So much excitement, life and heart in these poems that it
helps to bring into focus the magnitude of what Ford has
been doing through the years; a sustained vision of
existence in this peculiar corner of our world, where the
human spirit flourishes in spite of our madness.
=Fred Voss [author of Carnegie Hall With Tin Walls]
Ford’s work combines a poet’s vision with a jazz man’s
rhythmic sophistication.
=George Varga [San Diego Union-Tribune]
Ford’s poems are never directly about him. They are about the world—geography, movies, television, politics, what we laughingly call: the 6 o’clock news—that which constantly impinges upon his consciousness which is, simultaneously, tough, tender and loud. Try to look away from this book. Just try!
=Jack Foley [Pacifica Radio]
From the book:
Few admire those poets who, quite frankly, prefer the
literature of militant alienation, the high-octane intensity writing as one of society’s voluntary outcasts: those who are treated with hostility and neglect for advertising themselves, as being so far away from the fashionable poetry of creepy, intellectual nihilism. How does that relate to me? I’m just a frontline inhabitant of the same literary battlefield and, most of the time I get caught in the crossfire.
–the author from a journal
Sometimes, the homefront is more horrifying than
any battlefield
–the Author [from a journal]
BRINGING THE WAR BACK HOME
Remembering, when the U>S> President: George,
the senior Bush got food poisoned in Japan, then
hurling all over the Nipponese flag: in retrospect,
a perfect metaphor, perhaps, for the perpetration
of Operation Desert Storm.
The 1980s were going away and I was catching
a green light and walking across the terminal
illness of Pico Blvd, then over to my neighborhood
street, hoofing down the driveway, passing the main
house to a used-to-be pool shed dressing-room
attached to the former 1940s bungalow residence,
there, where I’d been living for the past 19 years
The refugee woman from Central America who
escaped being skewered by fascist police in
Nicaragua was cacked-out in a garden chair in
front of the apartment compartment adjacent
to mine.
She’s always been rather decent and friendly
and is, now, holding up this morning’s edition
of the Los Angeles Times, pointing at one of
the sub-headlines reporting what the Bush man
did on a visit to Japan. “Your president is sick,”
she said. I answered: “They’re the only kinds
who get elected.”
I stepped into my room, took a vintage
water pistol off its easel and thought
about my father’s brother who came
back from World War II, moved to
Utica, New York, where using a similar
toy held-up a liquor store for two bottles
of Jameson Irish, was, then immediately,
apprehended and sentenced to doing a
nickel for armed robbery
Yes, that’s the way this country treats
its brave and damaged veterans of
foreign conflict: so, thinking about all
of it, putting the barrel of the water gun
against my right temple, nudging the
trigger and washing out my version of
Vincent van Gogh’s other ear.