Terminal Humming, received, read and want to forget about it really and it won't be too hard to do so. The apologetic ending is apt because this is where save a tree comes in handy. There isn't much in this book that excites me either as a progressive or radical or conservative flame thrower. I've no doubt that it is a hit in the five minutes of fame sort of way that feminist literature can be...no doubt at all but in that it is a parody of what it wishes to acknowledge. As is most feminist literature so there you have it, it fits the type that it hopes to either discover or parlay into a new language of rational output albeit communicated irrationally.

Where's the beef in this? All angry protestations or rather, sentimentalistically inclined and very standard vignettes of the no holds barred Ann Murray hairdo sensationalism of yesteryear.

I should recuse myself from reviewing anything of the feminist genre by saying that I hate feminism as it is in our modern world. It is misguided babble and will eat its own tail whether it likes it or not. Therefore, a willing audience to such clap trap you won't find in me.

The chapbook (aptly self defining) is one of those books you'll find on thrift store shelves...the poet wondering where did all my copies end up? Where they should. I started reading it on my way to San Antonio, still bristling over the fact that a person has to pay for luggage and no bite to eat when the steward reminds us that flying isn't as glamorous as it used to be. Great fellow and quite gay, he waxed on about his Fwitzy (his wiener dog), his 22 year union with a partner but stopped short because of the look on our faces over this admission. Later during the flight he whispered to my husband after I returned a little bottle of chardonnay he tried to hand to me for free but I retorted, I'm muslim and don't drink to which he replied, "I'm Catholic and an alcoholic." Thought I'd bust a rib on that one...but he whispered to my husband that he was indeed gay. I took his hand as I left and wished him peace.

Feminism. More gay men should write or rather, right the wrongs of such self indulgent fantasies of hard core or not so hard core feminist rabble rousing. Where to send the troops now? They've all gone home to file their nails once again. As women always do find the safest place to be is where you expect them to be and in the case of Terminal Humming it is full of the usual old diatribes and diagnostic conundrums of women who like to write literature for the sake of informing men of all the hassles they have to endure. But why do they?

How many of them have the courage to stand up to the beast and tell it, if you followed the word of Allah, we wouldn't need to hassle you so hard or hustle to the next technobeat of our rage.

But there isn't that kind of rage in this tome. It's a pitiful meaow and ends up with an apology...not sure why that had to happen but feel totally confident that administering the last touch ups to the drafts of this was not only easy but worse, it was not necessary. I doubt the poet even remembered which words were switched or why.

Unleashing inner badness? Are we to assume this is the spiteful self hatred of our own gender talking? I certainly hope not although I must admit, I get a bit hot under the collar sometimes as a wife of a domineering arab man for 28 years and mother to his three children. That doesn't mean I hate being what I am but rather, I hate having to pretend not to notice all the time. What kind of inner badness is there really if a woman is so wise as to be able to reflect at length on the meaning of gender inequality or rather, her gender inequality because it certainly isn't mine. There is no such thing then if we are all at home in this skin but that is the best thing that can be said about experimental poetry. That is, experimental poetry ought to expose that which hasn't thus far been exposed adequately enough or in the language of our peers.

I do like certain things, certain lines...especially the part where a peaceful nuclear device is uncovered in the forest. That's nice but problem is, a whole book of poetry needs to have something to recommend itself on. And a few nice lines just isn't enough for me.

I have to say I might pick it up again and give it one more chance but all things considered....it is better left as is with hope for the future of this type of thing which isn't new at all. It's more of the same old tired Ai drivel. Alas. It's not even possible to reproduce excerpts to dissect for review because the act would be fruitless and entirely subjective. This morass of work needs to grow up first, to experience the ledge of the expected before trying to fly into the world of the intellectually courageous where obviously, this poet wants to project herself. There is no such thing as being too smart to handle, too brave to be believed or too contemporary to be understood and by the same token, misunderstood to the point of brilliance. No such thing.

What there is out there is too many up and coming poets to be believed. And if that's the case we can most definitely assume that the poet herself produces boredom as an act of sheer defiance. I think though that is giving way too much credit to the accidental good close reading that a poet with at least a little experience might endeavor to provoke in order to sell a book for a hopeful stranger.