I'm reading this book by Lewis Warsh, "Information from the Surface of Venus." What fills me with joy is the sense of entering into an unexpected, almost secret work. Warsh is not exactly the most talked-about poet even in avant circles. There's this wonderful poem where the speaker enters the house of his landlord in search of a hair-dryer with which to thaw frozen pipes in New Hampshire. He finds there some pornographic magazines.

Stuck in the book, which I bought for $4.50 at Subterreneum Books, is a list of

CORRECTIONS:

adolescence
then
restless
gauge our reflections
metonymy
centipedes
stevedore
supercilious
ouzo
supercilious

A nice "found poem."

There's also a poem about doing laundry in the sink instead of going to a laundromat.

I am struck by his use of rhyme and meter: he will just start up a rhyme scheme half-way through the poem, or get himself into a sing-song metrical pattern.

"Much in the same way a painter's brain
is in his wrist"