Grey Rage (Dyed)

Michael Layne Heath

Kendra-Steiner Editions #126



by Gail Gray



Michael Layne Heath, of San Francisco, unleashes an economy of words in this taut collection. There’s a lot jam-packed into this chapbook, paradox, dichotomy, but always an off-the-wall but right-on image to slam into the brainpans of those who knew it once, and those who lost out by not being there. Ricocheting from gritty to compact honesty, he runs the rampant realm, addressing creative icons like Epstein and Wolfe, Dylan Thomas and Patti Smith, remarking on “a fragment of a distant soul scrawled upon a postcard.”



Yeah, the poems are personal and yeah they’re for the common man, the guy struggling to make his truth sing and take the message to the streets, the bars, the hidden pockets of those who didn’t fold, give in, sell out or pass away.



Guys like him, paid the price, sure. And even though he might be suspicious, he’s not jaded - instead his outlook and grey rage has kept him young and vibrant and vividly aware. You gotta read these pieces over and over to catch all the references, the insights, the what-ifs.



He tells you like it is in ways no one else could think of. Ways that make it real, and I’m not talking reality, here, I’m talking perspective. A rare thing these days in the world-of-follow-leader. There’s commentary and personal reflection, railing out and reeling in. There’s realization that sometimes there’s no closure but only moving on, taking those big strides, winging it. You can tell there’s a musician in the background here, syncopated beat, backbeat, off-beat.



And an astute observer. I like the fact he reminds poets its okay to write poetry, wait, maybe not just okay, but mandatory, to staying true to that heartbeat , always one beat ahead, outside, a perfect slide. No wasted words, no wasted time in this chap of eight poems. Just like he reminds you, over and over, in those “pivot, tilt” last lines.