Where does the line between the real and the unreal begin and end? At this point, is there even a distinction anymore? Or perhaps it lies somewhere in the gray area of the surreal. A term, with all its vast connotations, that also serves as the only too appropriate title of Victor Marrero’s latest poetry collection (following his previous works, Atlas, Bound and Reprise). With his dense and evocative prose style, Marrero chips away at the veneer of the so-called real to get to something even more real: the truth. Yet, like many of us, he often arrives at the conclusion that, increasingly, it’s all but impossible to genuinely know.
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