A 32-page chapbook publication of new work by Fred Goodwin, author of Virgil’s Cow. Ecstatic high lyric leaking out of the holes left by typographical damage and Shakespearean/familial psychodrama. A concentrated dose of the ragged sublime. Catullus awaking in the post-9/11 world.

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Buber’s Bag Man

Dreams he’s pissing into a bottle=on the nimbus that is Jerusalem= by The Damascus Gate:
His mother dancing out front on the grass where she had pep in her steppe

right up until the end when the Gods oh Origami, demons she told im, cut her paper
legs off ah the knees. He waz formed from a single sheet of wet paper, folded

inward where we weeps, the weight of water lapping at the shore line of our matter.
(she told him, wispering)     While I nattered to the whip o wills, a tattered doorman w/ a

tattooed m     heart, spilled vials of poison over the linoleum I laid down over skin, over
the freight o f the page, burned & was blown away. He smoked a pipe full of soap

bubbles, made of His own matter, a crematorium under the moon of each nail. Bullfrogs
croaked from inside the synagogue. [as my seasonal human nature]. Drifterd by.

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