It’s as hard to describe this existentialist urban apocalyptic examination of male privilege as it is to describe its poetic / dramatic / novelistic form. Both the form and content pop off the page, as Washington the poet keeps the language off balance and the plot (if it’s not insulting to call it that) moving along.
I’ve heard about RA Washington ever since I moved to the area, but this was my first real experience with is writing. And it won’t be my last. My next encounter will probably be this book, again. It makes a book like Denis Johnson’s Jesus’ Son look absolutely tame.