One of many names synonymous with poetry in the popular consciousness of America, Lawrence Ferlinghetti has never shied away from provocative writing.

Born March 24, 1919, in Yonkers, New York, he is the author of many works, most famously “A Coney Island of the Mind” (1958). Today, at 100, Ferlinghetti is punctuating his approach to the century mark with his “literary last will and testament,” a provocateur’s masterpiece called “Little Boy.” At once firmly political, critical, autobiographical and forward-looking, this book is a torrent of writing that will leave readers awash in language and perspective a century in the making.

Truly, “Little Boy” brakes for nothing; even so much as a period rarely interrupts the flow of thinking pouring through these pages. And nothing is off the table for the self-described philosophical anarchist, as politics, religion, sex, history — and, yes, even social media — all find themselves subject to examination. Fans of breaking down such sectors of life will be big fans of “Little Boy.” Various levels of lament and hope for these aspects of the human condition collide in full-throttled passages, such as this:

“… so don’t attempt to dip me again in that holy puddle man oh man the direct or alternating current of my consciousness does not desire to be short-circuited with any kind of liquid except the ilk of human kindness a different kind of liquid whose genetic code has still to be cracked ….”

The writing in this book defies being tacked down into genre or style. While the cover calls it “a novel,” it is hardly such a work in the traditional sense. To call it poetry would be confining to its breadth, yet to call it prose would snub the linguistic layering and craft applied to each subject that swirls in and out of Ferlinghetti’s focus. Stream-of-conscious might be an adequate label, yet labeling is exactly what this book seeks to avoid. The nonstop accumulation of deep feeling and thinking is at once inspiring and exhaustive. After an opening of vignettes of his childhood daisy-chained together in this breakless manner, the poet turns to more philosophical and worldly thinking, then doesn’t turn back:

“And am I some ape sitting under a spare tree waiting for the end or even the begin go the world in some café still inscribing the amiable history of self with mumblings and mouthings of various personal asininities irrelevances obscenities and obsessions ….”

Readers might find affinity in such musings, but lest you look for comfort, do not hope to find it here. Good writing often examines (and, when necessary, critiques) the parameters from which it originates. For Ferlinghetti, this is frequently Americanness, which is challenged both subtly and overtly through the long scope of history of a contemporary of WWII, the civil rights movement, the women’s movement and others. Several times he comes back around to this point, as illustrated in the passage:

“… ain’t that a pretty picture of this life on earth and all tears are the same and yet we go on living because we love it love it love it yes and some of this country founded by slave owners who wanted to be free oh yeah it’s the American dream but you have to be asleep to believe it and so what else is new and where do we go from here ….”

As a final statement to a lifetime of writing and working in the literary world, what Ferlinghetti delivers is a book that truly has to be read and wrestled with to be fully understood. This wrestling, I assure, will lead to satisfaction. What I’d leave readers with is this: The story of this book is the story of difficult truths; that language and life alike both rest upon fragile structures that are always being poked at. I recommend this book to the pokers (and the non-pokers, too) out there who have been longtime fans of Lawrence Ferlinghetti or first-time readers willing to jump into the torrent of his writing. Like the body of work that precedes it, this book is well worth the ride.

Cameron Barnett is author of “The Drowning Boy’s Guide to Water,” which was a finalist for an NAACP Image Award.

First Published: April 20, 2019, 2:00 p.m.