REVIEWS

http://www.metroland.net/back_issues/vol_26_no49/art_murmur.html
Singing in a low, warm tone, Simone Felice twists gently in the restaurant booth, tracing figures in the air with his hands, as if stringing the words on a line. In an Army-surplus shirt buttoned at the neck and an incongruous knit hat—a loosely crocheted skull cap, with vaguely floral nubs—he is a striking presence. He could be a runaway or a rock star, rail-thin and unheeding of standard dining-room decorum.

http://www.chronogram.com/issue/2002/11/backbone/earwhacks/
The moment of conception. A silver night train sails on from Florence to Paris. In the confined space of a sleeper car, two American brothers, entranced by the hum, burn the midnight oil behind dusty red curtains. The elder is a poet, the younger a painter. Sipping wine, the brothers write furiously into the night: The hospital’s filled with the people’s disease/And we’ve run out of pills/But the secret police are in the bloodstream of everyone/In the free world/And the naked sun/Will burn until we hide it away. The embryo.
 

http://www.bryanthomas.com/shows/archive/031206simonefelice.html
"Simone Felice is a cyber Rimbaud, a neo-hipster poet who marries a Romantic Gothic sensibility to a darkly humorous and insidiously disturbing post-millennial sci-fi vision," says Hudson Valley performance poet Mikhail Horowitz.