Firecracker Soup

 

Larry Goodell's new book "Firecracker Soup" gets a hearty ovation from this corner of the barrio, where poetry must be explosive, or else we throw-carry the poet out back.

 

Goodell's book is full of life. Every literary red-light he runs, sandal'd foot to the gas pedal, caring little for the handkerchief muffled-over-mouth crowd opinions. He howls and luxuriates in the coyote yelp, he returns to the reader the gift of happiness and vibrancy he infuses his language with. Sugar addicts step aside. Those false literary pilots with thousands of medals drooping from their lapels, step aside. Here we have a real world-war poet with a Snoopy cap zooming above your heads.

 

His poetry uncorks the stifled basement bottles of wine and he shares his celebrative spirit with us all. I feel fulfilled that we claim a poet here unafraid of voicing his rancor at the ruthless betrayers of the heart, and, fulfilled that he is honest not to comprise or gloss over serious concerns of our age.

 

He experiments with form, he charges the poems with incantations and chants, his tone shimmery heat rising off the text, or ecstatically sparking small fairies fire-flying off his shoulders —Placitas guru dancing in the dust of your garden, whispering that resinous piñon aroma in your love verse, poking fun at the breakfast cereal box portraits of presidents and their crackling hypocrisy, turning words in your hands like new-found jewels rescued from sunken pirate ships, whipping a verse line in clownish shamanistic smoke across the page, then whirling another verse line flame from your mouth — page after page the marvelous poetry displays both grandeur of spirit and courageous heart.

                                This is a wonderful book. Gracias, carnal. - Jimmy Santiago Baca