The Only Gardening I Do Is When I Give Up

<p class=ql-align-justify>Thomas Fucaloro is a bottle in lightning-a typo that's better than the correction-a gentle soul raging like thunderous ocean. Whether spoken on stage or off page Fucaloro's poems sound and read like a poetic Piano Man; they commiserate with those drinking loneliness and provide sobering truths on celebrating our lives in all the humanity and humannes we can muster. Thomas writes like a man possessed with purpose like a dainty 18th century alchemist consumed with creating works of gold worthy of the finest broken Japanese teacup.</p><p class=ql-align-justify><strong>-M. A. Dennis</strong> Host & Curator of the National Writers Union Reading Series</p><p class=ql-align-justify><br></p><p class=ql-align-justify>Fucaloro is his own gravitational force comprised of vulnerability earnestness and humor. Like Rumi his poems are easy on the eyes with a simplicity that is sneakily complex. You can't help but cry and laugh and learn about yourself and the poet.</p><p class=ql-align-justify><strong>-Advocate of Wordz</strong></p><p class=ql-align-justify><br></p><p class=ql-align-justify>Is a salad without croutons a salad worth eating? In his book <em>The Only Gardening I Do Is When I Give Up</em> Fucaloro has written a series of tornadoes and inside those tornadoes are croutons and when I say croutons I mean a violin playing hippo a way out through a stuffed elephant a receding ocean a plate of pasta a pulsing mother all things expansive. Open your mouth and take a bite crunch your way through these meaty poems I promise you won't want to stop for water.</p><p class=ql-align-justify><strong>-Vanessa Chica Ferreira</strong></p><p><br></p>