. A few of these poems are appeals to God. Many are about the kind of sex in which she is a piano and he is Erik Satie and together they make beeyootiful muzik. But our least favorite of all is about ""my cherry maybe/ which I lost in a doctor's office/ to a stainless steel device/ as big as a horse dong."" Yecch.