Lancaster, Pa. poet Jeff Rath is in a category all his own. He’s been billed as a postmodern poet and a great follow up to the Beats. But I think he’s taken the Beat style and made it better. I’d prefer to call him a Millennial poet. A poet of the new millennium.

At any rate, his book, The Waiting Room at the End of the World is out of this world. Published by Iris G. Press, I would recommend no other book this year. If you must read only one poetry book, this is the one. Rath intrigues, inspires, sends shivers down the spine; makes you think, emote, and spit bile. Rath has that rare gift of creating a new turn of phrase and surprising you with endings as unexpected as a Hitchcock movie. You’ll love his poetry. I promise.

A few lines:

The lights go out.
The light goes out.
Soft curved lids of skin meet mid-eye,
feathery lashes intertwine.

“Is he dead?”
“No, only sleeping.”

And from a distance –
say the half-open bedroom door –
the ruler-straight slash
where day and night divide
across the mountain range of his body,
you peer at the form lying on the quiet bed.

“Could he be dead?”