spuytenduyvil

Connie Mae Oliver’s poems hold the moon between thumb and index finger. In her retrospective framework of adolescence, memory’s scaffolds are showing. Thought is spatial; the mall is a circuit where the mind walks around itself and back again. science fiction fiction knows it’s an incomplete record of a disappeared Miami. It’s also a trailer for eternal life as a computer, where we attend to what has passed through us and remains encoded in the obsolete technologies of younger days: “the internet nymphaeum.”

     Charles Theonia

 

In Connie Mae Oliver’s science fiction fiction, luminous intimacies are drawn across the page—some shifting over a generation, others shifting over an hour—all with the delicacy of clouds rearranging. To read her poems is to hear “something inaudible in the chaos”: the weight of the voice of a friend, sifting through layers of digital mediation; the ecstatic texts of ever-new sensations, ever-receding into the unsaid.

     Tom Haviv