by Jack Saunders. Garage Band Books, Box 10501, Panama City, FL. 32404.
Book Review by Michael Basinski
Jack Saunders, AKA, Word Mechanic, Do-it-yourself Historian of Americana Music Band Dread Clampitt. That’s what is written beneath the title of this book. Jack S.’s card reads: WARNING: Their shit don’t stink. Jack Saunders Vernacular Writer. Certainly, I have encountered books by Jack Saunders about, but I usually don’t read prose much these days, why with television and wine and escaping mental abilities flying like birds or butterflies out the widow. But this one called to me so I sitted me self down and said, self, read on and find out something about Saunders. So Jack S. is America’s relentless and endless writer of prose. He writes in a free floating, yet coherent and playful, stream of conscience style, if I might be so bold to say that. And, as all prolific writers, all that comes into his field as a human finds itself transmogrified via art into his art ’ prose and prosy poetry and prose prose. One might write, considering Jack Saunders, a prose is a prose is a prose. What is most marvelous to this humble reader is really the command that prose has on JS. So clear and wide is the avenue between the real and the imagination that it is one porous avenue. I am in awe. Now, as me said, Saunders must have a stack of writing ten feet high or long. Contact him. Be in touch with the writer. Pay him the five and not let that $5 go to some hotdog reading the New York Times and sipping hot milk.