read this...it's bad for you
Description:... About the Book, Author/Attorney Susan Kayler wrote,
The poem, “…but I think I love you,” is both brilliant and beautiful in its message and style. Experience tells us to drop pretense and to, “wear only your skin.” It is a rhythmic song that returns hope to the struggle with its conclusion urging us to the obvious which we have hidden even from ourselves. The poet takes a common question and powerfully reveals the simple yet undeniable answer. His insight and ability to convey the theme continue their influence long after the page has turned. “ker my ouac,” is a jazz song with a breath and rhythm that rivals its inspiration. The elimination of the period is not a cliché, rather it is the very punctuation of life’s moments. The author’s forthright style here leaves no room for argument and has the beat of a ticking clock. “I like Ike,” is mandatory reading during an election year. The writer’s focus on the things that surround the process puts a revealing perspective on the ploys of politicians. The tone is more traditional than his other poems which is appropriate to the subject. The author is a versatile writer and his talent is illustrated by his ease with words, his selection of tone appropriate to message and the combining of the elements into thoughtful, memorable melodies. He conveys life succinctly yet powerfully.
The author comes from a long line of gypsy poets who traveled the gilded road entertaining kings and highborn nobles. Such is the legend, yet the truth is no less compelling. Randall S. Phillips is a post-war baby boomer from the city of lost angels.
As a nation was sending their sons to war, the author enlisted in the Department of Corrections serving proudly for years. He received no decorations.
These poems are the bleached bones---scattered remains---from his time inside San Quentin. Writing evolved as a way to escape the walls. His inner walls, however, with inherent demons, were not as easily scaled. Wrestling these dark angels eventually translated onto these pages, pages forgotten, left in a dusty notebook until recently.
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