Cirrus@Austlit

'There could be no more apt place or no-place to read Corey Wakeling’s Uncle of Cats than in an hotel room in the American Midwest, rain outside, sudden sunlight, rain resumes. Here, time feels to be suspended and shuffles in cloud strata while bursts of indignation skitter from the TV. Now-time arrives as arbitrary markers slicing through no-time, making for a jump-cut prosody. Wakeling’s poems acknowledge, in passing, since all is in passing, those past and present stars that still deliver, now and then, ‘formerly inconsecutive’ lines. They shift as light girders, constructions, blinking from Ted Berrigan, Tom Raworth as well as Modernist Japanese poets.' (Introduction)