Beth Towle has reviewed Lucas de Lima’s WET LAND, writing,
"That page, that image, just as much as anything else in the book, conveys what it means to grieve. Those big, capital letters are angry and violent and painful to encounter so close to the end of this book. They convey all the personal grief that we cannot touch. I cannot, in the end, no matter what an artist does, truly know the subject of the grief; I can only know the words the speaker uses it to tell of it. To encounter the name of the grief in this way is upsetting because it is a reminder of that half-torn interiority. Here is what I am wrecked by, de Lima seems to say here, and while this name now means something to you, you cannot, in fact, fully enter into it."
"It was the last decade of the twentieth century and the neoliberal open market metaphysical paradigm cyber-switcheroo had been working its bad juju for thirteen years, unburning bridges and détourning walls. At the same time you’ll remember, all us theater girls had seemingly unrelatedly morphed into badly-tattooed gen-barf-x feminatzi anarchist whore menstrual extraction volunteers demographic dancing on sticky stages, with over half our lives choreographed by unseen Daddy Warbuckses in secret Masonic red-nuclear-button rings and televangelist creampuff hair. We dressed it up in dazzle camouflage as Halloween punkers, like little girl wives, all Diet Coke and Dexatrim glamour, us clusterfuck girls were still just a glimmer in young Daddy Starbucks’ multinational quantum thirdeye browneye and we were already slumping like our empire’s facade."
"I don’t think I want interaction more complex than just an epithet. But I have wanted to finish reading all my pleasures very seriously, and the shirtless moment when you’re done with leadership and I remember how amazing, my face a Kournikova of other peoples’ pores. I should just use excess or something. Sweat is the emotions’ best dialogue, and has generally incorporated reflective practice."