I've known Kyle's writing for some time now--and was lucky enough to publish a couple stories--and he never fails to impress me. His e-chapbook from Scars Publishing , called Avenue C , fits more than neatly into the subject matter I like to read about. I'm somewhat jealous of these poems, to be honest, and that doesn't happen often. Here's the first poem in the book, the title poem. Avenue C 1. She gets high on diesel dust & mute reruns of Jack Benny. This slinky white boot Barbarella has got a rubber soul that stretches into angel octave, levitates in the nightly limbo of bong & free trade called Avenue C. Claiming to be owned by 3 bipolar Kings of Funk, she breaks glass beer bottles in the backseat of my old Cougar & gives herself up at least once a month. She doesn’t even wipe the rivulets of blood spelling my name with a missing vowel. I drive my car on methamphetamine rage fill everything up on zeroes. At the club t...
Like the title says.