Be Somebody
by Lester
64 pages
saddle-stitched
isbn 0-9794745-3-1
$10.00
printed and bound in the nude in an edition of 447 copies
March, 2008
[T]he approach of ventriloquism goes one giant step further in the form
of Lester, sock puppet extraordinaire & alleged author of the
booklength manuscript, Be Somebody. Lester, obviously, is in the tradition of
other wisecracking dummies from Charlie McCarthy to Triumph the Insult
Dog, but also Armand Schwerner, Art Language & just possibly the
aforementioned Mr. Bernstein & David Antin. &, dare I say, Spicer too falls on
this side of the line, certainly in Language & Book of Magazine Verse.
[...] Be Somebody [...] pokes a very hard finger into the chest of
Western literary assumptions. [...] Like somebody who understands that
what makes Moby Dick great is all that stuff about whales, Be Somebody is
difficult in the way the very best books are . it challenges our desire
for the familiar (and nothing is more familiar than my pronoun, not
even my name) & holds on like a pit bull with lockjaw for the entire
trip, in this instance 58 pages. [...] Someday, someone is going to publish
this book & then we will all have to deal with Lester.s intimate
striptease of the self. Until then, it will remain . like the full-length
version of Mark Peters. Men . one of the great rumors of contemporary
poetry [...] you have to read the book.
- Ron Silliman
A few years ago, the unschooled shepherd poet Alberto Caeiro flew into
our millenium with a rocket pack on his back, calling himself Lester.
He spoke in the most simple and transparent syllogisms, though only a
few (their hands cupped to ears) were present to hear. He landed, he
spoke, he fired his rockets, shot up, landed over there, spoke, fired his
rockets, etc. Then he went away... Thankfully, and somewhat
miraculously, his parables have been transcribed by the faithful handful and are
gathered here in one place for the first time.
May I suggest that all the hip Flarf poets get down on their knees and
urgently pray.
- Kent Johnson
Lester is a smart-mouth puppet who wants to ruin the sacred truths to
fable and old song. Actually, he wants to ruin the fable and old song,
too. Are we an important poet? Lester seems to want us to think we have
no opinions on the matter, even the ones he has laid out for us. It's
no good hating Lester; this is what we get for asking goat questions and
giving sheep answers. Be Somebody raises a serendipitous lake cup atop
the strata of radiant steam whose luminous degeneracy we have
ascertained, and then lets it fall away like a silken robe. This isn't fair. If
you see this book on the road, kill it. Unless it's already too late,
and you're reading this, which means it has somehow found you first,
and you have not read this after all, though you are rightfully convinced
you have. Lester is not Patrick Herron. This is not a blurb.
- K. Silem Mohammad