2026, LiL Book Review, Ohio River Valley Literature, Working Class Literature

It Ain’t Broke? Dan Denton’s The Seven Stages of Middle-Class Life: An American Fable. Roadside Press. 2026

 

Order / Buy Dan’s Book Here

 

“You know they say the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else,” one of his union car worker coworker buddies said, and he said that he had heard that and they talked about women some more, and drank more beer and lost the third game but probably won in the fun column still.” (86)

 

Dan Denton’s new book is the sort of manual new hires at any factory job should get on the first day of their first shift, except that HR would never let it happen because they worry no one would stay on the line. If you’ve not had the blue collar work experience, reading Dan Denton is a good way to start beginning to understand what your parents’ and grandparents’ generations went through to make sure you had a life involving the brand name Kraft macaroni and cheese. 

Our protagonist is unnamed. We see him get a job because his father had a job in the same car factory. There’s this story going around, a story that’s mostly true, about the mobility of the modern American workforce and about how most people change careers something like eight times in their lives. There’s an actual statistic about that. The problem with statistics is that they hardly ever tell the whole story. And another part of the story is that if you grow up in a factory town, if in fact there is a factory town to still grow up in, chances are good that multiple generations of your family have worked there.  It’s not nepotism, per say. Well, it is. But the term “nepo baby” only applies to the children of the rich and famous, not to the kids of blue collar fathers and mothers who work long shifts six days a week to get two weeks vacation a year and Sundays off because factory towns are also sometimes church towns. 

Dan Denton’s new book is the sort of manual new hires at any factory job should get on the first day of their first shift, except that HR would never let it happen because they worry no one would stay on the line

As the novel unfolds and our protagonist moves through the years, we find that a lot happens even when it looks like nothing at all is happening. Like the fish he goes to the lake to catch and release, most of his life is under the surface. That’s not to say we get any didactic meditations, grand social theories not-so-cleverly masked as fiction. Denton’s style here is bare-boned and descriptive. Conversations are punctuations on thoughts and feelings the other characters understand but don’t express. 

The true beauty of Denton’s novel is that it doesn’t try. It doesn’t have to try. Through our nameless protagonist, we read about the changes in work culture, in generational diaspora, and in relationships. He’s just moving through the world, working his way to retirement, and finding his way to something like happy that looks very different from the happy that was sold to him when he first got his union card. This book is neither an indictment nor is an anthem of the blue collar backbone that still holds this broken economy together. This book is an unapologetic exploration of what happens everyday to people who aren’t counted, aren’t considered, and aren’t respected enough to even be included in the statistical data set.

 

– Mick Parsons

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2026, LiL Book Review, poetry

Love Poems Disguised as Drinking Poems: A Review of Todd Cirillo’s HAPPY HOUR HEART OF NEW ORLEANS

Roadside Press, 2026

ISBN 979-8-9946833-3-0

Book cover for Todd Cirillo's Happy Hour Heart of New Orleans

BUY HIS BOOK HERE

If I had the book with me
or the poem memorized
I’d recite it for her
under the neon Abita beer sign
but she has since moved on
to Garth Brooks
and that is just not conducive 
to esteemed literature.

– from “Fame and Fancy Literature”

These poems are poems that have lived and survived to tell the tale. It’s a collection of dueling love songs and love lost songs. Naturally, because Cirillo is a self-described Quarter Rat, New Orleans is as much a subject / love object as a the woman he writes so sadly and eloquently about losing and the one he talks about in “Special Ocassion”: 

For the first time
in a long time
I am not waking up alone
on this birthday morning
and that is a gift. (72)

Poems like this one and others, including “Mix Up at the Erin Rose,” “The Big Game,” and “The Greatest Bartender in New Orleans” recreate the bars and characters of a city whose bars and characters are more mythic, more haunting, and more taunting than any American city. This would be enough to shift the weight of the poetry for any number of fine poets writing now; but Cirillo’s voice in these poems is as loud and distinct as that one guy at the end of the bar who’s talked to everyone at least once and who everyone knows by sight, if not by first name. His is the voice of the experienced everyman in a city full with people who need to be larger than life; his poems are like the currents that keep the Steamer Natchez afloat in the river and keep life in the Quarter turning in spite of natural disasters and global pandemics.

I feel a certain affinity for these poems because I lived in New Orleans, in Mid-City, more than 20 years ago. There are places and street names in these poems that ring familiar from my own wanderings; but because New Orleans is a city of perpetual resurrections, the city he describes is also an entirely different city from the one that lives in my memory.  And I am damned grateful for that; because cities that end up preserved in amber, wrapped in nostalgia and marketing jingoism, do not survive. I need to live in a timeline where New Orleans is alive and thriving, crying, bleeding, and surviving. 

It would be a disservice to simply call these poems “gritty” and “real,” because they’re also elegiac and full of longing. The speaker in poems like “Bouquet,” who cannot preserve beauty or recapture a lost love, gives us an inside look into one man’s city that is both full of life and full of memories. You have to have the rot along with things that grow. And the sadness and longing that runs through these poems — even sometimes a note in what are otherwise lighter poems — elevates the “grit” and “real” of these poems onto an entirely different plane. This poetry is utterly and unapologetically human in a world that seems bent in rotting into something algorithmic and artificial.

– Mick Parsons

Listen for Todd Cirillo on the upcoming podcast! More details soon.

Also by Todd on Roadside Press:

Disposable Darlings

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2024, book review, poetry

Reviews of GROWL & MUD

Purchase here

I like to imagine Mick Parsons as the poet wearing a backpack and well-worn boots, looking up at the moon before finding a solitary park bench on which to write. From the moment I met him, he’s been an honest and unpretentious poet, unafraid of what that means in today’s literary landscape. Much of Parson’s latest collection, Growl & Mud, Collected Poems 2021-2023 (Basement Books, 2023) is poetry that has been
previously published under his pen-moniker, dirtysacred. Parsons says in the book’s introduction, “I like dirtysacred as a name as much the name my parents gave me… A name, an identity, has become almost as important to poetry… as the work itself. And I simply don’t care about any of that…I just want the work to stand or fall, regardless of who I am.” Parson’s work, whether it’s the individual poems or the collective whole, reflects precisely what he sees. It is clear that the author would like nothing more than to vanish into the background as the reader enters, and let the work speak for itself.

Beginning in 2023, Growl and Mud walks backward into 2021, with a world recovering from a pandemic, and its people in disarray. Parsons uses free verse as often as he uses form in the structures found in Growl and Mud, expansive and diverse as his subjects. Even his own body is not safe from his high-powered lens: “…body / as a broken tea cup / maybe / no one will notice the crack / track progression by how / the scar looks.” The movement in the lines are careful, matching the speaker’s body, healing from surgery. Whether interior or exterior, Parson’s lens is clear and unflinching. Often composing outside, often in his beloved Ohio River Valley, he witnesses nature and human nature erupting in full view. “A Monday night on the wharf” is an example of this, as vivid as film, its subject, a street woman battling mental illness: “afraid of the dark and sometimes / brandishing a knife she begs the night / lights for cigarettes…” The picture of her, taken without prejudice, includes the ghost of our collective failure to care for one another–the last character standing.

Parsons includes a series of days near the beginning of the book, each one corresponding to a day in the life of 2023. “Day 3” comes right out of the gate, swinging: “These poems are not proclamations. / They are questions.” The speaker returns at the end: “These poems explain nothing. / They admit everything.” Throughout the book, Parsons’ poetry is an admission of life. His weapons of beauty are thrift, simplicity, and compassion, making sure the reader is coming along for the ride.

Janet Rodriguez, author of
Making an American Family : A Recipe in Five Generations ]

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