With the kind of largesse one might expect from a young mind fueled by coffee and tobacco and bent on an exploration of consciousness, one premised on the rat's brain as a mnemonic device and a mimetic structure for that which we see and know, Christopher Janke stops at nothing, not even the end of a line of verse, in the expression of foment. Ideas, relationships, and images achieve maximum potency in these disjunctive, sequential meditations; one is tempted to invoke the name of Walt, the yawp, to describe their nearness and their mess. Wide, sympathetic, and at times goofy in the service of their largest aims, these paragraphs attempt nothing less than sufficiency. "what grand consolation, what balm, what succor, what support, what solace in the air and of the air or in the knowledge of air or in a forced confrontation with air - or in the way I feel with other legs around me on the grass in the afternoon or in the hurling towards a something unknown or in asking why a need to console."