Charged with swagger and sensuality, tenderness and cold fact, the 10th Spotlight series installment, Here Come the Warm Jets, is the brash debut volume by Bay Area poet Alli Warren. Taking its title from the Brian Eno classic, Jets jumbles gender, class, and space-time perspectives into a chorus of contemporary idioms and lyrical longings. Against the daunting backdrop of contemporary political-economy, Warren launches her missives of desire, in writing that is at once raw and sly. From the Bishop of Worms to Flipper to E-40, nobody's safe from the easy virtuosity with which she makes language sing.
Praise for Here Come the Warm Jets:
"Warren's first book of poems is highly self-reflective, interestingly interrogative, and a lot of fun."—Booklist
"Here Come the Warm Jets starts by cycling through swaths of factless job-voice before pitching an unfolding exuberant doom-diction through the book's positively evil prosodic middle. Relative time, absolute time, ornery time, palpation time, and a kind of time I can't name are all in play along the way. I think Warren's end of capitalism would come with the richest planes of full life, but only the poems and their upending of the never-ending blossom hull make me think so."—Anselm Berrigan
"Alli Warren unfixes belief in these poem-feeds while never dissolving it. The effect is a kind of infinitely mobile fandom with occasional sparkes."—Lisa Robertson
"When form and form's fiancé come maundering Alli Warren will undo them both with tart prepositional gambits and the vagaries of fortune-telling and a fine poker-faced command of stagecraft itself. With nods to the congress of manners (and hat tips too to Brooks, Duncan, and others) Here Come the Warm Jets plays at neither checking nor abashing but chronicles what it just might be to be beyond the reach of any drama, any architecture. This is one heavenly book."—C. S. Giscombe
"Warren at times speaks as if from within that position of entitlement in order to prick its balloon of vanity and over-compensation from the inside. This may be an illusion, the puff of smoke erasing the face, and may speak to other modes of erasure, of lives and identities subordinated to the will of the patriarch, but it's also what poetry traffics in, with a glamour and imagination to it that’s essential to what art might be doing for us, has done for us."––David Grundy