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:

: (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.
Why do so many readers at poetry readings announce having two poems left to read? When I signed my contract to become a poet there was no clause as to this matter,

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 just heard someone say about another someone that “she likes to date guys who wear ironic hats.” I prefer unplanned irony, personally speaking, which is another way of saying I don’t pay any attention to the matter unless someone like Rudy Giuliani has the accidental nerve to publicly state “If I can make it, it’s not art.”
jd
>> fact that it is my edited selection of words. What is writing besides
>> picking out words and putting them together in a frame? If I’m picking
>> the frame and the words and putting them together, it’s my writing. If
This is a 2-part (or multi-part, considering the amount of territory to cover) discussion about interior monologues and found-text as resource. Posed as a series of questions to writers whose work is rooted in the rearranging of found (web-specific) content. I’m interested in the value of ownership, where does the world you’re in settle into your various receptors?
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.
The Museum of Modern Art here in Nu Yawk has a small exhibit on Manhattan’s downtown music scene during the late seventies and early eighties up at the moment, and I found myself strolling through it with various family members last week.

I’m good at getting lost. A few years ago, living in a French town so small even its residents had barely heard of it, I lost my way at least once a week. I was also known to lose the bakery, the drugstore, the school where I was teaching, and my colleagues at that school. Streets rayed out from the town center like the arms of a starfish–a crippled starfish whose limbs twisted and gnarled.
Walking in Washington, D.C.—the site of the Poetry Foundation’s new online tour—several weeks ago, I found myself transfixed by street names. Not because I was lost, though I was, but because those names follow particular patterns. First they run from A through Z (A Street, B Street, etc.). Then they run A-Z again, but with bisyllabic words (Euclid, Fairmont, Girard, Harvard). Then they run A-Z yet again, but with trisyllabic words (Allison, Buchanan, Crittenden, Decatur). Any street might change names farther west or east — but the changed name must obey the same rules determining the original one (so Allison turns into Albemarle, both trisyllabic words starting with “A”).
Thom Donovan
Bhanu Kapil
Fred Moten
Craig Santos Perez
Sina Queyras
Sotère Torregian
Cathy Halley
Michael Marcinkowski
Travis Nichols
Fred Sasaki
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