Robinson is a bold new breed of poet with no ties between, nods to, or issues with contemporary tradition.  A respite from the academic hammerlock on poetry, but too elegant to pander to the street, slams or inchoate emo.  Stripped down and functional, with neither excuses nor agenda, this is verse for the eye, ear, and mind of our times.

REVIEW

There is a restless beauty here: not of maturity, but like something fighting to come forth and be born.
Robert Bly
 
This work is folly.  It's like a machine doing a striptease.
Allen Ginsberg

EXCERPT

Here is the misunderstanding
The bombs do not explode
But slide in waiting furrows
On the face of the land
Awaiting the compulsion
Of hidden springs
To bloom
 
Nor does the lover
Look up and see eyes
That are mirrors
But falls into a stride
And rings like a bell
Only days later
To burst
 
Thus the killer
Does not seek a victim,
But an accomplice
In the intimacy of action
The thief seeks a donor
The victim a sponsor
And the master needs only a reason
To expand
 
The singer builds ears
And God begets sin
And governments plant gardens
That bear deaths and prizes
And revolve upon the seasons
To crush and scream
To be born
 
Here, then, is the paradox
Truth does not set free
But sinks into the wrinkles
On the faces of the crowd
Awaiting a concensus
Of force and fate
To ignite