In these stone-whetted and machete-whittled sting fictions, Christopher Chambers forges, from the idioms of stamped enameled steel and patina-pocked chrome, the narrative poetry of hard-knocked gorgeous vernacular. In Delta 88, he bondos the new noir southern gothic gloss with the crystal methods of the rust-belt's rusty rust. These silvered, slivered fictions do the voodoo of microsurgery, opening up the four-barreled carb, the congested knocking chambers of the clouded engine blocked heart. (Michael Martone)
