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Published on Jul 23, 2024 | 96 Pages
This fresh voice in American poetry wields lyric pleasure and well-honed insight against a cruel century that would kill us with a thousand cuts.
“Morín’s writing uses the mundane details of everyday life…as a jumping-off point for creating fascinating and philosophical worlds.” —LitHub
“Dios aprieta, pero no ahorca” (“God squeezes, but He doesn’t strangle”)–the epigraph of Machete–sets the stage for a powerful poet who summons a variety of ways to endure life when there’s an invisible hand at your throat. Tomás Morín hails from the coastal plains of Texas, and explores a world where identity and place shift like that ever-changing shore.
In these poems, culture crashes like waves and leaves behind Billie Holiday and the CIA, disco balls and Dante, the Bible and Jerry Maguire. They are long, lean, and dazzle in their telling: “Whiteface” is a list of instructions for people stopped by the police; “Duct Tape” lauds our domestic life from the point of view of the tape itself.
One part Groucho Marx, one part Job, Morín considers our obsession with suffering–“the pain in which we trust”–and finds that the best answer to our predicament is sometimes anger, sometimes laughter, but always via the keen line between them that may be the sharpest weapon we have.
“Morín’s writing uses the mundane details of everyday life…as a jumping-off point for creating fascinating and philosophical worlds.” —LitHub
“Dios aprieta, pero no ahorca” (“God squeezes, but He doesn’t strangle”)–the epigraph of Machete–sets the stage for a powerful poet who summons a variety of ways to endure life when there’s an invisible hand at your throat. Tomás Morín hails from the coastal plains of Texas, and explores a world where identity and place shift like that ever-changing shore.
In these poems, culture crashes like waves and leaves behind Billie Holiday and the CIA, disco balls and Dante, the Bible and Jerry Maguire. They are long, lean, and dazzle in their telling: “Whiteface” is a list of instructions for people stopped by the police; “Duct Tape” lauds our domestic life from the point of view of the tape itself.
One part Groucho Marx, one part Job, Morín considers our obsession with suffering–“the pain in which we trust”–and finds that the best answer to our predicament is sometimes anger, sometimes laughter, but always via the keen line between them that may be the sharpest weapon we have.
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Author
Tomás Q. Morín
TOMÁS Q. MORÍN is the author of the memoirs Let Me Count the Ways, winner of the 2023 Vulgar Genius Nonfiction Award, and Where Are You From: Letters to My Son, as well as the poetry collections Machete, Patient Zero, and A Larger Country. He is coeditor, with Mari L’Esperance, of the anthology Coming Close: Forty Essays on Philip Levine, and a translator of The Heights of Macchu Picchu by Pablo Neruda. He is a fellow of the Guggenheim Foundation and the National Endowment for the Arts.
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