When you require renewal, is there a particular poem or book that you return to? A particular author?
There’s a sort of meta-book I return to, filled with staring emptiness, a being that pins me in my sleep, a man who speaks in beautiful nonsense that illuminates parts of our experience rational language never can, the old lady who looks after the bar and who sits at the back of the bar on her couch reading Russian poetry, the crow in human voice, the Han Shan poets, the Language poets, the Romantic Poets, the Dub Poets, the Confessional Poets, the Flarf-bestrewn Conceptual Poets, the many contemporary poets spinning such a tapestry all things Poetry — the new and changing — who send their general messages into this hypothetical book I return to whose pages flip faster than eye can keep up with and which blurs into some single motion of authorship.
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