Status Updates From The Collected Poems of Phil...

Swept from the clouds
We are among gardens under the sea.
Flaming white windows
From which nightingales flaunt in the sun.

Long interesting biographical intro. But after 100 pages of the poetry I’ve started skipping around. Wild and crazy images make, in too many poems, for a kind of ecstatic blathering, a kind of speaking in tongues with known words which, nevertheless, don’t “make sense.”