An unsentimental and at times disquieting first collection, the poems of About Crows excavate self, family, race, location, sex, art, and religion to uncover the artifacts of a succession of traumas that the speaker does not always experience firsthand but carries with him to refashion into some new importance. This is a book of half-states, broken affiliations, and dislocation. The speaker leads the reader through the fragments of a flooded town that grows increasingly elusive the more one looks for it; through a succession of Seoul "love motels" that further displace the outsider to unclaimed margins transformed into sites of creative invention; through "galleries" of artwork, where movement, color, and image are renewed through ekphrasis; and through the world of the metatextual long poem "The Cult Poem," where good and bad moral binaries tangle into a rat's nest of our best and worst spiritual ambitions. The poems and sequences of About Crows are marked by their artistic balance of the sublime and the profane, of polyphony, syntactical complexity, clashing images, cagey humor, and unsettling sincerity, all trying desperately to connect.
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Part II The Beverly Hills of Korea Or My Life in the Love Motel
Part III The Error Gallery
Part IV The Cult Poem
Airport basement beneath Beverly Hills bike birds Blackouts body brother Burger King buried burn Chicopee child circle crows dark death door dripping drive Eastern States Coliseum Eddie Shore empty Enfield eyes father feeling ﬁeld ﬁlled ﬁnal ﬁnd ﬁre front desk frozen river ghost girls hand happened he’s head Hello Hills of Korea hockey horse Hungry Hill inside it'd take kids kitchen leave legs light live look love motel lungs MARC CHAGALL memory Michael Ross Mongolia mother murder of crows neck neighbor night one’s painting parents park poets police potassium chloride remember road ROBERT FROST says screaming SELF-PORTRAIT WITH SEVEN SEVEN FINGERS sidewalk sister skate smoke sodium pentothal someone somewhere stand station station wagon stopped story street subway tell There’s thing thirty-nine town trees turn victim wait walk watching window young