Surely there's a real me, a real Stephanie Gray, a Buffalo, a band once called Metallica, real truckers wearing caps and a breadstore full of real bread that will never close. Leave it to a filmmaker poet (Stephanie Gray) to write a post melancholy book of poems in which everything leaving is saved not lost both by history's first appearance in print of "holy moly" and also the simple fact of repetition getting new (again) in the hands of this natural master or mistress. Stephanie says it best: It's like strangers, it's like fire.
                                                                 —Eileen Myles

Memory being abandoned buildings, talented lips, the hairy embrace of Lincoln. Born, so to speak, and taking the wheel so as to be blown sky-high and jobless. Wanting to be held and betting, in this myopic, tenderless 21st century America, on sleeping for free. A hell of a book.
                                                                 —Anselm Berrigan

Valerie Fox's idiosyncratic and often hilarious poems, with their playful shifts of syntax and thought, are shadowed over by a mysterious grace.
                                                                 —Lewis Warsh