No Soap Radio! Bruce Cohen Books
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Poetry. "NO SOAP, RADIO! is a carnival ride of poetry. This book is whipsmart and strange, unsettling and joyous. Bruce Cohen interweaves the comic and the absurd with heartstopping tenderness. Crackling with jubilant complexity, these poems whirl and gut punch through today's weird living where 'most of us / are in a constant state of personal revision.' To shape his body for the beach, Tu Fu is 'all about protein.' But the vivid grace of Cohen's poems is the way he Frankensteins together giddy and goddamn! In NO SOAP, RADIO! you will find yourself the lucky winner of the most coveted prize in the midway magnificent fun, jabbing you back into the exuberance of being fully alive." Alex Lemon"
No Soap Radio! Bruce Cohen Books
Born in the Bronx, New York, Bruce Cohen has been on the faculties of the Universities of Connecticut, Arizona, and California at Berkeley and still finds time to write some of the most unique poetry to flow from the pen (or computer) as any contemporary poet. His awards are numerous and his poems have appeared in an impressive number of literary periodicals as well as in his own published books.Yet nothing prepares the reader for the experience of reading Bruce’s cockamamie poems that touch so many chords of emotion that reading his work is akin to taking a shower in joy. A little sample follows.
We Don’t Get Pie Enough
I am like the 2%milk that’s best if sold before a particular date,
Predestined expiration kept secret form me.
I’m a burned-out-headlights cruise on gas fumes kind of guy,
Gang tackled & sucker punched by disappointments, coerced
In its headlock, ¾ Nelson, suffering ass-frying super atomic wedgies.
Who doesn’t daily endure torture & torment?
But. And this is the redeeming part: the girl uncrossing her legs –
Wetting her lips, inviting me to a more comfortable place with a lisp –
I can be grab-your-toothbrush, baby, let’s vamoose this rodeo.
But I have to be back at work by Monday, she says.
Okeydokey. In the meantime, let’s just say I’m a black market Green Card,
An un-renewed driver’s license, phony Social Security number,
A nervous wallet crammed with stolen credit cards & the thinnest identities.
My truths are stashed in offshore accounts, avoiding federal & local truth-tax
Which explains why I have only this 2% sense of who I really am.
No rodeo is completely rained out until a gutter-mouthed ex-boyfriend
Staggers through the screen door with a blood alcohol level > 2.8
& pontificates in a Shakespearian soliloquy the not-so-subtle intricacies
Of the hostess being a dirty-double-crossing-pagan-whore. The small talk
Wanes after, leaving more hors d’oeuvres & gourmet morsels
For those of us who still have stomachs. These satellite shindigs
Are surprisingly unpalatable but digestible, like discovering a miniscule
Alien marble of hard fat in my cocktail meatball. I pinch off the tip
Of my tongue, examine it, pop it back in my trap, swallow never
Think of it again, its contents, that knowledge, permanently hidden.
Ride along with Bruce Cohen on this carnival of poems and you’ll have not only a grand time but a better view of humanity as it exists ‘elsewhere’ (as in your own unnoticed backyard). Grady Harp December 15
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No Soap Radio! Bruce Cohen Books Reviews
Born in the Bronx, New York, Bruce Cohen has been on the faculties of the Universities of Connecticut, Arizona, and California at Berkeley and still finds time to write some of the most unique poetry to flow from the pen (or computer) as any contemporary poet. His awards are numerous and his poems have appeared in an impressive number of literary periodicals as well as in his own published books.
Yet nothing prepares the reader for the experience of reading Bruce’s cockamamie poems that touch so many chords of emotion that reading his work is akin to taking a shower in joy. A little sample follows.
We Don’t Get Pie Enough
I am like the 2%milk that’s best if sold before a particular date,
Predestined expiration kept secret form me.
I’m a burned-out-headlights cruise on gas fumes kind of guy,
Gang tackled & sucker punched by disappointments, coerced
In its headlock, ¾ Nelson, suffering ass-frying super atomic wedgies.
Who doesn’t daily endure torture & torment?
But. And this is the redeeming part the girl uncrossing her legs –
Wetting her lips, inviting me to a more comfortable place with a lisp –
I can be grab-your-toothbrush, baby, let’s vamoose this rodeo.
But I have to be back at work by Monday, she says.
Okeydokey. In the meantime, let’s just say I’m a black market Green Card,
An un-renewed driver’s license, phony Social Security number,
A nervous wallet crammed with stolen credit cards & the thinnest identities.
My truths are stashed in offshore accounts, avoiding federal & local truth-tax
Which explains why I have only this 2% sense of who I really am.
No rodeo is completely rained out until a gutter-mouthed ex-boyfriend
Staggers through the screen door with a blood alcohol level > 2.8
& pontificates in a Shakespearian soliloquy the not-so-subtle intricacies
Of the hostess being a dirty-double-crossing-pagan-whore. The small talk
Wanes after, leaving more hors d’oeuvres & gourmet morsels
For those of us who still have stomachs. These satellite shindigs
Are surprisingly unpalatable but digestible, like discovering a miniscule
Alien marble of hard fat in my cocktail meatball. I pinch off the tip
Of my tongue, examine it, pop it back in my trap, swallow never
Think of it again, its contents, that knowledge, permanently hidden.
Ride along with Bruce Cohen on this carnival of poems and you’ll have not only a grand time but a better view of humanity as it exists ‘elsewhere’ (as in your own unnoticed backyard). Grady Harp December 15
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