Deep Code

“I don’t want much but I want ALLLLL the experience,” exclaims Coletti (Mum Halo), and he gives examples: “put on Charlie Rose/ eat cupcakes/ HELMET SMASH/ read the birth story/ over iPhone.” The momentary exuberance, the concision, the dependence on newish technology, and the slightly slapdash feel all typify Coletti’s new poems, which work hard to sound up-to-date. At the same time they can be very literary, like late moves in a Brooklyn-based game whose prize is the right to be called avant-garde: “Gasoline: Toys” (perhaps a nod to Gregory Corso) views “The Roman tomb of/ Shelley/ no longer in fashion/ like unto choir bullies infected by/ Bergson in a hissy/ the best of the Gowanus/ belched.” Coletti takes cut-and-paste techniques from the recent past and attitudes, “at ease/ w/ not being at ease,” from the perpetual confidence, and the insecurity, of bohemian youth. The right readers might find in his columns of phrases—some vaunting, some tongue-in-cheek—a badge of belonging. Yet his leaps and deletions make him less “alt-lit” than very late—maybe even too late—Flarf or New York School; skeptics might wonder whether his names and allusions land him on the wrong side of the time line, whether the poems are too often built not to last. [em](Nov.) [/em]