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Jason Schneiderman
Jason Schneiderman is a poet living in Brooklyn. You can find him at Schneiderblog
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In yesterday’s blog, I was talking about Poetry Citizenship—an idea I should probably do more to articulate—and one of the things that kept lurking at the edges of both the post and the conversation about the post was the question of how much is too much? If a journal can’t get a readership or funding or sponsorship, does that mean that it should just quietly die—wave to us on the shore as it drowns? I’m sure that the success rate for journals is roughly that of small businesses—which is to say, extremely low—and that’s why a journal that makes it big is such a big deal. I was at the release party for the first Issue of Tin House; I discovered McSweeny’s early on; I remember the rumors about Fence when it was just staring, and I met my husband at the release party for the second issue of Lit. It was wonderful to see Bloom start and flourish, then painful to watch it fold (although I think it’s actually frozen in carbonite like Hans Solo, and I expect it to return any moment). As I pointed out, poets, unlike novelists, (and I’m speaking in broad strokes) have chosen a publication system that exceeds paying demand, with the benefit that work valued by a small group can find publication. I’ve often advised my students that when you start trying publish your work, you should approach all editors from the positon of gratitude. Appreciate what they are doing for poetry—don’t just think of them in terms of what they can do for you. And under no circumstances should you feel entitled to publication. That’s just a recipe for bitterness. Editors and publishers of poetry are people who deserve to be celebrated—they embody the ideals of Poetry Citizenship. And I wanted to call your attention to one editor in particular: Lawrence Schimel. Lawrence Schimel is the founding editor of A Midsummer Night’s Press, and since 2007, it has published full length collections in beautifully designed, but very small books. Each book is 5.75 inches tall and 4.25 inches wide. And they’re very thin. They have a wonderfully small footprint—I could fit three of them on my bookshelf in the space that Thom Gunn’s The Man With Night Sweats takes up; nine in the space that Thom Gunn’s Collected Poems takes up. In some ways, I feel like I have a bit of a double standard—I wouldn’t want my own book to be so small, since I worry it wouldn’t be taken seriously—but on the other hand, I wish every book were so manageable and portable and light. Looking at the overflowing bookshelves around me, it’s a huge relief to look at a small book. And as e-readers become a increasingly common and viable way of reading (I have no e-reader myself), I suspect that books will become bigger and smaller—that a book like this will still fit in a bag without adding heft or weight, offering the tactile joys of a book... Continue reading
Posted Sep 16, 2010 at The Best American Poetry
A minor blogosphere dust-up over reading fees has made me think a lot about the economy of money and attention—particularly as it relates to poetry. The blog battle went something like this—The New England Review had announced that it would be charging $2 to read submissions that were sent via the internet. The NER has been struggling financially, and I daresay institutionally. I responded to a call to write letters in the summer of 2009 asking the administration of Middlebury College not to withdraw their funding, and Middlebury College did not close the doors… but it did demand that The New England Review find a way to become solvent. My initial response to the reading fee was chagrin. I’ve told students in no uncertain terms that they should never pay someone to look at work for publication. You should pay teachers who offer the service of helping them with their craft—but it should not be someone holding the promise of publication over their heads. And the proof should be your own experience. You know if a teacher is helping you or not. And if you’re in a program—well, the school works out who they think deserves to be teaching, and you work out if you want to stay. You should also get paid either in cash or contributor copies. So now, my advice has been wrong. NER is a legit magazine. They still read paper mail submissions for free, and frankly, if you submit by mail, between the stamps and the printer and the envelopes, you’ll be spending close to $2, depending on the number of pages in your submission. I actually only read a little of the venom being spewed against the NER—I’m consistently amazed at the kind of invective that passes for reason in the blogosphere—although it’s hardly limited to that realm. I certainly understand the desire to see the most extreme versions of opposing ideas battle it out, but I can’t understand the desire to have poetry conversations turn to mud wrestling. In fact, I thought that this interchange between Sarah Manguso and Rachel Zucker is an excellent model for what it looks like when people articulate their opposing perspectives without dishonesty or invective. The Paris Review recently revoked its decision to publish a number of poems they had accepted in order to give the new poetry editor more control over the magazine’s poetry more quickly. Considering that many journals have backlogs of a year or more (I’ve waited three years in some cases for poems to be published… it’s not that unusual), the backlog only becomes a problem if you have a book coming out and the question of copyright starts to loom. Usually it can be sorted out. But then, would you feel differently if you had paid to be read? If the Paris Review had charged, would there be a possible legal claim? Might one demand a kill fee-- as non-fiction writers get when their more lucrative writings are accepted but then go unpublished?... Continue reading
Posted Sep 15, 2010 at The Best American Poetry
It's official! Striking Surface is out!! Thank you to Ashland Poetry Press for publishing it! Thank you to Sarah Wells & Stephen Haven for being amazing editors and managers. Thank you to Elton Glaser for picking it! Thank you to Linda Gregerson & David Trinidad for blurbing it! Thank you to Claudia Carlson for the gorgeous cover design! Thank you to Dannielle Tegeder for the gorgeous image! Thank you Ada Limon & Jennifer Knox for sustaining me through this! Thank you Michael Broder for believing in me! Thank you Richard Siken & Tom Sleigh & Wayne Koestenbaum for reading it! Thank you EVERYONE!! Buy the book! or Amazon or Small Press Distribution (none in stock...) Continue reading
Posted Sep 15, 2010 at The Best American Poetry
The morning that August Wilson died, I was teaching Joe Turner’s Come and Gone to undergraduates. None of my students had heard about Wilson’s death, and when I mentioned it to them, I did sadly. But my sadness was the not the sadness that comes when someone you loved dies. Had I seen August Wilson at a party, I doubt I would even have recognized him. My sadness was that his death meant there would be no more work by August Wilson. With his death, his corpus had closed. As I said to my students, he will never again get to surprise us. We can be sure that everything he wrote is everything he wrote. Certainly, there is occasionally an author who seems to manage a posthumous publication— I adored Ellison’s Juneteenth, and it does make me rethink Invisible Man—but that is the very notable exception. Wilson died an artist with an assured legacy. My students found it odd that I thought that anything, however subtle, had changed between our discussion of Act II when Wilson was alive and our discussion of Act III when he was dead. Most of them were surprised to find out he’d been alive as recently as our last class. And I wasn’t sure I could prove that anything was different. But I was sure that it was. Wilson had worked—in part—precisely for what we were doing in that classroom. He had built a legacy, and a significant one. The fact that my students were reading his play was a part of that legacy. But now that he had passed from the world. his hand would be forever stilled as to the playing out of that legacy. Suzan-Lori Parks, on the other hand (we also read Topdog/Underdog), is a different matter I bring this up because I’ve been trying to promote the work of a woman who died, and who died in the process of building a legacy. I met Barbara Brackney in 2004. She was taking an online poetry class that I was teaching for the Gotham Writers’ Workshop, and she had an intensity that was arresting. She wanted to discuss prosody all the time. I suspect that poetry workshops often reverse that natural order of the world. In most places, you meet people through a shared interest or a shared task (a job, a class, a club) and the personal comes out on the side as people warm up to each other. In poetry workshops, the personal often ends up on the table as an unavoidable part of the work at hand, and you get to know people through their aesthetics, which come out on the side. It soon became clear that Barbara’s intensity grew out of her knowledge of her own looming death. She had been diagnosed with terminal cancer, and after a life as a clinical psychologist (and professor of psychology), she wanted to leave a part of herself in the world through poetry. She wanted what August Wilson had—to be... Continue reading
Posted Sep 14, 2010 at The Best American Poetry
Welcome back from the weekend! In honor of John Giorno, I'm starting the week with my sound poetry experiments. His signature recording style was his work being read by a male voice, followed by the same poems being read by a high pitched female voice at about a two second delay. I'd never really been interested in sound poetry until I heard his "Give it to Me Baby" on the album "10+2:12 American Text Sound Pieces". And after reading it, I kind of wanted to do it. I had a hard time opening these in the preview, but if you open the link in a new tab, they play just fine. The rules I set up for myself were as follows: 1) I could only use lyrics from Madonna songs 2) I could only use my own voice (though I could filter it, layer it, repeat it) 3) I could only use a single piece of my voice. 4) Each piece had to be very very short. Ciccone-scape I 01 Madonnascape I_ Borderline Ciccone-scape II Madonnascape ii Like a Virgin Ciccone-scape III Cicconescape iii dress you up Ciccone-scape IV Madonnascape iv ray of light So, tomorrow thoughts on death and the economy of attention. And two chances to see me in New York this week: White Swallow hosted by Angelo Nikolopolous / Tues, Sept 14th, 6pm Cornelia Street Café / 29 Cornelia St / with Ada Limon & Nick Flynn & Inspired Word hosted by Mike Geffner / Thursday, September 16, 7pm Le Poisson Rouge / 158 Bleecker Street / with Luis Bernard & "A Night of Three GoD/Desses" (w/ open mic sign up) Continue reading
Posted Sep 13, 2010 at The Best American Poetry
OK, a few final thoughts to wrap up my week of blogging. Thank you everyone for reading these posts! I’ll see you back up on BAPBlog in the Fall when my book Striking Surface (winner of the Richard Snyder Prize from Ashland Poetry Press) comes out. So, loose ends: 1) About taking care of each other Two organizations have been called to my attention (thanks to Elizabeth Macklin & Patricia Spears Jones) that do work to help poets take care of each other. The first is Poets in Need & the second is PEN's Emergency Writers' Fund So please donate to these wonderful causes—and remember them should you ever fall on hard times! 2) More on Avatar I tend to find David Brooks a bit frustrating, but I actually completely agreed with his analysis of Avatar! Here it is. The Messiah Complex 3) Memoir! OK, so after reading the panel discussion about non-linear narrative in the current Writer’s Chronicle, I promise to revisit Memoir with a less reductive eye towards the arc. On my list that I promise to read: Nick Flynn’s Another Bullshit Night in Suck City; Alex Lemon’s Happy; and Paul Lisicky’s Master Builder. These were selected for being books that have hovered on my radar for a long time but that I haven’t gotten to yet. They are also by people that I know, another of my challenges. I would greatly welcome recommendations of additional memoirs that would challenge my Sunday morning statement: “Memoirs have a story to tell; they give meaning to chaos (hence the public’s taste fr memoir and my accompanying distaste).” And you get special points for self promotion, so suggesting your own memoir is double thumbs up. 4) Insults, not injuries—how to deal with unpleasant moments in journal publication So I've just had the unpleasant conclusion to an unpleasant interaction. Here is the timeline Spring 2009: I get an e-mail from a friend about a journal that's starting up and looking for submissions. Contact information for Poetry Editor X is included, and I send poems to Poetry Editor X. Poetry Editor X acknowledges receipt and welcomes me to the ground floor of the journal. Summer 2009: I get an e-mail from Poetry Editor X soliciting poems, and telling me who recommended me. I respond that we'd already been in contact, and resend the poems. He responds that he thought my name looked familiar. Fall 2009: Not having heard from Poetry Editor X, I ask if he's made a decision about the poems I sent him in the Spring. He responds that he doesn't actually reject poems, he simply lets the poets know which poems he wants as he wants them. I hope that this is not about to become common practice, and check with other editors to confirm that Poetry Editor X is engaged in an outlying practice. Everyone I ask finds this practice as distasteful as I do, but I decide not to send Poetry Editor X a letter suggesting that he... Continue reading
Posted Jan 9, 2010 at The Best American Poetry
My friend Linda Neiberg was a close friend of Rachel Wetzsteon, and I asked her to write something about Rachel. Linda is a Renaissance scholar and a Renaissance woman, someone I admire greatly. Thank you Linda! It's a wonderful piece. Remembering Rachel Wetzsteon In the week-and-a-half since my friend Rachel Wetzsteon was discovered dead in her apartment, my feelings have been many and varied. There is, of course, the surreal and deep sense of loss. I have many memories of her, one of which is the keen interest she took in the lives of people around her. She had such a wonderful bond with her former partner’s son. They would talk for hours, often while passing a sheet of paper back and forth on which they took turns drawing the head, arms, midsection, and legs of being – postmodern blazons born in two very creative, connected minds. About four years ago, my partner told me that his best friend had met this really incredible woman – brilliant, pretty, and already marvelously successful. I was excited about meeting Rachel, but a bit nervous about meeting her since she was already a luminary and I was still a green apple in graduate school. Rachel’s easy and utterly unpretentious manner dissolved my nervousness and sparked my immediate and abiding like and admiration for her. One of my most vivid memories of her is from the summer of 2006. We had all gathered at the home of my partner in Westerly, RI and spent some gorgeous days on Watch Hill Beach. It was August and I was queasy about the classes I was going to teach…And then I saw Rachel in the waves, laughing and chilling out. That was inspiring. On that day, she also helped my friend Louise and me create a labyrinth out of seaweed. We walked in and out of it and were amused as strangers came up to us and did likewise. Rachel also passionately supported my friend Jason Schneiderman and me when we put together our “Talking Trash” conference at The Grad Center a couple of years ago. She loved the theme and took time out from her busy schedule to attend part of the conference. Her support really made a difference! She bolstered my mind and spirit each time she assured me, “Of course, you are going to pass your orals!” And was able to muster genuine joy when I did just that – even as her own pain was beginning to weigh her down. I shall miss sharing the awkward drafts of my dissertation with her. Selfishly, I had imagined her enthusiastic words of encouragement and her sharing in the celebration of my graduation (yes, I plan to do that sometime soon). I admired and envied her focus – and am still trying to channel it. Her last book of poems, Silver Roses, will be published this year by Persea Press. Few people in academia can master both erudite, scholarly prose and creative verse. Rachel was one... Continue reading
Posted Jan 7, 2010 at The Best American Poetry
A few years ago, I was working at an arts center for an afternoon. I’d been infuriated by a slew of editorials coming out against special high schools for Queer youth. One had been by a young man who had come out while in a regular high school and toughed it out (so everyone can right?), and the rest of the editorials and letters had followed suit, insisting that young LGBTI folk just gotta learn to face the “real world.” What wasn’t being said in any of these editorials was that these kids are often in very real danger in regular schools, like the kind that ultimately ended Lawrence King's life: Boy’s Killing, Labeled a Hate Crime, Stuns a Town I was complaining about these editorials because they had missed the reality that kids rarely end up in these kinds of schools until after they’ve had severe problems. The entirely wonderful fact that one gay kid didn’t experience homophobia doesn’t mean that homophobia isn’t real—and the fact is that hate is never distributed equally. Certain people end up receiving more abuse than others, often for reasons that are random and external. For the kids at Harvey Milk High School, functioning in the “real world” (here meaning a regular high school) is already out of the question—not because they aren’t tough, but because they are in danger. As the Harvey Milk High School puts it, these kids are “at-risk.” Lawrence King, by all accounts, handled his bullies incredibly well. He never took on their damage as his own, and he turned their sexual hang-ups back on them. In fact, it’s hard not to imagine that his murderer was so desperate to get rid of his hate that when King wouldn’t take it, he shot him to force it on him. So when a woman at the table near me took the side of the editorialists, singing the praises of standing up for oneself, I said, "you’re right. Those gay kids should just stand up for themselves-- like those Jews in the Warsaw Ghetto. Maybe Ann Frank should have learned to stand up for herself. I’m sure things would have worked out a lot better for her" Which brings me to Avatar. It’s almost impossible not to see Avatar as a retelling of the Native American genocide, slightly mashed up with Vietnam and hint of Shell Oil’s exploitation of the Ogoni People of Nigeria. Reviews tend to point out that the plot of Avatar seems taken from Dances with Wolves and the story of John Smith and Pocohantas (the grade school version, not the more complicated historical narrative). The Native American parallels to the Na’vi people are obvious even as they get mixed in with a touch of post-Matrix rasta. The Na'vi are a hardy race of nature dwelling people (with wide set eyes and flat noses) encountered by a technologically superior race of less hardy white folk (humans) who want the natural resources that they see the natives as incapable of... Continue reading
Posted Jan 6, 2010 at The Best American Poetry
A few years ago, I was talking to a poet a few years older than me who was telling me about a conversation she’d had with a poet a full generation older than us. After her highly acclaimed first book, he asked her what she was working on, and she explained the project she was developing for her next book. As she reported it to me, he said, “Oh yeah, that’s what you young poets do, right? You write projects.” In part, I get what Mr. Older Poet was saying—that people who are facing down tenure committees and grant proposals have to have a neat paragraph long packaging for their work-- and it can feel artificial or contrived. And as poetry is increasingly published by prize, it works well to stand out as having a coherent purpose and drive that carries you through the book. I was recently talking to a friend of mine who is finishing his MFA, and he agreed with me that the moment you end the MFA you’ve been well trained to write a poem in a world where the currency is books. Certainly, in my own training, I’ve talked to many of my mentors about how a book is constructed—but its always quite hard, and frankly, a “project” can be a way to organize things. But there’s a danger in the project feeling like a project. One never wants a poem to feel obligatory or assigned. I’ve always loved Alan Dugan for refusing the book as an arc, which is how I interpret his decisions to simply call each book Poems. I say this to clear the space to call attention to Jill McDonough’s project book, Habeas Corpus. It’s a sequence of 50 sonnets, each one about a person executed in the United States between 1608 (in Jamestown, VA) and 2005 (in Somers, CT). Two of the sonnets are about the same woman—Mary Dyer, who was expelled from Boston after a mock execution, but came back and underwent a real one. McDonough’s research is remarkable, and 12 pages of notes detail the sources from which she took the quotes and stories of the executed. McDonough has worked with Prisoners since 1999, which may account for why her approach never approaches sentimentality or venom—she seems to know these people intimately. Her facility with language and stunning research are such that there’s an intimacy with every single one of the executed (and often the executors) in this book. The pitfalls of such a project are clear—but every single page of her brilliant book feels like a labor of love, not a labor. I wanted to reprint her first poem from the book, because it’s a case study in how to incorporate a found text, as well as how to keep the sonnet form rigorous: Early 1608: George Kendall Jamestown, VA The President did beat James Read, the Smyth. The Smyth not only gave him bad language, but soon stroake him againe and offred to strike him with... Continue reading
Posted Jan 5, 2010 at The Best American Poetry
I owe a debt to Cher. It’s quite possible that every gay man owes a debt to Cher, but I’ll only speak of mine, since it’s the one I know best. In 1999, I was in a bad place. I’d just broken up with Aleksei the Evil Surgeon, or rather I stopped seeing him after it turned out that Sergei the Championship Skier was actually his boyfriend. Which made me not his boyfriend. Of course there’d been signs. I was ready to break up with him when it turned out that Leeza the Violin Player was in fact his girlfriend, and not, as we had discussed, his beard. But I only found out that she’d been his girlfriend because he told me he’d broken up with her. He told me that they’d broken up so that he could be with me. I was unconvinced, but my American compatriots convinced me that “things are different in Russia,” and I ended up becoming the sort of clingy relationship victim I’d always distained. My days were only good if Alekesei called. Even knowing that he was a lying cheat didn’t soften the blow when it ended. I should mention that despite my truly atrocious Russian, Aleksei understood everything I said. Everything. Despite my terrible grammar, my tiny vocabulary, and my thick accent, he understood me all the time. He was literally the only person I could reliably talk to. You see the appeal. Enter Cher. Specifically Cher’s “Believe.” I think that it was the first time that most of us were aware of what we now casually call “vocoding,” and it was pretty awesome (much like the first time we became aware of “morphing” in Terminator 2 or the video for MJ’s “Black or White”). I for one couldn’t hear it enough. Whether at home in my room with Mtv Ru (a brand new Mtv at the time!) or out at St. Petersburg’s most happening gay club, “Believe” had me on my feet and dancing it out. You may have broken my heart Aleksei the Evil Surgeon, but you can never take away my believing in Life after Love!! Or maybe it’s “love after love.” I’m not sure it matters very much. I also watched a copy of Sliding Doors over and over again. I told you I was in a bad place. (The Russian title is Look Out! The Doors are Closing!) Now before you judge me too harshly for partaking of American pop culture when I was supposed to immersed in a foreign culture and language, bear in mind what Russian pop music looked like at the time. One of the more popular songs in Russia at the time was “Ты Бросил Меня» which translates to, «You dumped me.» You can watch the video for yourselves. It's the hearbreaking story of a golddigger who loses her sugar daddy. Nothing I could really dance it out to. (Before you cast me as the blonde and Aleksei as the mobster, bear in mind... Continue reading
Posted Jan 4, 2010 at The Best American Poetry
When I was 16, I read “13th Gen: Abort, Retry, Ignore, Fail?”—mostly because it promised to be about me, and since there was no sociology class in my high school, I thought I should give it a go. Yes, I thought like that in high school. That’s how I ended up this way. Also because I didn’t pick up Durkheim, I picked up pop sociology. I worked in a library. I had first pick of what came in. The book was cool because they had posted the book online (before the web!) and had comments from Gen X-ers in the margins, mostly to protest their insights. In some ways, it was what interactivity was supposed to look like. Smart, witty and selected insights that accompanied and challenged the text. A friend of mine was talking about trying to keep up with the comments in response to his girlfriend’s article on Salon about the current cultural meanings of sperm. I almost said, “who cares?” but obviously, he does. Oh interactivity. What Web are we up to now? But it shaped my view of trying to name and describe generations as both really fun and kind of useless. It may have been my first exposure to a project that was beautiful in its failure. The best insight from the book was that the horror movies of my childhood were all about evil children ruining the lives of their independent parents (The Omen, Halloween, etc), while the horror movies of Gen Y childhoods were all about parents protecting their precious babies (The Hand that Rocks the Cradle, etc). Hence, the culture hated kids during my youth; loved them during the Gen Y’s. And while, I more or less agree with the conclusion, it would take 10 minutes on IMDB to debunk the support. And what do you do with Rosemarie’s Baby? Anyway. When the 70s ended I was 4. When the 80’s ended, I was thrilled. The 80’s had been awful. You may remember them as the decade of Pet Shop Boys and Eurythmics, but living through them (at least where I was), was an endless scrim of bleached denim and RATT posters. The one cool kid’s birthday party that I went to in the 80’s involved my pretending familiarity with the Twisted Sister songbook. I still can’t figure out how the 80’s remain my favorite period of cultural production and I wasn’t aware of a single one of those productions while enduring the decade. Anyway—the 90’s were my time—and I had a lot of fun. I actually did a little dance when 1989 ended. And come on, 1989 was awesome. I even had my “Last one to leave turn out the lights” T-Shirt. It was funny if you knew it was about East Germany. So if the 80s were about the rise of language poetry & multiculturalism, and the 90s were the decade of the culture wars, what were the 00’s? Our last siecle totally came to a fin, and what should... Continue reading
Posted Jan 3, 2010 at The Best American Poetry
I was at a reading a few months ago, where a friend was reading from his new memoir. I’ve known him for a number of years as a poet. He’s been subject to a Lucy Grealy-like sequence of surgeries for neurological trauma, though unlike Lucy’s, his surgeries have never interfered with his stunning good looks (though it has impaired his vision—he doesn’t get to enjoy those good looks himself). The memoir is about how he was a golden boy living a charmed life until his first stroke. His poems are mostly about his experiences with cancer. The narrative arc is basically a fall from grace—from being the most popular and talented, to being a sudden invalid. But because I know him as a poet, I couldn’t help feeling like the narrative arc ends in poetry. He was broken, and he had to come join us here on the island of misfit toys. I never read memoirs by people I know. It’s part narcissism (if I’m going to know this about you, I want a direct audience) and part a fear of false intimacy (what if I meet someone at a party and casually reference the affair they had with their stepfather? awkward!). Now, oddly this doesn’t stop me from reading poems by people I know. With a poem, I feel like I know the line better. But I also don’t entirely trust memoirs. Poems calibrate a moment—they bring order to a chaos in order to make chaos visible. Memoirs have a story to tell; they give meaning to chaos (hence the public’s taste for memoir and my accompanying distate). But this explains why I suddenly had the uncomfortable realization (or feeling—perhaps if I read the memoir, I’ll find out his ambition was always to be a poet) that poetry was where you go when something is wrong with you. All poets have other professions (or trust funds)—teaching being the profession that usually comes closest to “poet,” since when you’re teaching, you’re talking about poems. It’s a profession where your knowledge of poetry comes in handy. But there’s something so frustrating to me about the margin poetry has come to exist on. I self consciously structured my life so that poetry would be at its center. It still surprises me that people seem not to like poetry—I mean, I get it, I know— I even understand that what I like about poetry is precisely what keeps it on the margin of culture in general. But still, it’s like, come on folks. Poetry is awesome. How did I end up a cheerleader on the island of misfit toys? The past year hasn’t been good for poets. Rachel Wetzsteon and Deborah Digges killed themselves. Reginald Shepherd died of cancer and Craig Arnold died in a freak accident while exploring volcanoes. I keep thinking that we need to take care of each other better—but I don’t know what that really means. What should we be doing that we aren’t? Rachel wasn’t a close friend... Continue reading
Posted Jan 2, 2010 at The Best American Poetry
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Jan 1, 2010