Shroud of the Gnome


James Tate wrote a book called Shroud of the Gnome.

Calling something a “blog” makes any enterprise—even one that feeds hungry animals (as this does) and gives fair compensation (calmly nodding)—sound faddish and lame.


Lick the conch-shell’s natural mouthpiece:

Valerie Plame is a beautiful name.


Poetry has an appetite.

The walls of the academy are graffitied with Internet slogans. Mottoes like Fuck triage and The boilcloth reeks of the hamper.

Sarah named obscure flowers and trees in her poems. Gary, a lesser poet, listed psych bands.


The tripping kids shamed us, we who were merely drunk and stoned, by effortlessly getting a good campfire going.


Your meek, semipotent austerity is awesome.

Unclaimed tickets will be shredded and the shreds will be burned.

In order to receive your email, I’ll need to FedEx a kiss from my eyeball to yours.


You’re a body of water, dude! I’m on acid!!!!