THE BODY IS MADE OF CAMPHOR AND GOPHERWOOD: Prose Poems
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A clutch of quasi-Sufic somatic musings--and utterly rhetorical. Separated into the conventionally broken lines of poetry, there might have at least been a look of portent to these pieces; but mortared into little bricks of prose, they haven't got much more going for them than the blameless blah-books of soothing aphorisms stationery stores stock. A rare good line such as ""We live in wooden buildings made of two-by-fours, making the landscape nervous for a hundred miles,"" seems like an event. Mostly it's a matter of moony questions (""And if my body is earth, then what?"") and muzzy pantheism. Less here than meets the eye.