Bogg. No. 71

by John Elsberg - editor. 422 N. Cleveland St. Arrilington, VA. 22201.

Book Review by

First I am gunna say that if readers of this review don’t know about Bogg, now 71 issues old, I am gunna say?“Where the fuck have you been?” Now let’s get on to patting John Elsberg on the back. Let’s get on to buying him a drink or an egg salad sandwich. Elsberg has Christ been focused on the form of writing that is dear to us HOLD readers, and Bukowski readers, and those of us who understand about working class writing and class issues in America and know that the academy keeps out the dirty, working class poetry of pop bottles and skunks eating the tulip bulbs, and the readers of small press books and mags that have filled our otherwise empty gas tanks for dozens of years. Dozens. This is a thing of commitment. This is what love is. Yes, an issue of a little magazine of poetry 71 issues old is love. He has as editor and lover out lived most of your mirages and mortgages and the kids that are now long gone from your first marriage. Well well, Elsberg has been at it longer than that. Bogg has lasted longer than most of the countries in Africa! Elsberg program of writing has been focused from the beginning and like light it has remained focused from the earth to the far away stars from the beginning, beaming. He is an example of solid and lively and real small press life. I mean you don’t really think that George Bush II sends him a check! Hell No. I mean Hell NO. This is a legitimate passion. He is a metaphor of stability and love. Elsberg, Hello. I hope these people hear. Elsberg, we met in Pittsburgh once, 20 years ago. At Hemingway’s. And I am still a cowardly lamb in the presence of your long elaborate sentence of Bogg shouting out throughout the world and eternity and on Mars! Sir, it is people like you sir, that stirs the heart and imagination and makes poetry a place where all classes of people may have, might have, do have a voice. Thanks.