In Saturday’s mail was this great new little boke by Patrick Dunagan, Her Friends Down At The French Café Had No English Words For Me. Truth & beauty, what can I say…like clicking on the highbeams on a drive through the dark night of the soul. Dunagan knows where he’s going & he’ll tell you when he gets there. Sit back & enjoy the ride. I read the boke once & then again, the second time reading aloud because there’s the music you hear in your head & the music that’s for the ear. It’s familiar territory for me, “for several years you listen / the voice is lovely / even listening wrong you get the head / by way of the heart” , which I swear sounds like something Dunagan & I have discussed many times over many beers. “Life for / the living of it desperately / needs for every poem to / exist”.
The book is “printed in an edition of 100 copies & privately distributed”, which I guess means you’re shit out of luck finding a copy. Published by PUSH, SF/NY, but I don’t know who or what that’s about.
