AFTER EXTENSIVE RESEARCH and protruding tests (yes, protruding not intruding), it has been determined that author JD Nelson is indeed a male alien. In the year of our ghorde 1970ish, he was sent from planet Glexnar of the 9th quadrant of Galaxy Zemfil with the explicit mission of spreading kindness, confusion and corn meal if you wanna believe it in the land of Colorado, United States.
Like the Bastard Wind on Planet Nowhere
Command line one:
a beginning unlike any other --
my name is Monster, all over again.
We have this space thing tonight,
so you'll have to excuse me for a minute
while I spread the butter with this sword.
(Wire Sandwich, Issue 4)
Now that the official business is out of the way let's talk about the words, the work, the waltz of letters to invincible sound. I don't know exactly why talking about JD Nelson and his poetry makes me want to alliterate but that's how it goes. Perhaps something to do with the musicality of his verse. Where occasionally there is a matter of white noise, I mostly get rhythm. Take for instance...
who sent you, anyway?
this knot is
to change us,
(Red Fez Publications, Issue 11)
maybe there's less stories in these poems (debatable), less knowing exactly what the author is talking about/meant (is that a bad thing?) but I find when reading Mr Nelson's work I often get more of that sensation of feelings I can't quite describe but are as familiar and valid as any. It doesn't fall flat in my chest, more like butterflies. And while you can achieve this with poems written in a narrative style- I don't find that to be the case as often. (send your hate mail to Tim Murray, thank you)
Personally, narrative poetry is my meat and potatoes. I love them. I write them. I read and enjoy them often. But if my diet consists of only meat and potatoes, I'm going to weigh a thousand pounds and have a stroke by the time I'm 40. don't get me wrong-- I still can't bring myself to eat weird food that looks like squid and tastes like ass but peas and carrots aren't so bad, yo.
IMHO, the best poetry is that fine line between concrete and abstract. Sometimes I see connections between things that don't make sense to others- I set to explaining it and often the straight line doesn't shake out as well as the round-about. JD is a master at this ...
blind from bleach
roadrunner this morning,
the white sun doubts you,
In the Rain:
by Pasha Black