Mira Gonzalez is a phenomenon of the same breed as Tao Lin: she might actually be the only literary social media presence more prolific and more intense – flitting between her two Twitter accounts, @miragonz and @miraunedited, is a kind of poetry in and of its self and fairly representative of her first collection. Either brutally honest to the point of appearing unhinged or wildly fantastic, but totally engrossing regardless.
Mira Gonzalez’s brain spans the weird space between bodies stuffed with Ambien and food and light from porn on laptops in an anxious, calming kind of way, one concerned more with what blood tastes like than how the blood got out. It’s messed up and feels honest, open, like lying naked on the floor with your arms chopped off.
I like Mira Gonzalez’s 1st poetry collection. It was poignant, intellectually stimulating, funny, interesting to me. The carefulness and precision and control with which Mira describes intense, uncommon, painful, mysterious experiences in her life made me feel very close to another human being (Mira, I think) in a way that is rare for me and that caused me to feel calmer and less desperate/despairing about my life and, I think, to some degree, more inclined to consider and be affected by the perspectives/lives of other people. The words I keep thinking when I think of Mira’s book are “wise” and “compassionate.”
– Tao Lin
Mira Gonzalez is doing her thing. I fuck with these poems. I felt bad for her when she talked about how that dude said “I’m gonna come on your stomach” like 15-20 times and then didn’t.
Mira’s book felt like having a person to watch the dumb juxtaposition of you and the world with. I like these poems really lots. They’re uncompromising and funny and genuinely intimate in a way that not many other things ever feel.
The poems in this collection are alive with humor and heartbreak, fear and narcotic discomfort. Deep weirdness. Psychosexual monologues. They are intimate and contemporary. Impeccably crafted. Deceptive in their simplicity. They read like they were written five minutes ago and then whispered into somebody’s ear. These are field reports from the edges of Los Angeles, delivered in language that is unusually open, immediate, and clear. Mira Gonzalez must have really good eyesight, I think.
What distinguishes the poems in Mira Gonzalez’s debut collection is her ability to channel a deeply inner world through contemporary imagery, and to do it honestly. These are clever poems that watch themselves, but they do not rest on self-knowledge alone. The watcher goes ever deeper, questioning its own wants, its isolation, as well as intimacies that may not have existed as remembered. Men make promises as to where they will come and then don’t. Love renders you “twice as frail as you were before” and resembles cough medicine. Emotions that “light a bank on fire” are held at a distance, but they are very there. These are poems that want to be told that their “physical presence in the world has caused you to experience extreme disequilibrium.” They will. Watch this eye.
The poems of this book emanate from a single voice triangulating itself within a world of the Internet and parties and relationships and being and identity. They tell a story of going out and partying and being alone and looking at a computer screen and being with just one other person, and trying to attach meaning to that. Taken together, they feel like a record of one personality, over a specific period of time, an accumulated mass of looking and documenting, like photos kept in a box.