Praise for Justin
Wayne Coyne, The Flaming Lips
Justin Marks has a problem. He’s a poet who hates poetry, which is good for us. We don’t want poetry. We want lies. That’s where the art is.
Daniel Handler, (aka Lemony Snicket)
These poems move like hitchhikers: reckless but driven, youthful but wise, their eyes on the destination and their baggage ﬂying every which way. Hop in, Justin Marks. Let’s get out of here.
With a voice like an antenna, Marks sifts through the strata of reality—the sex and death, work and time, uncertainty and enigma—to present us with a life where the malady is the melody. These are lonely poems, bearded poems, wet dream poems, lunch poems, poems of the roomy heart, and undeniably human poems. You’ll go: Me too.
Here is a rarely expressed self-awareness that accedes as little to words as it does to the pain of the condition itself.
With A Million in Prizes, Justin Marks dares to amplify his interior voice, broadcasting from ‘inside the megaphone’ the rumblings of a discontented, anxious self who discovers just enough pleasure in his daily routines, domestic scenes, and misfiring memories to admit ‘how glad I am for the orbit I inhabit.’ His poems are by turns philosophical, nostalgic, and subtly humorous, as he insistently disassembles the barriers between himself and his readers in a generous act of intimacy.
Dan Brady, Barrelhouse
…the book distinguishes itself from other debuts in that it doesn’t seem like a first attempt. It’s all killer, no filler. The maturity of voice is evidence that Marks has been writing poems for a long time and will continue long after this collection; A Million in Prizes is a snapshot of what he’s been up to lately.