“‘How do you live / on Saturdays / at the end / of the world?’ What an uncompromising wonder, this book. Too Much refuses to be anything but an excess of tender imagination in a world that demands 24/7 capitalist productivity and appropriation. These poems are rigorously messy, obeying an inner calendar of an ‘alien boyfriend / playing alien guitar,’ then disobeying that, too. Gion Davis’s work makes me deeply giddy, giddily alive.”

— Chen Chen, When I Grow Up I Want to Be a List of Further Possibilities

“Gion Davis is a conduit for simultaneity and tragedy, and Too Much"is a collection of collisions between lovers and strangers, dead animals, old friends and aliens. In the wide scope of these poems, interior experience and dingy exteriors blend, protean, drunk, menstrual, gastric, and isolated in memory and imagination. Davis' voice in this isolation is incredibly striking, reminding us that "the loneliest thing / about being Narcissus/ is reaching / for yourself in everyone". In love and then not in love, seeking and abandoning, these sweeping poems embrace the contradiction that most events "had absolutely / nothing to do with me / and never will." This is a lonely, vulnerable, and sexy book.”
— Willi Carlisle, Peculiar, Missouri

“Gion Davis splays apart the Too Much in everything they see—America, precarity, connection and care. Davis—inhabiting cowboys, skate punks, and the planets themselves—transfigures their targets, conjuring weird catharsis and making the grandiose immediate. A dollop of oatmeal morphs to a pearl; a scrunchie becomes orificial; desserts decapitate while horses fire up their cellphones. With the eerie delicacy of snowed-down wildfire ash, Davis revels in what’s myth and what’s real, what’s timeless and what can only be found in glimpses of a clear memory.”
— Sadie Dupuis, Mouthguard

“I like this work. These poems are a little wild and awkward and disrespectful. It's like a coloring book filled in (weirdly) because of course an adult is doing it & that is a life.”
— Eileen Myles, For Now