about the author
“Suzanne Reid” has gone by so many other names that her language has become sick and she has no health insurance which has just been a terrible nuisance ever since she fell into that ditch in an attempt to exhume the machinery of something she once forgot dismembered that “other” than flesh remembered, that symptom of a larger disease.
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Wolf, Half Year
Suzanne Reid
it is a television in the corner, on the screen Don Giovanni is dining
luxuriously with
the commendatore’s statue and all the continents have been made from
aluminium
and hare hide
in the shape of his shape there is no privacy—your son has become a blanket
made
of felted hair that has nothing to do with the holocaust.
just a physical disability of public place, sure north-northwest of the private
apparatus it’s only bad when the winds are southerly you know ?
It’s all in the play, you’ll see what I mean. now i don’t know how to play
chess but a
bad network of large avenues, well. A poem is a needless attempt to
remember,
stephen told me that.