(1945 - 2017)The past is a spit-bucket.In that Way of hers,Anne dreamedabout Tom Bridwellthe night beforewe got the mailHoward wrotetelling Tom died.Imprudent as may beto relate one's dreamsat large, still to whomshe favors is confidedthe nightvisionof having sent Tomthat trio of drawings actualizedquite awake:the conical party hatrun over in the street,rescued, transported,drawn thrice, dubbed in his name,"The Roadkill Drawings."Tom wrote,It's passing strange... readingBirchard... stranger still actuallyunderstanding. He said,I take a very long time to eat,rereading Birchard. Said,Hecatomb requiresten or twelveat the pub, at the laundromat.Qualified praise thus:My favorite Canadianpoet. The CanadianBasho, said Tom. Elsewhere:This rabbit, especially the gravy,with lots of fresh-ground pepper,and rice as transport,preternaturally rich and earthy,makes me feel so goodthat I am almost guilty.In the end we need aRoadkill Concordanceto locate among his reamsof dense paragraphs the onefrom the cemetery up his Ridgeciting (sans attribution) ... neglectedgravescollapsing
Guy Birchard : Cigarette Cards (Vermont: Longhouse, 2009), Further than the Blood (Boston: Pressed Wafer, 2010), Hecatomb (Brooklyn: Pressed Wafer, 2017), Aggregate: retrospective (Bristol: Shearsman Books, 2018), Only Seemly (St. John's: Pedlar Press, 2019).
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan