"I could call Keith A. Mason’s writings an ecstatic torrent of memory and myth, a dangerous funk, dank and chuckling, in a kitchen heavy with cheeseburgers, catfish, tandoori chicken and tofu. I could say the man’s concerns are religious, God lashing his tongue like it’s the alpha dog pulling us from America’s present winter toward a place hot enough for nakedness, hot enough that the blood comes quicker and in Technicolor™. Then I got all the way down to “Book IV” (as you should) and realized that New Wine and Black Men’s Feet is what happens when L.A. becomes writing. The fitful traffic of sentences. Tense multiculturalism blurring in rearviews. Our windshields turning the world a silver screen so you can confuse 300 for history, flesh for geography, a poet for a prophet (and vice versa). It happens here, here, here."



—Douglas Kearney