McGrath's poetry combines the lyricism and lines of Whitman with 500 channels of cable television. Even though I hate the word "postmodern," that's probably the best adjective for this book. It is truly a stunning statement to the author's knowledge and grasp of American culture.

It's refreshing to see a poet who displays almost no allegiance to formal styles and is stunning in his originality.

I must confess two of my opinions concerning Mc Grath's "Spring Comes to Chicago": 1) it is an often confusing collection of lyrical thoughts and flashy originality, and: 2) it is truly one of the most gorgeous experiments in contemporary poetical forms.

I agree with one of the previous reviewers that Mc Grath immediately reminds one of Whitman and Ginsberg, especially in his use of the catalogue-length lines and his often satirical commentary on American life and living. However, he seems to lean more towards Ginsberg than Whitman, for the American Bard has not Mc Grath's and Ginsberg's sense of humor and irony. The title poem (or should I say section?) "Spring Comes to Chicago" is the closest to Ginsberg as this collection gets...the opening lines are especially familar in cadence to the famous lines from Ginsberg's polemic, "Howl."

Nevertheless, while Mc Grath's lines often remind readers of other poets (did everyone catch Williams in there too?), Mc Grath's collage of prose pieces are used in an awe-inspring and masterful way. They are not, as someone noted in a review on his "Road Atlas," simply journal sketches or a rough blue-print for the spirit of this poem. Instead, they are isolated moments where philosphical, scientific, or literary speculation bring us back to the matters the poem discusses.

My favorite device of the entire volume is the what I term "the Squirrel stitch." Mc grath playfully and sensitively writes his meditations on the habits of these creatures, sewing a few lines here, then there--- almost as if too unite the thought patterns of the poem with a common element of praise and bewilderment.

Anyway, enough of my banter. Read this collection for yourself. You will see how clearly it stands out from the muck being written and sold today. Mc Grath should stick to his guns! If he remains true to the voices recorded in the lines of "Spring Comes to Chicago" he is sure to do something more important and amazing in a future collection.

Two years ago, I sat down with this thin book and a bottle of expensive bourbon. I remember becoming aware of my breathing as I read "The Golden Angel Pancake House" and soon, without having touched any liquor yet, my head started to spin. I had forgotten that words could have such power and irresistible momentum. Only Whitman had ever done that for me.

The following day, I read "The Bob Hope Poem" in one sitting, pulled along by the language at great speed. The thing is a glorious beast of a poem, a swooping roller coaster that raises your spirits to nose-bleed heights, sends you careening downhill under 5 g's of sadness, and then redeems you with pure happiness. Never mind "I laughed, I cried" - you will gain a new understanding of emotion.

That someone can write like this is inspiring and renewing; it reminds us why poetry matters.

On a personal level, American Noise is the one book I take with me for vacations or long trips, it is poetry of personal escapism, and inspiration for my own writing. The book itself is composed of travel poetry and of poetry that offers precision and emotion, that paints a vivid picture of the southwest, of nonexistant wild horses in a travel guide and of standing in the shadow of the rock of gibralter without noticing, so overwhelmed with youth and exhuberance. furthermore, in my opinion, American Noise far outranks Capitalism and McGrath's newer book (Road Atlases? I forget) in terms of easily accessible beauty. This is a purchase I wholeheartedly recommend.

Why would someone write about boring places he or she visits? This book does not speak about the ordinary in any extraordinary fashion. The poems sag in the middle, wallow in cutesy voices, and do not reach any sort of epiphany. Who gave him his "poetic license"? It should have been revoked a long time ago.

The poems in Road Atlas certainly brings to mind what Walt Whitman said about bad poems: "they drop horribly to the bottom of the pail."

The joyous beauty of this slim volume lies not only in the words (although there is an abundance there) but in its spirit. Every few generations, America is blessed with a voice to sing its joys and sorrows. Not in the smug tones of advertizers, nor in the hollow praise of politicians, but in the honed voice of a moved, by wary, traveler across the land.This young (I presume) poet has already been compared to Whitman or Ginsberg. High praise, deserved, but off the mark.This is the voice---cautious but never cynical-of the poet'sown generation: people, places, lists of the wonders and enormities viewed not with arrogance but with wonder. Read them....and travel along.