The poems in Wisconsin Death Trip take many shapes -- evocative, provocative, specific, blunt, wistful. To unify such a disparate set of feelings and forms into a cohesive, gorgeous, aching whole is Jessie Lynn McMains' masterstroke.
—Michael T. Fournier (author of Swing State and Double Nickels On The Dime)

Wisconsin Death Trip sounds like America but not the America you hate. Not the fascist brute, the worldeater, the bigot machine. This is a gathered museum collection of cloistered ghosts, back fields, lost loves, basements, beer in cans, late-night commuter trains, fire, whiskey, punk records, avenging monsters, lost souls, but, wait, here's a newsflash, the museum burned down last night and none of these wild phantoms are locked up. They stalk the streets. They shotgun beers and then use the cans as pipes, naturally. They fuck in the hobo jungle. They look back fondly on youth, but their youth never died, no, never waned, but kept on smoking, drinking, loving in some deep sooty lakeshore recess where there is no bullshit, no fake sentiment, and most importantly no lies, no matter how hard the brick-baked fucking truth. These teenage stabs are Springsteen if Bruce were dark as the devil's heart, if he were dealing with addiction, fighting a curse, grappling with forces more sinister than a snake as long as a river. Jessie Lynn McMains' newest is beautiful, strong as black coffee, terrifying as your worst fucking nightmare, and absolutely perfect. This book is a dark gem in a field of gravel, dog shit, and old walnut shells. It's got my vote.
—Adam Gnade, author of This is the End of Something But It's Not the End of You