by Edward Morris
I'd come three thousand miles to gamble everything on an American dream that died before I was born. But my eyes and ears were open.
Imagine Steinbeck possessed by the spirits of T. S. Eliot and William Faulkner living in San Francisco in 1999. Now give him a pen. Morris has written The Grapes of Wrath for a new generation. This slipstream beat poem in prose chronicles the lives of a young couple starting out in the wrong place, at the wrong time, without enough money. Reading it is like riding Atlantis back into the sea.
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