Thomas Fucaloro is a bottle in lightning-a typo that's better than the correction-a gentle soul raging like thunderous ocean. Whether spoken on stage or off page, Fucaloro's poems sound and read like a poetic Piano Man; they commiserate with those drinking loneliness and provide sobering truths on celebrating our lives in all the humanity and humannes we can muster. Thomas writes like a man possessed with purpose, like a dainty 18th century alchemist consumed with creating works of gold worthy of the finest broken Japanese teacup.

-M. A. Dennis, Host & Curator of the National Writers Union Reading Series

Fucaloro is his own gravitational force, comprised of vulnerability, earnestness, and humor. Like Rumi, his poems are easy on the eyes with a simplicity that is sneakily complex. You can't help but cry and laugh and learn about yourself and the poet.

-Advocate of Wordz

Is a salad without croutons a salad worth eating? In his book The Only Gardening I Do Is When I Give Up Fucaloro has written a series of tornadoes and inside those tornadoes are croutons and when I say croutons I mean a violin playing hippo, a way out through a stuffed elephant, a receding ocean, a plate of pasta, a pulsing mother, all things expansive. Open your mouth and take a bite, crunch your way through these meaty poems, I promise you won't want to stop for water.

-Vanessa Chica Ferreira

-M. A. Dennis, Host & Curator of the National Writers Union Reading Series

-Advocate of Wordz

-Vanessa Chica Ferreira