Painterly? No that’s sort of feeble for what it is. Impressionistic? Nah…getting there but… author James Greer ponders––with his own lyrical might––the right word to describe Sean Kilpatrick’s Fuckscapes (his first collection of poetry with a title con huevos). Vomitous? Yes, but bombastically beautiful in the squalor. Here’s a revolutionary panorama of jarring rhythm that deserves your prompt attention.
David Foster Wallace died before finishing his third novel, The Pale King. If he imagined while living that he’d be pleased to have it published in this state, after checking out, we can’t know (…um). But I can barely explicate briefly how pleased I am that Jim Greer is Fanzine’s man of the hour writing the review of the manicured "mess" we are left with. He nails it. Death and taxes, and oh boy. Whatever Wallace might have thought of Michael Pietsch’s Herculean task of putting The Pale King together, he, a bit of Yorick’s skull now, would certainly smile back on Greer’s words here.