I threw the book into a dark garden and let it, all that winter, rot; retrieving it before the weather turned, to transcribe what was legible. Though I considered burning it, I threw the notebook, instead, into the bin. (Then, feeling guilty, plucked it out and put it in the recycling instead.) Some notes on retrieval, on the circulatory and evolutionary intensity of “scraps“; of the notebook next to the book: the book that fails:
Morning, in Colorado, if I’m not teaching or trying to make a school lunch my offspring will actually eat, involves a second cup of Double Bergamot Earl Grey tea and a quick skim of The Guardian, online, with the memory of pretending to read it, a broadsheet, upside down in bed, with my dad. The paper, not me. I was two.
Thus, a few days ago, I paused, mid-sip, to read this: “Now he’s ditching the dung and the glitter, and going some place darker.” And see this:


: (Th.Donov. on Fr. Moten): “Translate to color.” In the comment stream. And looped up, like a baby. Though if I had another baby, which would depend, quite frankly, upon meeting a competent and ecstatic South-Asian medical professional in the next thirty days: I might put it down (the baby not a suitor) on a sheepskin rug to roll around a bit. More than I did.
It’s a good winter for poetry in the nation’s capital. A couple of months after the launch of our D.C. Poetry Tour, our friends at the Beltway Poetry Quarterly—an online lit mag that publishes D.C.-area poets—have begun celebrating their tenth anniversary in style, with a special issue, a poetry reading series, and a print anthology.
Contributors to the anthology, Full Moon on K Street: Poems About Washington, DC, range from Elizabeth Alexander to Eugene McCarthy. It’s available here.
For more information on the journal and the reading series—which will take place in D.C., Chicago, Baltimore, and elsewhere throughout the year—go here.

I like the name “Poets House” because—while probably intended to read as the possessive Poets’ House—the phrase instead asserts something rather nice about poets. Poets don’t just browse and carouse: they house. And maybe, someday, they’ll house me.
I had hoped to get a couple more entries up by now, but it’s a particularly cunning germ season in our abode at the moment and I am in fact trying to dash this off before

“The radio, the salad. Some of which, white—“
“Was it a Thursday? Was it a Friday? White stuff exploding—“
“Some of which, white, looks good in the salad—“
The audience of Ghostparts, an interactive performance staged at NYU’s Lillian Vernon Creative Writers House last week, shuffles up carpeted stairs.
It used to be the case that I’d type things up fairly quickly after getting them. Now I seem to want more distance between the accumulation of materials and their typing or arranging.
This post (one resists the temptation to begin “This post-up” and imagine the electronic void one writes into playing zone defense) is part III because I think the fabulous set of comments to my previous post constitutes “Reading habits, part II”,
Have been repeatedly making failed attempts at charting my reading habits in order to detect patterns and write about those patterns on this here blog with the hope that writing about the patterns will change them. What I’m finding is they change if I give any consciousness to their identification.
Thom Donovan
Bhanu Kapil
Fred Moten
Craig Santos Perez
Sina Queyras
Sotère Torregian
Cathy Halley
Michael Marcinkowski
Travis Nichols
Fred Sasaki
Don Share
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