A lot of the words in this book are crooked on the page. On the inside back cover there are three sentences crammed at an angle near the top, with a bunch of pink space underneath. Many of the sentences that are sitting next to, or above, or below each other don’t seem on the surface to have any connection to one another. Yet somehow, when you finish reading this tiny book, you come away feeling like everything is perfectly positioned. “at the bowling alley/I presented myself to you/as a bouquet of tomatoes/& salami and feet &/you clunked the ball/on my foot & it/wasn’t like the Flintstones.” There’s always a final breathtaking line. “breathing w/ our wild pain/we hold on/until february/then it is february.” In the copy of the book I’ve got there’s a little handwritten note scrawled on the inside front cover. Here are my words,” the note says, “eat them.” I’ll gladly eat your words any day, Jonathan. They always taste so damn good. (KS)
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