Like all true poets (as in "seers"), Jonny Collazo is mining the carbonaceous underground of imagery, his whole ear in our mouth, while we mime the new language he is creating, full of sneaky omegas, nebulae hydrated to the left of snoring poetasters and men who die not knowing the taste of ripe avocados scooped from basements flooded with iodine and ragged umbrellas. Let's join him-as far as we can, for his lexicon is amped on diesel and ravenous beetles-as we gaze past death and into the grizzly desert of night where rapture molts and writhes, thwacking. Alive, fresh, and obsidian-sharp, Jonny Collazo steams, Jonny Collazo bubbles mercury. Jonny Collazo is what we were lacking, and we now inject into our veins.
--Anthony Seidman
Collazo's mind ignites like a slanted interior causeway.
--Will Alexander
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