The brilliance of Joyelle McSweeney's poems is a given; what remains delightfully open to negotiation are its methodologies and its mien. Is she an earnest rela

Fiction. "One would not make love to a Salamandrine during a sandstorm," wrote Aleister Crowley, anticipating by some sixty years the note of caution that Tarpa

Rat-a-tat prosody and scattershot, hallucinatory cultural critique, replete with grotesqueries, spit baroquely from the necropastoral ground of McSweeney's thir

An exploration of poetry as an expression of biology

With the persistent, dappled vision of an ecstatic pragmatist, Joyelle McSweeney sees things as they are through "the modern knothole": "Up on the hill,/ a whit