Praise for Gold Cure“The elegiac fourth collection from Mathys (Null Set) draws on the associative powers of gold: fake cures, busted boom towns, fracking sites, and goldfish (live and edible). . . . In these imaginative and linguistically impressive political poems, Mathys excavates with ironic wit while addressing untapped American fears.” —Publishers Weekly“The poems in Ted Mathys’s marvelous and riveting new collection pass a momentary blade across our vision so that we see again with renewed sight.” —Arthur Sze“From the mythical excesses of El Dorado, to the goldfish crackers his daughter hoards, Mathys’s Gold Cure takes his reader on an emotional journey through the perplexing landscape of contemporary America, where all that glitters is not, well, you know. . . . Syntactically dense, bright with topic-specific diction and surprising similes, these narrative poems—in both line and prose—explore the way desire crashes into the material world. Thanks to Mathys’s skilled image-making, you may find yourself trapped in the bottom of a mineshaft, or catapulted up to the stars.” —Jennifer Moxley“In this expansive and deeply moral book, Ted Mathys performs an extended meditation on gold’s long relationship to colonialism, capitalism, and our baser human instincts, the way they fuel empire’s ruthless expansion and economic exploitation. From mythic El Dorado to today’s frack pads, our poet tracks greed, decries the accrual of power, and foils gold’s capacity to enchant, all while also acknowledging the amplitude of its lure. . . . A thorough diagnosis of our moment, this bold book shivers with the fevers that have seized the demos and attempts a purgative cure of its imperilment.” —Brian Teare“In this glittering collection, Ted Mathys embarks on an intimate, artful, and urgent transvaluation of values for our failed utopia. Mathys adopts gold—in all of its economic, formal, and historical modes of circulation—as a medium for the alchemical search into what underwrites ‘the gold standard, the golden ratio, the golden hour.’ Wherever this inner El Dorado may be, Mathys reflects, ‘it passes through me / like wind through a screen, leaving only / a vague remainder, this dull glow— / hard to locate in the body—that aches / for an answer just out of reach.’ —Srikanth Reddy