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My Friendly Neurotransmitters (rough draft)


In Poland they call unfiltered coffee Turkish. I don’t know how long this has been going on. My clothes are drying on a white rack by my window in Block 7A. I’m in a small cramped room in New Europe. A concrete grave in a maze of flats. These flats are my patrons. I’ve can’t get a grip. My ears keep ringing. Old receipts clutter my desk and I’m feeling a bit like a rat. I want to tell a story but I can only find beginnings. I am all beginnings. Snowflakes are falling and I still can’t see the future. Behold my muscles and all their friendly neurotransmitters. It’s not what I think but what thinks through me.


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I began the first half of this article (Notre Dame Review #4) by mentioning some of the limits to the legendary hospitality Ireland has shown to its poets. If you arrive in Ireland from any point of departure outside of Eastern Europe, you will indeed find a public far more willing than the one you left behind to grant poets the recognition all but the most ascetic secretly crave. However, this hospitality has never extended to Irish poets w…