Surreal, arch, deep and chaotic, these poems convert post-modern angst into pleasurable weaponry. The images arrive like gunfire and leave like "the slow pulse of an oak." Anything is possible in the furnace of this poet's brain. Perceptions burn until "sweetness and horror [are] fused / in a single music." Metaphor-monger that he is, Rasmovicz demands to be described as only his idiopaths would have it: with "a paper cut for a voice," his lines make unforgettable rumble. In no one else's poetic can morning be described as "a worm grinding across red bricks." Impossible, yet here he is: a poet who makes depression read like a blessing.