It only took me a couple of poems to feel the flow and pattern of the Fiasco Galante's genius. You truly get a sense of his bond with literature in the beauty of his writing. His poems stretch the mind of the reader; many a time I learned a new word or phrase. His rhyming schemes are clever and fast-paced and definitely humorous. I thoroughly enjoyed "I Would Be Lovely Then a Quick Reply," which I found quite facetious and a nice surprise amidst the rest of the poems. [He} surely has his unique style and is not afraid of showing it off. ~Tatiana
The Organ Grinder's JoJo You say we're employed but we don't make any money. In our enterprise of choice there's nothing noon of funny. They were sold out of cats? your crippled Mother says. Fate made you fat and I wear a fez. We hang around the park in the heat of the day. You daydream on your box, I've a chain around my waist. Is that little monkey tame? I like rabies. If you don't want the same put your money in my jeans then the tune skips a note I look you in the eyes I go for someone's throat... while you apologize I stretch out in the sun and bite the policeman's feet. We take your cudgelled run to the end of Mary Street. To Hell with your shoe. I eat my grapes and rest. People are so cruel, we say in matching vests. Don't tell me who you love, that nut-tree is gone. We've all had something of Martha "Two Tits" Tomlinson for time by time the doom in all the hope we played for her or just the moon went a window serenade. Her light went on then off, the curtains glad and drawn. All mysteries are lost, we're broke again at dawn. Our hearts are changing place, the quiet is renewed. Forgive me, said Faith and Save me, Solitude.
TheFiascoGalanteisabookofpoetrythatfitsneatlyinitsculture,anexplorationofdegreeanda celebrationofthevividfestivaloflife.Itiscolorandimaginationintheamblingbetweenhighart andlow-budgetromp,joyandsadness,brutalityandfun,loveanddistance.Itisalyricalbookwith formalstyle,mixingtraditionalmusic withbrokenfurniture.Howeverbooksenticereaderstotakea chanceor,midwaythrough,fillipyoutokeepusonthenightstandandpresson,Icanonlyhumbly askoroffer:WhatotherbookofpoetryareyoureadingthathasElephants,Henchmen,cookies, hypnotists,buffi,stuffedanimals,curlicues,lullabies,love,reflectionandchasethatthisoneshould not join?
BunnyThe day you can’t be Bunny anymoreRenzo comes at nine to saw your stilts,her brothers next to kick you out of doorsand stab you in the belly to the hilt.Like a comet, our chroniclers recordI sang when broke, I put the time on tilt,you were easy in my arms, I was adoredand I had a little nose made out of felt.
Curlicues Taking Notes† Ringworm isn’t pretty and bad girls go to jail.† Gyrovagues were drunkards and roved around Despair.† Some want their whiskey straight; the tightrope act defer. † It isn’t proper theorem if I have to punch you in the face.† The short way round leads to a broken commonplace.† The animals are lying, see The Fall From Grace. † Never was a man so going he didn’t tangle up his thread† or be the Boke of Crafte of Dyinge dancing or in bed† the klutz has the touch of cold that ferries on the Dead. † The whip is our instrument, the floret is our band. † Everywhere in Nature is the flourish of free hand† and every Great Disaster, love, ends with ampersand.
Parlo Without LeonieThe bridge is down, it rains all day,the sun must have the same flat tire,like poets run out of things to say. The gleam is awful when you’re away.I miss you like the world’s on fire.The bridge is down, it rains all day.The afternoon's in bowtie gray,how the time is mine entirelike poets run out of things to say. No matter the parade can playwithout notes they’ve no desire.The bridge is down, it rains all day. You’re beautiful in every waybeyond dreams, trains and empireswhere poets run out of things to say.This is how our écorchéis with your bumbershoot attiredwhen the bridge is down and it rains all daylike poets run out of things to say.
Twiddle 1.Forget Poem and all his little Love’s promises and crumbs, you and I are twiddles of the same Leman’s thumbs. Though she cuts us down the middle, no two so one becomes.2.While Love’s the truest concept, without touch, it hardly stands. Though both the smallest in our beds and farthest on the fan, how close, and loving, we have slept in each other’s hands. 3.Lady, shuffle me into yours, I'll twiddle you into mine, purls that kiss so much more, crush, and intertwine. We come together with back and forth brisk and leonine.
The Fiasco Galante is a book of poetry that fits neatly in its culture, an exploration of degree and a celebration of the vivid festival of life. It is color and imagination in the ambling between high art and low-budget romp, joy and sadness, brutality and fun, love and distance. It is a lyrical book with formal style, mixing traditional music with broken furniture.However books entice readers to take a chance or, midway through, fillip you to keep us on the nightstand and press on, I can only humbly ask oroffer: What other book of poetry are you reading that has Elephants, Henchmen, cookies, hypnotists, buffi, stuffed animals, curlicues, lullabies, love, reflection and chase that this one should not join?Sample poems follow…aBunnyThe day you can’t be Bunny anymoreRenzo comes at nine to saw your stilts,her brothers next to kick you out of doorsand stab you in the belly to the hilt.Like a comet, our chroniclers recordI sang when broke, I put the time on tilt,you were easy in my arms, I was adoredand I had a little nose made out of felt.Curlicues Taking Notes † Ringworm isn’t pretty and bad girls go to jail. † Gyrovagues were drunkards and roved around Despair. † Some want their whiskey straight; the tightrope act defer. † It isn’t proper theorem if I have to punch you in the face. † The short way round leads to a broken commonplace. † The animals are lying, see The Fall From Grace. † Never was a man so going he didn’t tangle up his thread † or be the Boke of Crafte of Dyinge dancing or in bed † the klutz has the touch of cold that ferries on the Dead. † The whip is our instrument, the floret is our band. † Everywhere in Nature is the flourish of free hand † and every Great Disaster, love, ends with ampersand.