Your Very Own Ghost Knocking at the Door: On Mat Gould's A Blackbird Sings the Blues With Laughter

A Blackbird Sings the Blues With Laughter is a book of poem that suits the mantra. Where is the end to all of this? Whatever this may be, there is no end, it is just the daily deluge of reality . . . simple, suggestive, poignant, natural, and at times plain fucking funny and yet full of gospel sensibility. I don’t want to throw names at it, Gould may borrow, mimic, denounce, or battle but all that matters is that he writes and owns these poems.

This collection of poetry will put you in the place, push the dust and grit up your nostrils to the point where you’ll have to blow it out at seasons end. You’ll feel your own meditations in these lines, you’ll recognize your own ideals, your own cures, your own perversions, and the inevitability of what may be your very own ghost knocking at the door or be it window.

Gould puts us in his vision, keeps us in his flagrantly pounding heart, shows us the view from his porch and pronounces to us in many forms that if we must do anything than we must do what it takes to survive this barrage of existence and what that takes, is everything. Sometimes he tells us in those exact words and in other words with other ways he tells by strapping on the loincloth and taking us out into if not beyond the wilderness to hunt jackal, to seek jackalope, and begs us to not forget the myth nor dismiss reality . . . the very reality in which all of these poems enrich.

Gould should be read in sacred places. Gould should read when you are half buried by burden. Gould should be read when you are in no need of options. Gould should be read when you are imbibing. Gould should be read when lackluster and clutter will not do. Gould should be read, and you might as well start with A Blackbird Sings the Blues With Laughter.