For some reason--well, for obvious reasons--I'm pondering the physicality of the cold: how it physically occupies the body, and, when it leaves, how it does so reluctantly. In difficult, recalcitrant globs that want to remain stuck, gluelike, inside my skull. Out with you. Out with all of you.
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I typed up five or so poems from Matthew Zapruder's The Pajamaist yesterday to share with my students & give them some sense of what he's writing. I didn't enjoy the task: these poems make me feel excluded, irrelevant. I feel like I'm spying on Uncle Orson in his attic while he babbles. Other books that take a similar aesthetic approach seem, to me, more engaging; they give more to the reader: examples are Ben Lerner's The Lichtenberg Figures or Dan Beachy-Quick's Spell. This one? --Sorry, not so much.
Somebody out there educate me. Give me a reason to like this stuff.
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Alec Hershman: The Egg Goes Under
1 week ago