This book
poetry daily, april 2001

this clear blue vinyl book, when turned on a turntable, plays its words, each folding of a leaf of this book changes utterly the previous page, as though the paper were clear, the ink the only opaque inside these walls;

this book means something different each time it is read, it means something different depending how it's read, oh, wait, that's every book

this book was never printed
this book was never thought
this book is my book and you can't have it
this book's not free

this book is not a person and I won't have it described like one, it has no character (or characters)

this book is the margin notes I wrote in Rachel Loden's books; Mme. Fifi is a black ink line drawing of Audrey Hepburn in a pink New Look dress walking a poodle down an abstracted Left Bank street, I am Brigitte Bardot, XXXXX,

this book graphs all the formulas of all the genre novels, sestinas, villanelles, canzones, and pantoums

this book isn't a bad run through of Euclid in English; my high school geometry book, it never had covers, I bought the cheapest one “knowing” it was about the content and on the title page I wrote “Mrs. Steve Comerford” over and over, Steve Comerford's wife if you read this, drop me a line.


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