Multicolored clouds converging--pyrotechnic arrows slamming into the chest--an apology that no one hears--Christian Patterson has crafted a strange kind of light orb that feels totally, 100% extraterrestrial. His poems oscillate between ego and id and disembodied bedroom and Taco Bell, and the whole time, it's like he's not even paying attention. He could be blindfolded. What an honor to be alive with these poems.
-Luis Neer, author of Extinction