Joe Wenderoth

Wenderoth gives readers his observations on wide-ranging topics: Christianity, the Andy Griffith Show, drinking games, poetry, sexuality, the politics of post-9/11, and life on a small liberal arts college campus. His essays are humorous, insightful, and generally not for the squeamish. He does not shrink from re-imagining ideas that some would consider sacrosanct in unconventional, provocative ways.

Wenderoth's writings are know for their irreverence, and The Holy Spirit of Life furthers show more this reputation. Some, perhaps much, of what he writes might make you squirm in your seat a bit, but people who love words and ideas should be willing to step outside of their comfort zone from time to time. show less

My first poetry professor is the one who actually got me turned on to Wenderoth by playing an audio of him reading a few of the poems from this collection himself as an example of prose poetry. I must say that although on the surface many of these poems can be seen as contrived/shock and awe/post modern for the sake of post modern observations, but taken as a whole give a truly psychological and philosophical outtake on modern culture in one of its truest manifestations: the fast food show more market. This really is a great read that is not only insightful but also remarkably well written for a style that is hard to master. show less

It’s difficult to assess this book with anything other than a description, as it’s nearly sui generis. Each page consists of entries made on a customer comment card at a Wendy’s fast-food restaurant by an unnamed character. No single entry is even a third as long as this review, and although the author is primarily a poet (this is the first in a series of cross-genre works by poets from this publisher), the diction here isn’t lyrical enough to qualify as what’s normally called show more prose poetry. Several comments do achieve some power, and the best of these also exhibit drollery. A sample page: “Today I walked in and they wrapped me in meat. They stitched the meat to me with empty sentences. They smeared the stitches with faces—I don’t know whose. They wrapped it all up in my voice, but this never really worked. When I spoke you could only hear the faces smeared into stitches the color of meat. So I began, without confidence, to take off my voice." Themes recur, notably consumerism, pornography, and their conjunction, but there’s no plot to drive the reader through the work, nor a compulsion created by juxtaposed incident and imagery. Certainly, these elements aren’t a requirement of experimental fiction, but without them, the book often compares to the full, loitering paper cup of soda its author describes: “watery, sides melting, barely able to be handled—but there, so very very there, and simply demanding proper disposal." Letters to Wendy’s retains a bit more effervescence, however. It’s obviously a product of someone who has a fascination with words. Wenderoth exults, “What a joy it is to be alive! . . . to let language have its way." He goes on to add: “We hang by sentences." That we do, readers and writers alike. show less

The writing totally reminds me of the prose of my friend, er ex-friend, Clint. Which may be why I'm so on the fence about Letters to Wendy's. The passages are off-the-wall and amusing, which I loved about Clint's pieces. But the story goes nowhere. There is no journey with the narrator. I'd like a conclusion. Clint's writing had conclusions. Sometimes I miss Clint.