The man in these poems, the poet in residence, is irresponsibly irrepressible, his wit barbed with warmth, his bait compulsively edible, his verve seemingly infinite. The cry is one part cock-a-doodle-doo, to two parts koo-koo-ka-choo. The flavor is somewhere between absinthe and strong black tea. The music is Mahler’s lost symphony for solo accordion. Occasionally there are jalapenos in the dark, merciful mineral waters in the white wine, bothersome gravels in the kidney, and a mushroom cloud on the horizon. Poet Ann Drysdale writes: Many of us may begin life as glorious babes, but few will end up as glorious and uproarious in our declining years as John Marcus Powell. In these poems he lifts the lid on life and love, demonstrating effortlessly that they are one and the same thing.