Prose poems of drugs, cigarettes, bugs, sex, and sustained high drama--lotsa grit, cities. No overall storyline, that I could find--just fragments. It's beautifully made physically with nice paper and a few pretty pictures. My main complaint is that everything is at the same volume--I would have appreciated variation in the emotions. It's all different kinds of loss, but I couldn't plug in anywhere. I couldn't enter it. Some people would really like it, but it's not for me.
A High Degree of Spring Fever by Elizabeth Maycox
Review by Laura-Marie