In the most bastardly vein of possible pleading, I cry, hear me. I am sliding towards termination, cremation, immortality—nothing exceptional there. But I seem to have been able to write poetry, very different poetry from what I was able to write 20 years ago, to my sense. One book this fall, A North Atlantic Wall, I read as a soul-journey to somewhere beyond physical restraints. In 2009, there was Prolog Pages, three works in one cover, composed by an observer who sought to be unnoticed as he travelled in the underbelly of globalized predation. I will read from both at the Zinc Bar on Feb. 18.