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More links featuring Anne Boyer again, whose Selected Dreams, with a Note on Phrenology is a buoyant portrait of a generation shot through with glints of Aristotle-inspired questioning.

Matt and Katy lived in a secret art school hidden in the depths of a large brown river. I was a spy. I appeared to be working for the repressive regime that searched for secret art schools, so the regime and I hauled the school up out of the river, and the building was like a Gaudi, and those two stood on the balcony of the building though everyone was wet and smelled like river.

After, we went to a big bicycle place and discussed Andy's career as a music writer.

This is one of the sixty-one e-chaps published on the Dusie site in 2007. You can find out more about the whole project in Jacket 35, but I preferred to just dip in and be surprised, for example by Simone Muench/William Allegrezza's Sonoluminescence, tranced in-the-body love idylls somewhere deep within the hospital, like this:

     next to the white bed that wears you,
                    a lizard-skin bag
     black and bubbled as a smoker's lung

     after surgery
     you wake with fog sensitivity,
     bandages smelling of wet pheasants, disinfectant.

Also, Catherine Daly's must-have Identity Theft, Eileen R. Tabios' flying flamenco primer, THE SINGER and Others, and Elisabeth Workman's inlaid alphabet casket, opolis.

And if you aren't in the mood for doing so very much reading, you can always try Susana Gardner's (Dusie facilitator) inky EBB PORT (erasures of Elizabeth Barrett Browning's Sonnets from the Portuguese), or Giles Goodland's classical erratogenic paraparasitic postpoem.

One e-chap that isn't mentioned on the main Dusie page is Identity Crisis, the unsung forerunner to last October's notorious Issue 1 anthology. Both works named a large slice of internet-roving poetry people and made a joke out of our pitiful predilection for ego-searches and setting Google Alerts on our own names. But working with celebrity is like working with gold, a little comes off on your own fingernails. And the dreams-about-other-poets of Boyer and Adam Fieled, not to mention (elsewhere) Rauan Klassnik suggests that there is, in fact, just enough celebrity around to sustain a creepy sort of social poetry.


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