somewhere between image and object the poem finds itself.
a spoken word assemblage; verbal polaroids and impressionist sketches from the last two years. micrcosmic observations, (auto)biographical shards. amy hempel baked in the texas sun. not surprisingly war and oil loom large and small, whilst he riffs on/off lenny tristano, fox news and music scenes.
a knotted clot of words, unpicked inexorably with dry deliberation in smooth, stalking, constant cadence.
i’m still chewing on this…