On Linh Dinh's blog, joebanford responded to PT #1 succinctly thus:'the inner fragmentation/destruction triumphs over lives which end up in rooms to die more so than heal, especially at the back wings, a mock freedom of soul, where "nothing/ will grow" and "cinders lie" -- ashes to ashes dust to dust -- a mirror of industrial us, perhaps -- a snapshot of the imagination'
Joe Milutis, over at New Jersey As an Impossible Object, had this to say, in part:
'I liked the almost petulant flavor of his home-recorded reading: he projects the word “nothing” as if he wanted it to be an object . . . a "something" beyond him. “Broken” and “bottle” are flung far enough from the body so they could stand off and judge it; or rather, not even that far—it’s more like spit in the wind. (Cf. Marinetti, whose flung words transform the provincially trapped poet, merging into an international technosphere.) The poets had a good laugh at the improbability of doing a podcast devoted to Paterson: Do it!'
For more of Joe, go here.
