Let's Call it Paradise
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The words are already there. All you have to do is find them. The words are lurking, refracted, shredded, retrieved by a miner of meaning, a literary gangster, my good fellow, Mike Maggio, Master of the found poem. Where Maggio rules, he combs. He creates poetic mayhem. He has a genius for extracting meaning from rubble. For finding the Poem lurking on the toothpaste tube, the road sign, in the computer's 0s and 1s. He doesn't write with his computer. He paints with it. Think fluxus. Think surrealism resurged. Think dada and its dangerous delights. There are echoes of Yoko Ono here and just a ...
The words are already there. All you have to do is find them. The words are lurking, refracted, shredded, retrieved by a miner of meaning, a literary gangster, my good fellow, Mike Maggio, Master of the found poem. Where Maggio rules, he combs. He creates poetic mayhem. He has a genius for extracting meaning from rubble. For finding the Poem lurking on the toothpaste tube, the road sign, in the computer's 0s and 1s. He doesn't write with his computer. He paints with it. Think fluxus. Think surrealism resurged. Think dada and its dangerous delights. There are echoes of Yoko Ono here and just a hint of John Cage. Yeats is here somewhere as well, closing in to the process of rebirth, for Maggio knows his literary heritage. Beauty slips in, as does funny, creative rip rap, politics, and graphic choice. Barth is somewhere here too. And Riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, may or may not be served with a jigger of Joyce.
