You're Going to Miss Me When You're Bored

"Things are/ as they are(n't)" in this second full-length from Marks (A Million in Prizes) where the quotidian happily lounges on the same expansive lawn as the supernatural. In these vivacious poems, the speaker professes a belief that "the maker/ should not be able to see/ himself in his art," but is quick to admit "I see/ nothing but myself." In the wrong hands this concept would fester, an overworked trope%E2%80%94yet Marks handles the subject deftly, inspecting the simultaneous excitement and terror behind making art in an era wherein "The difficulty of being a %E2%80%98person'/ is %E2%80%98sincerity.'" While it would be easy to despair over this depersonalization, this idea that "the self is a copy to sell The concept/ and the form," Marks instead celebrates genuine, everyday thoughts and feelings that breed familiarity. Within the space of a single poem, we might bounce from the idea of "poets so obscure/ they have emoticons for names" to such commonplace meditations as: "The difference between a tickle/ and blood is inches." Although Marks's universe is permeated with joy, he never hesitates to allow the portentous to seep in; even death ("A very real/ idea") is "Language etched/ into fiber optics Which is to say, light." (Feb.)