Epiphany at Goofy's Gas

I first read work by Greg Keeler while reviewing his recent novel, Waltzing With the Captain, about friend and fellow writer, Richard Brautigan. A colleague said, "If you like Keeler's writing, you should read his poetry." I followed through on that advice. Keeler's book of poetry, Epiphany at Goofy's Gas is a gem. Greg Keeler wears a lot of hats. Musician, lyricist, writer, poet, satirist and educator are among his accomplishments. As poet, his work is never predictable or trite. I laughed out loud at his humorous sleight-of-hand one minute, and found myself blinking back tears the next. Keeler excels at sly humor. His"Memo to Blue Gnats" is priceless: We are writing to request a thorough and precise accounting for this behavior since, under standard procedures, you are supposed to be dead. Ditto his "Memo to The Hornets": Those of you who happened to be away at 10:00 A.M. will notice that your nest and your colleagues are missing. I was still contemplating the memoes while reading his seven part anthem, "The Meat." Believe me, this is social commentary and satire on the highest order. A hint regarding content can be found in the first three lines: Once more the meat converges on Atlantic City for the annual selection of the meatiest of the meat. But Keeler's work is more than simply caustic satire and sly self-examination. He also provides moments of rare beauty, as found in two lines of a poem about his dying grandmother in "Grandma Wulz": ...there is more grace in this flesh than death could possibly know.... And the musings of a lonely woman in "The Fisherman's Wife" brought a crush of empathetic understanding: Don't think of the garden unplanted or the stars unseen when dawn comes. I've trailed my footprints like obsolete currency down the sand where you left me so often. In between the laughter and lumps in the throat, Keeler dangles clear cut visions of joy then snatches them away via contrasting moments of reality. I've heard it said the mark of a good wordsmith is that their words haunt readers long after the book has been read. Greg Keeler's work more than qualifies if Epiphany at Goofy's Gas is an example.

Greg Keeler strikes a balance between what another great Montana poet Richard Hugo referred to as the private poet and the public poet. For the private poet words mean something to the writer that they don't mean to the reader. Regrettably most of the exalted poets of the 20th century were private poets. With the public poet's words, what you see is what you get (i.e., the emotional contents of the words are the same for the writer as for the reader). While Keeler's poems are intensely personal, and seemingly private (e.g., he often using family member's names), the observations, anxieties and the sometimes playful, sometimes sardonic sense of humor all resonate with the reader. Keeler's work is delightfully accessible and masterful (e.g., He makes dying in a La-Z-Boy chair seem as other-worldly and significant as an astronaut being catapulted into outer-space).