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Click here or on the picture above to Order Age of the Demon Tools! |
Age of the Demon Tools You
have to slow down, and absorb calmly, the procession of gritty,
pointillist gnarls of poesy that Mark Spitzer wittily weaves into
his book. Just the title, Age
of the Demon Tools,
is so appropriate in this horrid age of inappropriate technology—you
know, corruptly programmed voting machines, drones with missiles
hovering above huts, and mind reading machines looming just a
few years into the demon-tool future. When you do slow down, and
tarry within Spitzer's neologism-packed litanies, you will find
the footprints of bards such as Allen Ginsberg, whose tradition
of embedding current events into the flow of poesy is one of the
great beacons of the new century. This book is worth reading if
only for the poem "Unholy Millenial Litany" and its
blastsome truths.
Only
dumbf**ks will not read this book and exult. Spitzer's furious
epic is a supremely satisfying blasphemous gorgeous cantankerous
yowl for a generation of hep-infected-cats neutered by American
supremidiocy. He has managed—quite un-nicely, thank you!—to
tweeze every bloody splinter from our polluted and polluting culture.
His Missouri misery odyssey ra[n]ges from big bass to big brass,
from celebrity bodies to celestial bodies, from a micro-war between
the blustering hero-narrator and local developers bent on greed
and eco-genocide to a macro-war between the US government and
practically everybody else, including its own soldiers. Most rewarding
is Spitzer's renovated language that, read and screamed aloud,
bends and twists and curls the tongue so erotically that orgasm
is a valid conclusion. Really.
Triage
of daily life and text, mines in the headlines, flat faced mutancy
in the details of man's folly and avarice, rapacity and ballsack
confusion, set against an individual pastorale amid the cowpies,
text addled by brush, "angry vines," and "channel
cats with mongo backs," sluiced with wind and wave, in turn
set against the maw of what increasingly seems to no longer exist,
green world of birdsong, face of simple intention, word strong
as bough, and so forth (and yet . . .). Text with an edge like
a serial killer's holiday in a target rich environment, the monkeyward
of Washington, or the plains of Iraq and Afghanistan, corporate
board rooms and city council meetings clotted with preening inanities
in the form of the human, etc., the text's language slick as a
lineman's clit, doffing a nod to the warbled wordexitry of Burgess
and the wee ones who sleep in eaves, all woven with the witchery
of electronic missives, condensing words to mush. Spitzer in battle-rut
(Moloch panting beneath.)
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