It’s tempting to talk about Michael Dickman’s life.
For starters, he seems to be writing about it—and the details are so dementedly disturbing, and his tone so disturbingly straightforward, that even the most courteous reader can’t help rubbernecking, and even the most hardened can’t help hoping that these are persona poems. If his poems beg to be fact-checked, in other words, it’s not because Dickman doesn’t seem trustworthy. READ MORE
|The End of the West
A collection of poems by Michael Dickman
Copper Canyon Press, 2009
Reviewed by Ali Shapiro