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Oh boy, I thought when I first laid eyes on Tim Lander’s chapbook, another one of those. I was being a snooty little b, judging a book by its cover. In this case, the cover contained bad spelling, poor penmanship, and a lazy scribble. I cast the zine aside, focusing on my other reviews only to return to it later, saving it for last. The way some people save the worst chore for last; the way others save the very best for last. The red Smarties. The cherry on the sundae. The white stuff inside the Oreo cookie. Tim Lander’s book of poetry. He is amazing. His seemingly naive pen is in fact a mighty sword that cuts straight to the quick, goes for the jugular, slices through to the heart of the matter. There is passion and politics in this poetry, and more than a little bit of Irvine Welsh: — The professor sed of me disapprovingly “his long poems tend to ramble show disconcerting changes of diction He has a tendency to abstraction” — An inscription on the back cover reads: “Do not reproduce without love.” No worries. I loved every single misspelt word. (Andree Lachapelle) (Andree Lachapelle)

Tim Lander Box 996 Nanaimo, BC V9R SN2

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