New sweet package "long poem" rant from J.J. Petrolino III, published by ULAer Mark Brunetti "Baird"

Inside- pocket "trade paper" back book neo-beat epic by John Petrolino published by ULAer Mark Brunetti under his Piscataway House Publishing "side project" but notedly beholding to the Idiom Magazine brand, with a cool catchy forward by Mark, and ordering info as follows go to www.idiommag.com for the secret handshake or P.O Box 1102 Jackson, N.J. 08527, or right to JJ his lonesome at PO Box 353, Middleton, N.J. 07748; Printed by Mirror Image America beautifully close to if not at typeset quality, perfect bound, 60 pp. $? but this purviewer nearly stole it for 5 bucks, table side at the incredible action reading/ side show enhances/ performance art possession by gonzo mondo whereas the ULA presented the Idiom Mag Anthology Break Thru "party" venue, 4014 Walnut the whole of West Philly sounded like it was going nuts probably as Spring Break broke loose and the, coincidentally the big Beer Fest was crashing the barricades. On the inside besides all the great performances and lit- freaks rocked the stage for a sizable and ever changing attending audience for which at the Rotunda this past Saturday while outside the inclusive most excelentinsugencyPetrolino shone as one of the poetic highlights, not to mention The Idiom/ Walking English working Volcano setting the Rotunda's fire alarm system akimbo ( our hearts as always, go out to Gina Renzai!) and provoking the heroic theatrical entrance of the Philly Fire Department, replete with axes, upon the main stage, for a brief but exciting shtick!






This poem is good old fashioned crazed beatnik litany gaff of a open wide eyes subject riding the long breath of the collective American mind about none- other than America and covers open armed what we should be doing at all times besides remembering where we came from and might feel like going to and that is getting away with everything we can by way of mouth, heart, sensibility, and genitals, together or hiding behind the dive bar alone in the fizzing fluorescence that is the A-dream we'd imagine or just poke around in our brains, and even our livers should the pursuit of happiness trip us up in that manner. And free associative fantasy.

As a litany or what some might call the laundry list school of composition (never disparagingly) there are somewhat durations that may become monotonous but Petrolino reves up and going at it catches his breath at the hint of that skillfully and gets the reader going again too with renewed interest by hitting us with, time and time again, in beautifully composed complexes of images and sound effects affecting our sense and especially our sense of just about everything that may shock, taunt, and maybe tickle the fancy of the American literate reader/writer, leading them on, daring them to test the freedoms and liberties we may have been told about in school or by the talking heads but too much take for granted.

So, genuinely, Congo Lights is a book to read for now, with all the lines drawn and the belief systems collapsing let alone the economy, so called,
A kind of Anarchist Cookbook in Whitmanesque vers libre--- hey, after all it's New Jersey!--
that guides the guile-less observer toward irrevocable acts of civil and political and hygienic individualisms...
gestures of subversive but constitutionally protected by the merchant marine!