When I first encountered the poems of Jon Woodward, I was stunned into the state that is my life's joy-I was in the presence of the inimitable. Uncanny Valley extends that experience-almost into another dimension. These apocalyptic, pixilated poems forge a mythology of our ravaged culture, one that might have been written in the future. If you want poetry to give you a persimmon on a plate, look elsewhere; if you want to know what happens when seven trees fall on the highway and the story is told by a stutterer, this is the book, and it could only have been written by Woodward.

The words secret and sacred are siblings.

I hated childhood / I hate adulthood / And I love being alive.

It is the first experience you ever had of reading a decent poem: 'Oh, somebody else is lonely, too!

In our marginal existence, what else is there but this voice within us, this great weirdness we are always leaning forward to listen to?

A poem is a finished work of the mind, it is not the work of a finished mind.

People, the people we really love, where did they come from? What did we do to deserve them?