Wayfarers and their songs, hobos and tramps and the codes they either espouse or deny – all figure prominently in this debut book of poetry by Jared Randall. With both ears bent to the Depression-era stories told among his family about America’s hard-working, migrant past, the poet nevertheless walks the tumultuous road of the here and now. Ranging from blank verse to sonnets to rambling free-verse stanzas, Randall takes a fresh look at the space between memory and recollection – between childhood and adulthood, and between generations separated by a century of social change and forgetfulness. Out of these tensions a voice emerges: the voice of the migrant worker, the vagrant and hobo who speak through “the dust of years.” The hobo carries more than his bedroll across his shoulders, and when he breaks his silence a disjointed vision of an American past spills out in lines both extravagant and clipped, just as the life of the road offers both freedom and hardship. All the while, the old code of the hobo asserts a commentary not to be denied. The hobo’s perspective merges with that of the recollecting poet as they together trace the forgotten way home in whatever boxcar of language will take them a little further down the road.
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Jared Randall received his MFA degree in 2009 from the University of Notre Dame where he also worked for a variety of print publications. He was a nominee for both the 2009 AWP Intro Journals Award and the 2009 Best New Poets Anthology, and his writing has appeared in Controlled Burn, Crucible, and online journals such as Bull: Men’s Fiction and Subtle Tea. Randall resides in Michigan where urban sprawl cramps old farmhouses.
Pete’s Last Layover
Pete and his cousin found a flop, paid up
for a Chicago layover, a boil
whenever the itch, a week-and-then-some
before the slow rattler home riding
the bumpers. Only beef: a hooty bum
looking for punks to mend his tails, handle
pans and pack his banner for him, come
Kalamazoo. “Kalamazoo’s the place,”
called from the tops where he liked the ride,
“Stick with me, you’ll be scoffing it richly,
no slave market duty, get in line, ham
another’s tune. Kalamazoo means
liberty for every open-eyed stiff,
pick your lay-out, smoke the homeguards raw.”
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