A philotextual dingaround densely unclogged from these our so very strung states. Viewed from edgeling of fledge hook, traipsed down to stockwash of the final semesters, when flat comes to sharp we'll need this stash manual unbound from all horizons. Take it!

Poet Marinovich is never at a loss for words. An ear that won't quit. Faster than a speeding bulletin board, able to leap traditions with a single bound—he's a bird, he's a plane, he's about as open as you can get.

Filip Marinovich's Wolfman Librarian creates a language, which, through surreptitious weaving, unclaims opacity, unclaims its power to contaminate, snaking its way through the quotidian amalgam.

As if in cheerful séance with Ginsberg, O’Hara, and other local ghosts, the wild Filip Marinovich mouths off with such sublime energy and such associational genius (his imagination divinely unmanacled) that I joyfully proclaim him not merely our revolutionary librarian but our visionary laureate. Bravo to Marinovich, master of eruption, learnéd detour, and focused vernacular flow!

At bay, at the door, but on the other hand this is us at war, our amplified howl, din our constant study, Filip Marinovich our glissed-out guide. It's fucked up that how fucked up it is is this much fun.