The questions came out of walks — from El Paso Service Processing Center (ICE Detention) to the Bus Route 50 stop, outside USPS on Boeing Ave. On sandstorm nights, the walk was lean and grimace, spit and hack. The wide stretches required it; long blocks zoned postwar. Required wait, corners of dust lots labelled “Property of US Government,” under the airport watch tower and the Super Guppy’s tarmac gleam.
Charles Bernstein: The Poetry of Idiomatic Insistences, edited by Paul Bové, focusses, mostly, on international contexts, including forewords to translated editions (translated for the first time), interviews, and a review of Topsy-Turvy.
I left Paris in 1967 not only because I had quit medical school to become a writer (Paris too does have some writers, right?) but because I had decided to write in English — or more accurately in American English. If French or German (and now, Luxembourgish) are the likely languages a citizen of the Grand Duchy normally decides between on the way to becoming a writer, I, except for very few teenage tries in those languages, always preferred that other one, my fourth language.