Received Pavement Saw #10 and Compostition Marble by Joshua Corey.

There is popular culture. There is popular "culture." And there is culture.

Received monsters and “Dutch Sound” by K. Silem Mohammad, “I Love Literature” by Anne Boyer, and At That by Skip Fox.

To break the valve, to release the toxic drugs bottled up inside of all this. Where have all the predecessors gone. The grand table is empty. Just when I thought this was a crumb, the edge has been erased. Where is the edge. I think Ohio Impromptu will illuminate the last paragraph, where I stopped in an essay I am writing. Or I was thinking about bitterness, every enemy of letting things be. The transylvanica is a sky subtracting leaves from leaves. It should be purple some day. In the garden. Or will I write a new poem for this new idea. To read it in Brooklyn this November. Dear Brooklyn, I love you. I hate you. Thinking even these flimsy connnections are irrelevant. After all, it is always an epic poem about science nonfiction. The poets are soft pop artists. The alien in my head loves doves just because. Wanting to insert, insert a genuine poem into every last thing that you see. To be addicted to that. A blind junky. Crazy and joyous. In these final days of summer.

Getting lost in Ohio. A speeding ticket in Meigs County. Then driving past a nuclear reactor. Then Chillicothe. Missing July entries. The heat is now gone. I haven't read a book in weeks. Last night, on the television, I watched George Bernard Shaw make Albert Einstein laugh.