Remember Antler’s acerbic epic “Factory”? He no longer rails, but his middle age still emits an eagle’s cry for vivid dreams and hope. The former Milwaukee poet laureate’s sly statistical research swirls into billowing “what ifs.” Then, “The Come-Cries of the Unborn Come” brilliantly marries birth to last days, and life’s continuum—disarming weary left-right dualisms. In another poem: “The existence of money and having to earn it was made up. No wonder we’re floundering when no wonder is why we’re floundering.” Be prepared for unabashed, hilarious erotica. But try grousing over such outrageous love of life. It’s Whitman’s sacred embrace reborn. If only his “what ifs” became “why nots,” and then…
