Gary Corseri: He had a little truth; He held it with his might. A little, shining thing To get him through the night.
Gary Corseri: They tell me the feathery plumes I see when little jets traverse my sky are nothing at all to worry me—a trick of Nature… something about vectors or vortexes or some such thing—an optical-illusion-thing that I’m now too old to understand.
Gary Corseri: It’s a book of dreams, and a book about how dreams come together on gossamer highways, and—stone by stone—on hardscrabble byways. Drunk on cervezas, ganga and poetry, Beaudin delivers travel journals that one wants to have lived—and re-live—with the author.
Gary Corseri: We were sorry to hear the bombs that were meant to fall on a home adjacent to yours (and one more, down a block or two) have lamentably ruined your daughter’s wedding, blowing her up in her new white dress, along with the groom, and his mother and yours, and several children and dogs and cats.