That's what a writer does, I guess, rev him/herself for mornings with stimulants, or greedily grabs at the fast vanishing spectacle of evenings, swallowing it like iced vodka.  An addict's impulse.  Between morning and evening, sometimes before and after too, was reading.  A reader is different than a writer is—happier, less impulsive, less destructive, more amenable to the drift of time, the detritus of marginal life. 

I'm speaking now as a reader, though, far from the Caribbean, on a cold April night masquerading as spring, sipping ordinary red wine.  And I got
something to celebrate.  No, it's not a champagne occasion; rather, something perhaps more steady.  I'm particularly happy about ZeBooks, books of poetry available on line for the ripe price of 69 cents each
(plus 30 cents handling).  There are two in particular, Duane Locke's The Squid's Dark Ink and John Horvath Jr.'s The Illiana Region Poems: Harboring the Enemy.  One of the few times in my life in which I got more than I paid for.  In this case, much, much more. 

Duane Locke, after having 14 books of poetry in print, has abandoned the print medium completely and only publishes his work electronically.  Has he gone mad? Is this another case of encroaching senility (of which
this reader, too, may be afflicted)?  Or perhaps is it simply electric, immediate, universally accessible creation of art that demands completion now by reading, active thinking.  Locke's last poem in this collection, typically clean, powerful, striking, incisive, offers sort of a metaphorical explanation of why he needed to leave the "learned" way of print
publication (and time lapses, delays, insulation between the spark and the act (the poem and the product), networking, etc. all the "old" ways:
 
 

We've all labored in fear of the palsied hand too long, Locke seems to suggest.  The shadow we look back and see is a long whip. It's way past time for self-liberation.  Locke, much like Rimbaud did in another century, urges us to re-see, re-discover, re-design our interaction with others with a world new each moment to our unpainted eyes.  The e-world can help us remove the layers of lacquered learning we're
inherited or in some cases, become enslaved by.  Locke is no raging bull, no Bukowski, but a once esteemed Doctor of Renaissance Literature, a professor Emeritus of a nationally respected university, someone who has
been integral in the preservation of literary culture as we know it.  Yes, and at what price?
 
 

John Horvath Jr. is a much different poet, one fired, launched, and orbiting on the digital impulse.  He was one of the first rockin' on down E-lectric Avenue. His Illiana Region Poems are explorations of sources,
elliptical forages into the past, the subconscious, apparent ramblings along synapses via long lines. In Chicagoland Sunrise in March, Horvath concludes:
 

The energy is palpable, immediately recognizable by anyone who has worked in a steel mill or foundry. This is where it all ends.  Where does it begin?  ". . . sunrise over the Lake crossing Black Bear and Traverse. /Sunrise after night, over the packed ice. . .," the rising hope from sleep.  We wake and work.  The night and nightmare become us, like iron
transformed in the great blast.  And we steel ourselves. 

What's on the other side of this?  With an almost uncharacteristic simplicity, short lines and narrative base, Horvath gives us:
 

Words and images that reverberate long into night, long past the ember glow of hearth, bring us the light of electric poetry.  There is a subtlety in this collection as well, perhaps better contemplated than explained.  Horvath's depth and Locke's deceptive simplicity are two bright stars in the Van Gogh-like night of world contemporary poetry.  And all of this can be ours any time, day or night, by a click of the key.  Is a good poetry hard to find?  Not quite.  Not if you know where to look.  Not if you surf the net.