In 1992, when I was a student of Charles Bernstein, he asked me to lead one of his classes in poetics on an occasion when he had to be away. The poets slated for discussion were Jack Spicer and Hannah Weiner. I knew Spicer’s work well, but my preparations for introducing Weiner were barely under way when the day of the class arrived. As luck would have it, Bernstein had left me a tape recording — yes, a cassette tape! — of Weiner reading from her work, and that was all I had to offer.
