Thursday, June 27, 2013
Monday, June 24, 2013
CA Conrad, Dorothea Lasky, and Mike Young say
The
tattoo / underneath the tattoo / speaks the language I want to learn.”
Justin Sirois has always been one of my favorite living poets. “You
have / everything you need / when you’re naked”, I trust, I trust ALL his
discourse with our throbbing excitement for communion. His poems are our
best possible use for ears. If I don’t know you and you LOVE these poems
as much as I do, let’s get together to read them out loud over a delicious
slice of something. “Lick the window / & your reflection licks
back” is a delicious something we all love. It’s important they know to
have a copy of this book resting on my heart when they cremate me.
CA
Conrad
The
poems in The Heads by Justin Sirois make me feel so many things. They are not
“temples,” but “squishy” things that “I love to put my face in.” I like it that
way. These are poems that are part of life, constantly affirming and
reaffirming it. A life that greets you with its magic. As when "What fits
in the hand/ grows into armfuls." Or when you "sex this bathroom
until the bathroom ain't for/ bathing no more." Everywhere is the
“imagery” of life that “repeats in heaps of beauty." These are also poems
that are part of the digital America we live in now and so they make that
alternate existence beautiful. I hear echoes of Walt Whitman, Eileen Myles, and
Blake Butler in these poems. I hear echoes of old folk songs. Most importantly,
I hear the breathing of an indefatigable in these lines. One that is living and
listening. Let's follow it.
Dorothea
Lasky
"When
you realize the new Old Spice ads might be working on you, when you're trying
to split the difference between desk jobs and shoulder licks, when you're old
enough for raunch to go holy but still young enough for GIFs to go
infinite—that's when you know you're in the LoS of Justin Sirois's barking and
bounding poems. The Heads are singing to the super ugly animals that pace the
medians. They are twitching to put back some magic. They are winking that the
word "okay" is the most useful word in the room, and they are hoping
to be together with you because the only way a head gets a name is when another
takes it in."
Mike
Young
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Colorado Review - Falcons on the Floor - review by Joe Hall
Falcons
on the Floor, by
Justin Sirois
Publishing
Genius Press, 2012
reviewed
by Joe Hall
On
American fiction, Anis Shivani, with characteristic spleen,
recently
pronounced, "There is only small writing, with small
concerns,
and small ambitions [T]he serious writer is trained
to
look down on politically aware fiction: that's just journalism.
There
are no AWP awards there." For Shivani, domestic realism
and
its overly precious drama of the individual psyche has
replaced
engagement with politics, ideology, and their expression
in
the kinds of events that make headlines, shake lives, and
redraw
borders.
Santa
Fe, New Mexico, a bar. To a veteran of the most recent
war
in Iraq, I described the plot of Justin Sirois's Falcons on the
Floor.
Lifelong
friends Salim, wired and westward looking, and
Khalil,
an impulsive and flamboyant chaser of his own local
celebrity,
flee their hometown of Fallujah to avoid being drafted
by
the Fedayeen into the front lines of a fight against American
forces.
Salim and Khalil follow the Euphrates west to Ramadi,
where
they are convinced they will be safer. It is a portrait of
wartime
Iraq that grew from Sirois's correspondence with Iraqi
refugee
Haneen Alshujairy.
The
veteran's reaction was unequivocal: "The New York Review
of
Books will
eat that shit up." His tone communicated
"shit"
as excrement. Falcons occupies an impossible space between
critics'
desires for a great topical novel and the public's
suspicions
that any such novel is poisoned by opportunism and
the
author's partisan politics. It is an impossible space because
it
is easier for critics to dream of Platonic ideals—and perhaps
for
Shivani, the novel he is calling for is the novel he is writing—
than
to engage with and bring to the public's attention what
has
been written: this uneven, ebullient, and moving work. A
must-read.
Yet
Falcons almost sinks itself in a prologue that would raise
Shivani's
hackles. It is narrated by an American teenager whose
awe
of his military-bound brother marks him as a future grunt
in
Operation Iraqi Freedom. This prologue parallels the action
of
the story proper: a hastily considered trek, a landscape
drowned
in hazard, and arrival at a consequential threshold.
Specifically,
the crush object of the soldier has suffered a family
misfortune,
and he decides to console her in person; however, a
snowstorm
has cut off roads and phone lines. Within the limiting
perspective
of an adolescent, the drama is one of the character's
own
invention, and in turn, his mock-heroic walk through
the
woods is easily telescoped into insignificance by a skeptical
reader.
Couldn't he just wait a day or two? Sirois, as if aware of
this,
overwrites: "I walked with my head down. The ice-sharp
wind
slicing hairlines in my shin bones." Heavy-handed assonance
wrecks
these opening lines.
When
we reach Khalil and Salim in Eallujah, Sirois has calibrated
his
tone within a less obtrusive, functional register. After
the
dreadful excitement of surveying the landscape of war
dawning
in Eallujah and the propulsively written flight of the
duo
from the city—"Salim knew if he stayed in Eallujah he
would
die"—the story's tempo slows in a second beat that unpacks
the
mutual histories of both characters as Salim types
notes
into his laptop on the banks of the Euphrates:
Here's
a list of the three things I'd wish for if we found
a
lamp with one of those magic génies in it:
—a
high speed internet connection.
—headphones.
I forgot my headphones.
—a
hot fudge brownie ice cream sundae from TGI Fridays.
You
can blame my mother for the last one, too.
Worrying
about the state of his laptop battery, fervently wishing
to
be able to withdraw from the physical world and into the
agency
and identity he finds online, Salim is as American as
apple
pie. The mind of a middle-class Iraqi fleeing his home has
to
be, by at least a degree, more tangled than this; consequently,
the
more time Salim spends self-psychologizing, the more the
authenticity
of the story is jeopardized.
The
miracle of Falcons is that while there is a significant
amount
of interior self-investigation, ultimately it becomes
something
far different from a psychological novel. In its loose,
road-trip
structure and anchoring friendship, it is much closer
to
picaresque works such as Kim, Adventures of Huckleberry
Finn,
and Don
Quixote. In these works it is less important that
why
the characters want something be sufficiently evidenced,
but
that their desire and its pursuit be realistically dramatized
externally
through their companionship. Every time Falcons
bogs
down in Salim's thoughts, it is revived by the interplay
between
Salim and Khalil. They are as callous and silly as any
pair
of men who have spent their lives together:
—I
wish we had some chicken, just a few bites is all I
need,
I finally admit.
—Man.
Some lamb kebab.
—Yeah.
—Marinated
cabbage, cucumber.
—OK.
That's enough.
—Pizza.
—Shut
up, man. I say.
Lounging
on the blankets, head to head . . . [Khalil]
pushes
out a fart that's so impressive I can't believe he
did
it on cue, and when I don't respond he asks what
happened.
Erom
within the circle of their friendship, the dangers the pair
face
take on a discomforting immediacy, whether it is being
forced
by a Eedayeen leader to drive to the front in a shot-up,
blood-sticky
truck or trying to read the ominous hieroglyphics
of
the landscape as they follow the Euphrates: "To the north of
the
farm there's a pyramid of cauterized date palms that've been
plowed
and stacked on their sides and torched with gasoline....
We
can't take our eyes off it, smoking like a dead black comet."
Like
Twain's house and its dead floating down the Mississippi,
there
is something close to scripture here, an image of original,
profound
despair.
As
the novel progresses Sirois handles the rhythm of their
journey
with an increasingly sure touch, moving between the
comic
and the horrible, charting the incremental punishment,
doubt,
and disorientation flight inflicts on refugees as well as
the
devastation war does not just to bodies and property but to
entire
communities.
The
terrible irony of this book is that while the desert inter-lude
deepens
our understanding of Salim and Khalil and, crucible-
like,
refines who they are and want to be, their hard-earned
and
long-awaited arrival in Ramadi sets off a gripping, twisting
sequence
where Sirois shows us how swiftly and decisively war
reduces
each individual to simple categories: fighter, civilian.
We,
with Salim and Khalil, endure, in the crisis of a single moment,
the
wrenching consequences of these labels.
This
moment strikes like lightning, because in its lead-up
Sirois
allows Salim and Khalil to sprawl across the pages, to
remember
and desire. In turn, the reader is lulled into thinking.
Yes,
here we are in the psychological novel. A mind is turning
circles
in the desert. Fingers are pressing keys on a laptop. There
is
no door. There is nothing on the other side of a door. There is
no
one with his or her head in a bag.
Reading
Falcons is to witness the stunning, troubled metamorphosis
of
one type of fiction into another. Our discussion of
a new wave of
politically engaged, outward-looking novels starts here.
politically engaged, outward-looking novels starts here.
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