From the Press release above, which reads a little small:
There’s nothing that doesn’t belong and no two things that can’t be combined in Marco Maisto’s explosive world of percussive potential, and yet every word is curated...juggles through a found journal and an
old video tape, through collapsing lions and finch-colored echoes—all within a recurrent address to a you somehow too close to be clearly seen, and thus rendered limitless. —Cole Swenson
...[I]n a space where “communication has become the echo of dissolving planets,” where the “I” has become “a mirage” or “hordes” or “the specters of ourselves that swim still, in the underground aquariums of summers rapidly to come,” Maisto constructs what could be construed as a masterful science fiction, but what is really (or is also) an ethereal, moving paean to the human heart and mind. —Laura Sims
Murmuring blood magic into our ears, making room for seeing by writing, by stringing sonic bloom across the line, Marco Maisto’s Traces of a Fifth Column is a love poem made of poems working the front and back of what’s felt by listening. . .—Anselm Berrigan
My first book...
took a very long time to make. And a few months into its production, I've come to see it as Part 0 of a world of untold stories and unuttered whispers that want to h(a)unt me into giving them things: other books, films, podcasts, people I meet. There's not enough in this book. It's out there, with you.
(So the good news if you pick it up & like it--I'll be somewhere making more of it forever.)
Traces is lovingly blurbed by Anselm Berrigan, Cole Swenson, and Laura Sims. All poets I feel lucky to know, humbled when I read.
The gorgeous cover (it is) is the work of Paul K. Tunis, a poet, comix-poetry master, ed. of Inkbrick. The thanks and indebtedness to those I can and can't mention goes on inside the pages. Passages from Dina Hardy burn holes through it like a kind wildfire or cigarette-trick & the insights (such a tired old horse of a words) of Broc Rossell, a publisher and friend of mine and Carrie Bennett, a collaborator and better poet than I, were the X-Ray specs that made my contribution to anti-generic poetry possible.
I'd hesitate to decide for you what this book is about, except to tease at what's inside, forming the outside, of the unreliable planet that Traces traces: The reader is given glimpses into contents by way of found things: a found field-notebook become love-letter album; a glitchy mixtape concealing the real record of a human-couples predicament as they move into a flat across the alley from their doppelgängers, fortuitously (?) at the moment when man and woman has become blind to woman and man; and a bedroom videotape where god, skin, and tenderness are filmed in a sort of act we don't have a word for, until we do.