42 files changed, 641 insertions, 554 deletions

@@ -0,0 +1,145 @@
+---
+title: 'How to read this'
+project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves'
+...
+
+This book is an exploration of life, of all possible lives that could be
+lived.  Each of the poems contained herein have been written by a different
+person, with his own history, culture, and emotions.  True, they are all
+related, but no more than any of us is related through our genetics, our
+shared planet, or our yearnings.
+
+Fernando Pessoa wrote poems under four different identities---he called
+them *heteronyms*---that were known during his lifetime, though after his
+death over sixty have been found and catalogued.  He called them heteronyms as
+opposed to pseudonyms because they were much more than names he wrote under.
+They were truly different writing selves, concerned with different ideas and
+writing with different styles: Alberto Caeiro wrote pastorals; Ricardo Reis
+wrote more formal odes; Álvaro de Campos wrote these long, Whitman-esque
+pieces (one to Whitman himself); and Pessoa's own name was used for poems that
+are kind of similar to all the others.  It seems as though Pessoa found it
+inefficient to try and write everything he wanted only in his own self; rather
+he parceled out the different pieces and developed them into full identities,
+at the cost of his own: "I subsist as a kind of medium of myself, but I'm less
+real than the others, less substantial, less personal, and easily influenced
+by them all."  de Campos said of him at one point, "[Fernando Pessoa, strictly
+speaking, doesn't exist.][pessoa-exist]"
+
+It's not just Pessoa---I, strictly speaking, don't exist, both as the
+specific me that writes this now and as the concept of selfhood, the ego.
+Heraclitus famously said that we can't step into the [same river][] twice, and
+the fact of the matter is that we can't occupy the same self twice.  It's
+constantly changing and adapting to new stimuli from the environment, from
+other selves, from inside itself, and each time it forms anew into something
+that's never existed before.  The person I am beginning a poem is a separate
+being than the one I am finishing a poem, and part of it is the poem I've
+written has brought forth some other dish onto the great table that is myself.
+
+In the same way, with each poem you read of this, you too could become a
+different person.  Depending on which order you read them in, you could be any
+number of possible people.  If you follow the threads I've laid out for you,
+there are so many possible selves; if you disregard those and go a different
+way there are quite a few more.  However, at the end of the journey there is
+only one self that you will occupy, the others disappearing from this universe
+and going maybe somewhere else, maybe nowhere at all.
+
+There is a scene in *The Neverending Story* where Bastian is trying to find
+his way out of the desert.  He opens a door and finds himself in the Temple of
+a Thousand Doors, which is never seen from the outside but only once someone
+enters it.  It is a series of rooms with six sides each and three doors: one
+from the room before and two choices.  In life, each of these rooms is a
+moment, but where Bastian can choose which of only two doors to enter each
+time, in life there can be any number of doors and we don't always choose
+which to go through---in fact, I would argue that most of the time we aren't
+allowed the luxury.
+
+What happens to those other doors, those other possibilities?  Is there some
+other version of the self that for whatever complexities of circumstance and
+will chose a different door at an earlier moment?  The answer to this, of
+course, is that we can never know for sure, though this doesn't keep us from
+trying through the process of regret.  We go back and try that other door in
+our mind, extrapolating a possible present from our own past.  This is
+ultimately unsatisfying, not only because whatever world is imagined is not
+the one currently lived, but because it becomes obvious that the alternate
+model of reality is not complete: we can only extrapolate from the original
+room, absolutely without knowledge of any subsequent possible choices.  This
+causes a deep disappointment, a frustration with the inability to know all
+possible timelines (coupled with the insecurity that this may not be the best
+of all possible worlds) that we feel as regret.
+
+In this way, every moment we live is an [elegy][] to every possible future
+that might have stemmed from it.  Annie Dillard states this in a biological
+manner when she says in *Pilgrim at Tinker Creek*, "Every glistening egg is a
+memento mori."  Nature is inefficient---it spends a hundred lifetimes to get
+one that barely works.  The fossil record is littered with the failed
+experiments of evolution, many of which failed due only to blind chance: an
+asteroid, a shift in weather patterns, an inefficient copulation method.  Each
+living person today has twenty dead standing behind him, and that only counts
+the people that actually lived.  How many missed opportunities stand behind
+any of us?
+
+The real problem with all of this is that time is only additive.  There's no
+way to dial it back and start over, with new choices or new environments. Even
+when given the chance to do something again, we do it *again*, with the
+reality given by our previous action.  Thus we are constantly creating and
+being created by the world.  The self is never the same from one moment to the
+next.
+
+A poem is like a snapshot of a self.  If it's any good, it captures the
+emotional core of the self at the time of writing for communication with
+future selves, either within the same person or outside of it.  Thus revision
+is possible, and the new poem created will be yet another snapshot of the
+future self as changed by the original poem.  The page becomes a window into
+the past, a particular past as experienced by one self.  The poem is a
+remembering of a self that no longer exists, in other words, an elegy.
+
+A snapshot doesn't capture the entire subject, however.  It leaves out the
+background as it's obscured by foreground objects; it fails to include
+anything that isn't contained in its finite frame.  In order to build a
+working definition of identity, we must include all possible selves over all
+possible timelines, combined into one person: identity is the combined effect
+of all possible selves over time.  A poem leaves much of this out: it is the
+one person standing in front of twenty ghosts.
+
+A poem is the place where the selves of the reader and the speaker meet, in
+their respective times and places.  In this way a poem is outside of time or
+place, because it changes its location each time it's read.  Each time it's
+two different people meeting.  The problem with a poem is that it's such a
+small window---if we met in real life the way we met in poems, we would see
+nothing of anyone else but a square the size of a postage stamp.  It has been
+argued this is the way we see time and ourselves in it, as well: Vonnegut uses
+the metaphor of a subject strapped to a railroad car moving at a set pace,
+with a six-foot-long metal tube placed in front of the subject's eye; the
+landscape in the distance is time, and what we see is the only way in which we
+interact with it.  It's the same with a poem and the self: we can only see and
+interact with a small kernel.  This is why it's possible to write more than
+one poem.
+
+Due to this kernel nature of poetry, a good poem should focus itself to
+extract as much meaning as possible from that one kernel of identity to which
+it has access.  It should be an atom of selfhood, irreducible and resistant to
+paraphrase, because it tries to somehow echo the large unsayable part of
+identity outside the frame of the self.  It is the [kernel][] that contains a
+universe, or that speaks around one that's hidden; if it's a successful poem
+then it makes the smallest circuit possible.  This is why the commentary on
+poems is so voluminous: a poem is tightly packed meaning that commentators try
+to unpack to get at that universality inside it.  A fortress of dialectic is
+constructed that ultimately obstructs the meaning behind the poem; it becomes
+the foreground in the photograph that disallows us to view the horizon beyond
+it.
+
+With this in mind, I collect these poems that were written over a period of
+four years into this book.  Where I can, I insert cross-references (like the
+one above, in the margin) to other pieces in the text where I think the two
+resonate in some way.  You can read this book in any way you'd like: you can
+go front-to-back, or back-to-front, or you can follow the arrows around, or
+you can work out a complex mathematical formula with Merseinne primes and
+logarithms and the 2000 Census information, or you can go completely randomly
+through like a magazine, or at least the way I flip through magazines.  I
+think writing is a communication of the self, and I think this is the best way
+to communicate mine in all its multiversity.
+
+[pessoa-exist]: 20.html
+[same river]: 31-mountain.html
+[elegy]: 98-words-meaning.html
+[kernel]: 11-arspoetica.html
@@ -1,148 +0,0 @@
----
-title: 'How to read this'
-project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves'
-...
-
-This book is an exploration of life, of all possible lives that could be
-lived. Each of the poems contained herein have been written by a
-different person, with his own history, culture, and emotions. True,
-they are all related, but no more than any of us is related through our
-genetics, our shared planet, or our yearnings.
-
-Fernando Pessoa wrote poems under four different identities---he called
-them *heteronyms*---that were known during his lifetime, though after his
-death over sixty have been found and catalogued. He called them
-heteronyms as opposed to pseudonyms because they were much more than
-names he wrote under. They were truly different writing selves,
-concerned with different ideas and writing with different styles:
-Alberto Caeiro wrote pastorals; Ricardo Reis wrote more formal odes;
-Álvaro de Campos wrote these long, Whitman-esque pieces (one to Whitman
-himself); and Pessoa's own name was used for poems that are kind of
-similar to all the others. It seems as though Pessoa found it
-inefficient to try and write everything he wanted only in his own self;
-rather he parceled out the different pieces and developed them into full
-identities, at the cost of his own: "I subsist as a kind of medium of
-myself, but I'm less real than the others, less substantial, less
-personal, and easily influenced by them all." de Campos said of him at
-one point, "Fernando Pessoa, strictly speaking, doesn't exist."
-
-It's not just Pessoa---I, strictly speaking, don't exist, both as the
-specific me that writes this now and as the concept of selfhood, the
-ego. Heraclitus famously said that we can't step into the same river
-twice, and the fact of the matter is that we can't occupy the same self
-twice. It's constantly changing and adapting to new stimuli from the
-environment, from other selves, from inside itself, and each time it
-forms anew into something that's never existed before. The person I am
-beginning a poem is a separate being than the one I am finishing a poem,
-and part of it is the poem I've written has brought forth some other
-dish onto the great table that is myself.
-
-In the same way, with each poem you read of this, you too could become a
-different person. Depending on which order you read them in, you could
-be any number of possible people. If you follow the threads I've laid
-out for you, there are so many possible selves; if you disregard those
-and go a different way there are quite a few more. However, at the end
-of the journey there is only one self that you will occupy, the others
-disappearing from this universe and going maybe somewhere else, maybe
-nowhere at all.
-
-There is a scene in *The Neverending Story* where Bastian is trying to
-find his way out of the desert. He opens a door and finds himself in the
-Temple of a Thousand Doors, which is never seen from the outside but
-only once someone enters it. It is a series of rooms with six sides each
-and three doors: one from the room before and two choices. In life, each
-of these rooms is a moment, but where Bastian can choose which of only
-two doors to enter each time, in life there can be any number of doors
-and we don't always choose which to go through---in fact, I would argue
-that most of the time we aren't allowed the luxury.
-
-What happens to those other doors, those other possibilities? Is there
-some other version of the self that for whatever complexities of
-circumstance and will chose a different door at an earlier moment? The
-answer to this, of course, is that we can never know for sure, though
-this doesn't keep us from trying through the process of regret. We go
-back and try that other door in our mind, extrapolating a possible
-present from our own past. This is ultimately unsatisfying, not only
-because whatever world is imagined is not the one currently lived, but
-because it becomes obvious that the alternate model of reality is not
-complete: we can only extrapolate from the original room, absolutely
-without knowledge of any subsequent possible choices. This causes a deep
-disappointment, a frustration with the inability to know all possible
-timelines (coupled with the insecurity that this may not be the best of
-all possible worlds) that we feel as regret.
-
-In this way, every moment we live is an elegy to every possible future
-that might have stemmed from it. Annie Dillard states this in a
-biological manner when she says in *Pilgrim at Tinker Creek*, "Every
-glistening egg is a memento mori." Nature is inefficient---it spends a
-hundred lifetimes to get one that barely works. The fossil record is
-littered with the failed experiments of evolution, many of which failed
-due only to blind chance: an asteroid, a shift in weather patterns, an
-inefficient copulation method. Each living person today has twenty dead
-standing behind him, and that only counts the people that actually
-lived. How many missed opportunities stand behind any of us?
-
-The real problem with all of this is that time is only additive. There's
-no way to dial it back and start over, with new choices or new
-environments. Even when given the chance to do something again, we do it
-*again*, with the reality given by our previous action. Thus we are
-constantly creating and being created by the world. The self is never
-the same from one moment to the next.
-
-A poem is like a snapshot of a self. If it's any good, it captures the
-emotional core of the self at the time of writing for communication with
-future selves, either within the same person or outside of it. Thus
-revision is possible, and the new poem created will be yet another
-snapshot of the future self as changed by the original poem. The page
-becomes a window into the past, a particular past as experienced by one
-self. The poem is a remembering of a self that no longer exists, in
-other words, an elegy.
-
-A snapshot doesn't capture the entire subject, however. It leaves out
-the background as it's obscured by foreground objects; it fails to
-include anything that isn't contained in its finite frame. In order to
-build a working definition of identity, we must include all possible
-selves over all possible timelines, combined into one person: identity
-is the combined effect of all possible selves over time. A poem leaves
-much of this out: it is the one person standing in front of twenty
-ghosts.
-
-A poem is the place where the selves of the reader and the speaker meet,
-in their respective times and places. In this way a poem is outside of
-time or place, because it changes its location each time it's read. Each
-time it's two different people meeting. The problem with a poem is that
-it's such a small window---if we met in real life the way we met in poems,
-we would see nothing of anyone else but a square the size of a postage
-stamp. It has been argued this is the way we see time and ourselves in
-it, as well: Vonnegut uses the metaphor of a subject strapped to a
-railroad car moving at a set pace, with a six-foot-long metal tube
-placed in front of the subject's eye; the landscape in the distance is
-time, and what we see is the only way in which we interact with it. It's
-the same with a poem and the self: we can only see and interact with a
-small kernel. This is why it's possible to write more than one poem.
-
-Due to this kernel nature of poetry, a good poem should focus itself to
-extract as much meaning as possible from that one kernel of identity to
-which it has access. It should be an atom of selfhood, irreducible and
-resistant to paraphrase, because it tries to somehow echo the large
-unsayable part of identity outside the frame of the self. It is the
-kernel that contains a universe, or that speaks around one that's
-hidden; if it's a successful poem then it makes the smallest circuit
-possible. This is why the commentary on poems is so voluminous: a poem
-is tightly packed meaning that commentators try to unpack to get at that
-universality inside it. A fortress of dialectic is constructed that
-ultimately obstructs the meaning behind the poem; it becomes the
-foreground in the photograph that disallows us to view the horizon
-beyond it.
-
-With this in mind, I collect these poems that were written over a period
-of four years into this book. Where I can, I insert cross-references
-(like the one above, in the margin) to other pieces in the text where I
-think the two resonate in some way. You can read this book in any way
-you'd like: you can go front-to-back, or back-to-front, or you can
-follow the arrows around, or you can work out a complex mathematical
-formula with Merseinne primes and logarithms and the 2000 Census
-information, or you can go completely randomly through like a magazine,
-or at least the way I flip through magazines. I think writing is a
-communication of the self, and I think this is the best way to
-communicate mine in all its multiversity.
@@ -3,7 +3,7 @@ title: 'And'
 project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves'
 epigraph: |
 "What is your favorite word?"
-"And. It is so hopeful."
+"And.  It is so hopeful."
 ...
 
 And you were there in the start of it all \
@@ -12,9 +12,9 @@ that would fly away like an afterthought \
 and you turned to me the window light on your face \
 and you asked me something that I did not recognize \
 like a great throng of people who are not you \
-and I asked are we in a church \
+and I asked are we in a [church][] \
 and you answered with the look on your face \
-of someone grieving something gone for years \
+of someone [grieving something gone][] for years \
  but that they had been reminded of \
 by a catch in the light or in someone's voice \
 and I think maybe it could have been mine \
@@ -26,3 +26,6 @@ he was speaking and holding a book \
 and I didn't understand him he was far away \
 and I could tell I was missing something important \
 and you nodded to yourself at something he said
+
+[church]: 13-boar.html
+[grieving something gone]: 25-roughgloves.html
@@ -3,27 +3,31 @@ title: 'On seeing the panorama of the Apollo 11 landing site'
 project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves'
 ...
 
-So it's the fucking moon. Big deal. As if \
+So it's the [fucking moon][].  Big deal.  As if \
 you haven't seen it before, hanging in the sky \
-like a piece of rotten meat nailed to the wall,
+like a piece of [rotten meat][] nailed to the wall,
 
-a maudlin love letter (the i's dotted with hearts) \
-tacked to the sky's door like ninety-eight theses. \
+a maudlin love letter (the i's dotted with [hearts][]) \
+tacked to the sky's door like ninety-eight theses.  \
 Don't stare at it like it means anything.
 
 Don't give it the chance to collect meaning \
-from your hand like an old pigeon. Don't dare ascribe \
+from your hand like an old pigeon.  Don't dare ascribe \
 it a will, or call it fickle, or think it has any say
 
-in your affairs. It's separated from your life \
+in your affairs.  It's separated from your life \
 by three hundred eighty-four thousand miles of space, \
 the same distance you stepped away from time that night
 
 you said your love was broken, a crippled gyroscope \
-knocking in the dark. It was then that time fell apart, \
+knocking in the dark.  It was then that time fell apart, \
 had a nervous breakdown and started following you
 
-everywhere, moonfaced, always asking where you're going. \
+everywhere, moonfaced, always asking where you're going.  \
 You keep trying to get away from it but it nuzzles closer \
 and sings you songs that sound like the cooing of a dove \
 that will only escape again into an empty sky at dawn.
+
+[fucking moon]: 43-deathstrumpet.html
+[rotten meat]: 25-roughgloves.html
+[hearts]: 98-hez-proverbs.html
@@ -0,0 +1,41 @@
+---
+title: 'Ars poetica'
+project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves'
+...
+
+What is poetry?  [Poetry is.][is]  Inasmuch as life is, so is poetry.  Here is
+the problem: life is very big and complex.  Human beings are neither.  We
+are small, simple beings that don’t want to know all of the myriad
+interactions happening all around us, within us, as a part of us, all
+the hours of every day.  We much prefer knowing only that which is just
+in front of our faces, staring us back with a look of utter contempt.
+This is why many people are depressed.
+
+Poetry is an attempt made by some to open up our field of view, to maybe
+check on something else that isn’t staring us in the face so
+contemptibly.  Maybe something else is smiling at us, we think.  So we
+write poetry to force ourselves to look away from the [mirror][] of our
+existence to see something else.
+
+This is generally painful.  To make it less painful, poetry compresses
+reality a lot to make it more consumable.  It takes life, that seawater,
+and boils it down and boils it down until only the salt remains, the
+important parts that we can focus on and make some sense of the
+senselessness of life.  Poetry is life bouillon, and to thoroughly enjoy
+a poem we must put that bouillon back into the seawater of life and make
+a delicious soup out of it.  To make this soup, to decompress the poem
+into an emotion or life, requires a lot of brainpower.  A good reader
+will have this brainpower.  A good poem will not require it.
+
+What this means is: a poem should be self-extracting.  It should be a
+rare vanilla in the bottle, waiting only for someone to open it and
+sniff it and suddenly there they are, in the orchid that vanilla came
+from, in the tropical land where it grew next to its brothers and sister
+vanilla plants.  They feel the pain of having their children taken from
+them.  A good poem leaves a feeling of loss and of intense beauty.  The
+reader does nothing to achieve this—they are merely the receptacle of
+the feeling that the poem forces onto them.  In a way, poetry is a crime.
+But it is the most beautiful crime on this crime-ridden earth.
+
+[is]: 98-words-meaning.html
+[mirror]: 28-moongone.html
@@ -1,38 +0,0 @@
----
-title: 'Ars poetica'
-project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves'
-...
-
-What is poetry? Poetry is. Inasmuch as life is, so is poetry. Here is
-the problem: life is very big and complex. Human beings are neither. We
-are small, simple beings that don’t want to know all of the myriad
-interactions happening all around us, within us, as a part of us, all
-the hours of every day. We much prefer knowing only that which is just
-in front of our faces, staring us back with a look of utter contempt.
-This is why many people are depressed.
-
-Poetry is an attempt made by some to open up our field of view, to maybe
-check on something else that isn’t staring us in the face so
-contemptibly. Maybe something else is smiling at us, we think. So we
-write poetry to force ourselves to look away from the mirror of our
-existence to see something else.
-
-This is generally painful. To make it less painful, poetry compresses
-reality a lot to make it more consumable. It takes life, that seawater,
-and boils it down and boils it down until only the salt remains, the
-important parts that we can focus on and make some sense of the
-senselessness of life. Poetry is life bouillon, and to thoroughly enjoy
-a poem we must put that bouillon back into the seawater of life and make
-a delicious soup out of it. To make this soup, to decompress the poem
-into an emotion or life, requires a lot of brainpower. A good reader
-will have this brainpower. A good poem will not require it.
-
-What this means is: a poem should be self-extracting. It should be a
-rare vanilla in the bottle, waiting only for someone to open it and
-sniff it and suddenly there they are, in the orchid that vanilla came
-from, in the tropical land where it grew next to its brothers and sister
-vanilla plants. They feel the pain of having their children taken from
-them. A good poem leaves a feeling of loss and of intense beauty. The
-reader does nothing to achieve this—they are merely the receptacle of
-the feeling that the poem forces onto them. In a way, poetry is a crime.
-But it is the most beautiful crime on this crime-ridden earth.
@@ -0,0 +1,29 @@
+---
+title: 'The ocean overflows with camels'
+project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves'
+...
+
+We found your [shirt][] deep in the dark water, \
+caught on the clothesline of sleeping pills.  \
+Your head on the shore was streaming tears \
+like sleeves or the coronas of saints saved \
+from fire.  The burning bush began crying \
+like a child who misses his mother.  Traffic \
+slammed shut like an eye.  God's mean [left hook][] \
+knocked us out, and we began swimming.  \
+Bruises bloomed like algae on a lake.  \
+Your [father][] beat your chest and screamed \
+for someone to open a window.  The air \
+stopped breathing.  Fish clogged its gills.  \
+Birds sang too loudly, trying to drown out \
+your father's cries, but all their sweetness \
+was not enough.  No polite noises will be made \
+anymore, he told us, clawing your breastbone.  \
+He opened your heart to air again.  Camels \
+flowed from you both like water from the rock.  \
+God spoke up, but nobody listened to him.  \
+We hung you up on the line to dry.
+
+[shirt]: 24-lovesong.html
+[left hook]: 25-roughgloves.html
+[father]: 15-angeltoabraham.html
@@ -0,0 +1,28 @@
+---
+title: 'The Boar'
+project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves'
+...
+
+Now the ticking clocks scare me.  \
+The [empty][] rooms, clock towers, belfries; \
+I am terrified by them all.
+
+I really used to enjoy going to church, \
+singing in the choir, listening to the sermon.  \
+Now the chairs squeal like dying pigs---
+
+It was the boar that did it.  \
+[Fifteen feet][] from me that night \
+in the grass, rooting for God \
+knows what, finding me instead.
+
+I ran, not knowing where or how, \
+not looking for his pursuit of me.  \
+I ran to God's front door, found \
+it locked, found the [house][] empty
+
+with a note saying, "Condemned."
+
+[empty]: 31-mountain.html
+[Fifteen feet]: 38-telemarketer.html
+[house]: 21-i-am.html
@@ -1,25 +0,0 @@
----
-title: 'The ocean overflows with camels'
-project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves'
-...
-
-We found your shirt deep in the dark water, \
-caught on the clothesline of sleeping pills. \
-Your head on the shore was streaming tears \
-like sleeves or the coronas of saints saved \
-from fire. The burning bush began crying \
-like a child who misses his mother. Traffic \
-slammed shut like an eye. God's mean left hook \
-knocked us out, and we began swimming. \
-Bruises bloomed like algae on a lake. \
-Your father beat your chest and screamed \
-for someone to open a window. The air \
-stopped breathing. Fish clogged its gills. \
-Birds sang too loudly, trying to drown out \
-your father's cries, but all their sweetness \
-was not enough. No polite noises will be made \
-anymore, he told us, clawing your breastbone. \
-He opened your heart to air again. Camels \
-flowed from you both like water from the rock. \
-God spoke up, but nobody listened to him. \
-We hung you up on the line to dry.
@@ -1,24 +0,0 @@
----
-title: 'The Boar'
-project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves'
-...
-
-Now the ticking clocks scare me. \
-The empty rooms, clock towers, belfries; \
-I am terrified by them all.
-
-I really used to enjoy going to church, \
-singing in the choir, listening to the sermon. \
-Now the chairs squeal like dying pigs---
-
-It was the boar that did it. \
-Fifteen feet from me that night \
-in the grass, rooting for God \
-knows what, finding me instead.
-
-I ran, not knowing where or how, \
-not looking for his pursuit of me. \
-I ran to God's front door, found \
-it locked, found the house empty
-
-with a note saying, "Condemned."
@@ -0,0 +1,26 @@
+---
+title: 'Dead man'
+project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves'
+...
+
+A dead man finds his way into our [hearts][] \
+simply by opening the door and walking in.  \
+He pours himself a drink, speaks aimlessly \
+about hunting or some bats he saw \
+on the way over, wheeling around each other.  \
+Look how [they spin][], he says, it's like the \
+ripples atoms make as they hurl past each other \
+in the space between their bodies.  \
+We mention the eels at the aquarium, how \
+their bodies [knot while mating][].  The dead man \
+was a boyscout once, and tied a lot of knots.  \
+His favorite was the one with the rabbit \
+and the hole, and the rabbit going in and out \
+and around the tree.  The dead man liked it \
+because he liked to pretend that the rabbit \
+was running from a fox, and the rabbit \
+always ended up safe, back in his hole.
+
+[hearts]: 98-words-meaning.html
+[they spin]: 28-moongone.html
+[knot while mating]: 34-spittle.html
@@ -8,18 +8,21 @@ what if you miss my small voice amongst the creaking \
 of your own grief, kill your son unknowing \
 of what he will be, and commit Israel to nothing?
 
-Abraham, you must know or hope that God \
+Abraham, you must know or hope that [God][] \
 will not allow your son to die; you must know \
 that this is a test, but then why \
-are you so bent on Isaac's destruction? \
+are you so bent on Isaac's destruction?  \
 Look at your eyes; there is more than fear \
-there. I see in your eyes desperation, \
+there.  I see in your eyes desperation, \
 a manic passion to do right by your God \
 whom you are not able to see or know.
 
-Am I too late? I will try to stay \
+Am I too late?  I [will try][] to stay \
 your old hands, the knife clenched \
 within them, intent on ending life.
 
 Will you hear my small voice amongst the creaking, \
 or will it be the chance bleating of a passing ram?
+
+[God]: 13-boar.html
+[will try]: 21-i-am.html
@@ -1,22 +0,0 @@
----
-title: 'Dead man'
-project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves'
-...
-
-A dead man finds his way into our hearts \
-simply by opening the door and walking in. \
-He pours himself a drink, speaks aimlessly \
-about hunting or some bats he saw \
-on the way over, wheeling around each other. \
-Look how they spin, he says, it's like the \
-ripples atoms make as they hurl past each other \
-in the space between their bodies. \
-We mention the eels at the aquarium, how \
-their bodies knot while mating. The dead man \
-was a boyscout once, and tied a lot of knots. \
-His favorite was the one with the rabbit \
-and the hole, and the rabbit going in and out \
-and around the tree. The dead man liked it \
-because he liked to pretend that the rabbit \
-was running from a fox, and the rabbit \
-always ended up safe, back in his hole.
@@ -0,0 +1,38 @@
+---
+title: 'Feeding the raven'
+project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves'
+...
+
+You never can tell just when Charlie Sheen will enter your life.  For me,
+it was last Thursday.  I was reading some translation of a Japanese
+translation of "The Raven" in which the Poe and the raven become
+friends.  At one point the raven gets very sick and Poe feeds him at his
+bedside and nurses him back to health.  The story was very heartwarming
+and sad at the same time and my tears were welling up when suddenly I
+heard a knock on my door.
+
+I shuffled over, sniffling but managing to keep my cheeks dry to open
+it.  Of course Charlie was beaming on the other side, with a bag of
+flowers and a grin like a [dog][]'s.  He bounded in the room without saying
+hello and threw the flowers in the sink, opened the refrigerator and
+started poking around.  I said "It's nice to see you too" and went to my
+room to get a camera, as well as a notebook for him to sign.
+
+When I came back he was on the floor, hunched and groaning.  I looked on
+the table to see a month-old half-gallon of milk---now cottage
+cheese---half-empty and dripping.  The remnants were on his mouth, and at
+once I saw my chance to become Poe in this [translation of a translation][]
+of a translation.  I knelt next to Charlie, cradled his head in my lap.
+He looked up at me with a stare full of terror.  I returned it levelly,
+making cooing noises at him until he calmed down.
+
+When he was calm he excused himself to be sick on my toilet.  He wouldn't
+let me follow but said he would sign whatever I liked when he got back.
+After half an hour passed and all I'd had for company was the ticking of
+the [clock][], I went to the bathroom door.  I knocked carefully---once, then
+twice---to no beaming face, no flowers.  I opened the door.  There was shit
+on the floor and the window was open.  There was a breeze blowing.
+
+[dog]: 98-hez-purpose-dogs.html
+[translation of a translation]: 41-todaniel.html
+[clock]: 13-boar.html
@@ -1,34 +0,0 @@
----
-title: 'Feeding the raven'
-project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves'
-...
-
-You never can tell just when Charlie Sheen will enter your life. For me,
-it was last Thursday. I was reading some translation of a Japanese
-translation of "The Raven" in which the Poe and the raven become
-friends. At one point the raven gets very sick and Poe feeds him at his
-bedside and nurses him back to health. The story was very heartwarming
-and sad at the same time and my tears were welling up when suddenly I
-heard a knock on my door.
-
-I shuffled over, sniffling but managing to keep my cheeks dry to open
-it. Of course Charlie was beaming on the other side, with a bag of
-flowers and a grin like a dog's. He bounded in the room without saying
-hello and threw the flowers in the sink, opened the refrigerator and
-started poking around. I said "It's nice to see you too" and went to my
-room to get a camera, as well as a notebook for him to sign.
-
-When I came back he was on the floor, hunched and groaning. I looked on
-the table to see a month-old half-gallon of milk---now cottage
-cheese---half-empty and dripping. The remnants were on his mouth, and at
-once I saw my chance to become Poe in this translation of a translation
-of a translation. I knelt next to Charlie, cradled his head in my lap.
-He looked up at me with a stare full of terror. I returned it levelly,
-making cooing noises at him until he calmed down.
-
-When he was calm he excused himself to be sick on my toilet. He wouldn't
-let me follow but said he would sign whatever I liked when he got back.
-After half an hour passed and all I'd had for company was the ticking of
-the clock, I went to the bathroom door. I knocked carefully---once, then
-twice---to no beaming face, no flowers. I opened the door. There was shit
-on the floor and the window was open. There was a breeze blowing.
@@ -0,0 +1,25 @@
+---
+title: 'On formal poetry'
+project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves'
+...
+
+I think that I could write formal poems \
+exclusively, or at least inclusive \
+with all the other stuff I write \
+I guess.  Of course, I've already written \
+a few, this one included, though "formal" \
+is maybe a stretch.  Is blank verse a form?  \
+What is form anyway?  I picture old \
+women counting [stitches on their knitting][knitting], \
+keeping iambs next to iambs in lines \
+as straight and sure as arrows.  But my sock \
+is lumpy, poorly made: it's beginning \
+to unravel.  Stresses don't line up.  Syl- \
+lables forced to fit like [McNugget][] molds.  \
+That cliché on the arrow?  I'm aware.  \
+My prepositions too---God, where's it stop?  \
+The answer: never.  I will never stop \
+writing poems, or hating what I write.
+
+[knitting]: 25-roughgloves.html
+[McNugget]: 26-ronaldmcdonald.html
@@ -1,22 +0,0 @@
----
-title: 'On formal poetry'
-project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves'
-...
-
-I think that I could write formal poems \
-exclusively, or at least inclusive \
-with all the other stuff I write \
-I guess. Of course, I've already written \
-a few, this one included, though "formal" \
-is maybe a stretch. Is blank verse a form? \
-What is form anyway? I picture old \
-women counting stitches on their knitting, \
-keeping iambs next to iambs in lines \
-as straight and sure as arrows. But my sock \
-is lumpy, poorly made: it's beginning \
-to unravel. Stresses don't line up. Syl- \
-lables forced to fit like McNugget molds. \
-That cliché on the arrow? I'm aware. \
-My prepositions too---God, where's it stop? \
-The answer: never. I will never stop \
-writing poems, or hating what I write.
@@ -0,0 +1,26 @@
+---
+title: 'I am'
+project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves'
+...
+
+I am a great pillar of [white smoke][].  \
+I am Lot's nameless wife encased in salt.  \
+I am the wound on Christ's back as he moans \
+with the pounding of a hammer on his wrist.  \
+I am the nail that holds my house together.  \
+It is a strong house, built on a good foundation.  \
+In the winter, it is warm and crawling things \
+cannot get in.  This house will never burn down.  \
+It is the house that I built, with my body \
+and with my strength.  I am the only one who lives \
+here.  I am both father and mother to a race \
+of dust motes that worship me as a god.  I have \
+monuments built daily in my honor in dark \
+corners around the house.  I destroy all of them \
+before I go to bed, but in the morning \
+there are still more.  I don't think I know \
+where all of them are.  I [don't think][not think] I can get \
+to all of them anymore.  There are too many.
+
+[white smoke]: 43-deathstrumpet.html
+[not think]: 22-howithappened.html
@@ -0,0 +1,24 @@
+---
+title: 'How it happened'
+project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves'
+...
+
+I was away on vacation when I heard--- \
+someone sat at my desk while I was away.  \
+They took my pen, while I was taking \
+surf lessons, and wrote the sun into the sky.  \
+They pre-approved the earth and the waters, \
+and all of the living things, without even \
+having the decency to text me.  It was not I \
+who was behind the phrase "creeping things."  \
+When I got back, of course I was pissed, \
+but it was [already written][] into the policy.  \
+I'm just saying: don't blame me for Cain \
+killing Abel.  That was a murder.  I'm not a cop.  \
+The Tower of Babel fell on its own.  The ark \
+never saw a single drop of rain.  I'm [the drunk][] \
+sitting on the curb who just pissed his pants, \
+holding up a sign asking where I am.
+
+[already written]: 33-shipwright.html
+[the drunk]: 98-hez-problems.html
@@ -1,23 +0,0 @@
----
-title: 'I am'
-project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves'
-...
-
-I am a great pillar of white smoke. \
-I am Lot's nameless wife encased in salt. \
-I am the wound on Christ's back as he moans \
-with the pounding of a hammer on his wrist. \
-I am the nail that holds my house together. \
-It is a strong house, built on a good foundation. \
-In the winter, it is warm and crawling things \
-cannot get in. This house will never burn down. \
-It is the house that I built, with my body \
-and with my strength. I am the only one who lives \
-here. I am both father and mother to a race \
-of dust motes that worship me as a god. I have \
-monuments built daily in my honor in dark \
-corners around the house. I destroy all of them \
-before I go to bed, but in the morning \
-there are still more. I don't think I know \
-where all of them are. I don't think I can get \
-to all of them anymore. There are too many.
@@ -1,21 +0,0 @@
----
-title: 'How it happened'
-project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves'
-...
-
-I was away on vacation when I heard--- \
-someone sat at my desk while I was away. \
-They took my pen, while I was taking \
-surf lessons, and wrote the sun into the sky. \
-They pre-approved the earth and the waters, \
-and all of the living things, without even \
-having the decency to text me. It was not I \
-who was behind the phrase "creeping things." \
-When I got back, of course I was pissed, \
-but it was already written into the policy. \
-I'm just saying: don't blame me for Cain \
-killing Abel. That was a murder. I'm not a cop. \
-The Tower of Babel fell on its own. The ark \
-never saw a single drop of rain. I'm the drunk \
-sitting on the curb who just pissed his pants, \
-holding up a sign asking where I am.
@@ -0,0 +1,30 @@
+---
+title: 'Love Song'
+project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves'
+...
+
+Walking along in the dark is a good way to begin a song.  Walking home in
+the dark after a long day chasing criminals is another.  Running away
+from an imagined evil is no way to begin a story.
+
+I am telling you this because you wanted to know what it's like to tell
+something so beautiful everyone will cry.  I am telling you because I
+want you to know what it is to keep everything inside of you.  I am
+telling you.
+
+Can you see?  Can you see into me and reach in your hand and pull me
+inside out, like an [old shirt][]?  Will you wear me until I unravel on your
+shoulders, will you cut me apart and use my skin to clean up the cola
+you spill on the floor when you're drunk?
+
+I want you to know that I want you to know.  Do you want me?  To know is
+to know.  I, you want we.  We want.  That is why we're here.  To want is to
+be is to want and I want you.  Do you also?  Check yes or no.
+
+There is a way to end every story, [every song][].  Every criminal must be
+caught.  Even those who cry dry their tears.  I cannot tell you all I want
+because I want to tell you everything.  There is no art because there is
+no mirror big enough.  We wake up every day.  Sometimes we sleep.
+
+[old shirt]: 26-ronaldmcdonald.html
+[every song]: 37-swansong.html
@@ -1,27 +0,0 @@
----
-title: 'Love Song'
-project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves'
-...
-
-Walking along in the dark is a good way to begin a song. Walking home in
-the dark after a long day chasing criminals is another. Running away
-from an imagined evil is no way to begin a story.
-
-I am telling you this because you wanted to know what it's like to tell
-something so beautiful everyone will cry. I am telling you because I
-want you to know what it is to keep everything inside of you. I am
-telling you.
-
-Can you see? Can you see into me and reach in your hand and pull me
-inside out, like an old shirt? Will you wear me until I unravel on your
-shoulders, will you cut me apart and use my skin to clean up the cola
-you spill on the floor when you're drunk?
-
-I want you to know that I want you to know. Do you want me? To know is
-to know. I, you want we. We want. That is why we're here. To want is to
-be is to want and I want you. Do you also? Check yes or no.
-
-There is a way to end every story, every song. Every criminal must be
-caught. Even those who cry dry their tears. I cannot tell you all I want
-because I want to tell you everything. There is no art because there is
-no mirror big enough. We wake up every day. Sometimes we sleep.
@@ -5,15 +5,19 @@ project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves'
 
 I lost my hands & knit replacement ones \
 from spiders' threads, stronger than steel but soft \
-as lambs' wool. Catching as they do on nails \
+as lambs' wool.  Catching as they do on nails \
 & your collarbone, you don't seem to like \
-their rough warm presence on your cheek or thigh. \
+their rough warm presence on your [cheek or thigh][].  \
 I've asked you if you minded, you've said no \
 (your face a table laid with burnt meat, bread \
-so stale it could break a hand). Remember \
-your senile mother's face above that table? \
-I'd say she got the meaning of that look. \
+so stale it could [break a hand][]).  Remember \
+your senile mother's face above that table?  \
+I'd say she got the meaning of that look.  \
 You'd rather not be touched by these rough gloves, \
 the only way I have to knit a love \
 against whatever winters we may enter \
-like a silkworm in a spider's blackened maw.
+like a silkworm in a spider's blackened [maw][].
+
+[cheek or thigh]: 16-feedingtheraven.html
+[break a hand]: 40-weplayedthosegamestoo.html
+[maw]: 32-serengeti.html
@@ -3,23 +3,23 @@ title: 'Ronald McDonald'
 project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves'
 ...
 
-When Ronald McDonald takes off his striped shirt, \
+When Ronald McDonald takes off his [striped shirt][], \
 his coveralls, his painted face: when he no longer looks \
 like anyone or anything special, sitting next to women
 
 in bars or standing in the aisle at the grocery, \
-is he no longer Ronald? Is he no longer happy to kick \
+is he no longer Ronald?  Is he no longer happy to kick \
 a soccer ball around with the kids in the park,
 
 is he suddenly unable to enjoy the french fries \
-he gets for his fifty percent off? I'd like to think \
+he gets for his fifty percent off?  I'd like to think \
 that he takes Ronald off like a shirt, hangs him
 
-in a closet where he breathes darkly in the musk. \
+in a closet where he breathes darkly in the musk.  \
 I'd like to believe that we are able to slough off selves \
 like old skin and still retain some base self.
 
-Of course we all know this is not what happens. \
+Of course we all know this is not what happens.  \
 The Ronald leering at women drunkenly is the same who \
 the next day kicks at a ball the size of a head.
 
@@ -27,9 +27,12 @@ He is the same that hugs his children at night, \
 who has sex with his wife on the weekends when they're \
 not so tired to make it work, who smiles holding
 
-a basket of fries in front of a field. He cannot \
-take off the facepaint or the yellow gloves. They are \
+a basket of fries in front of a field.  He cannot \
+take off the facepaint or the [yellow gloves][].  They are \
 stuck to him like so many feathers with the tar
 
-of his everyday associations. His plight is that \
+of his everyday associations.  His plight is that \
 of everyone's---we are what we do who we are.
+
+[striped shirt]: 12-theoceanoverflowswithcamels.html
+[yellow gloves]: 25-roughgloves.html
@@ -0,0 +1,19 @@
+---
+title: 'The moon is gone and in its place a mirror'
+project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves'
+...
+
+The moon is gone and in its place a mirror.  Looking at the night sky now
+yields nothing but the viewer's own face as viewed from a million miles,
+surrounded by the landscape he is only vaguely aware of being surrounded
+by.  He believes that he is [alone][], surrounded by desert and mountain, but
+behind him---he now sees it---someone is sneaking up on him.  He spins around
+fast, but no one is there on [Earth][].  He looks back up and they are yet
+closer in the night sky.  Again he looks over his shoulder but there is
+nothing, not even a desert mouse.  As he looks up again he realizes it's
+a cloud above him, which due to optics has looked like someone else.  The
+cloud blocks out the moon which is now a mirror, and the viewer is
+completely alone.
+
+[alone]: 10-apollo11.html
+[Earth]: 32-serengeti.html
@@ -1,16 +0,0 @@
----
-title: 'The moon is gone and in its place a mirror'
-project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves'
-...
-
-The moon is gone and in its place a mirror. Looking at the night sky now
-yields nothing but the viewer's own face as viewed from a million miles,
-surrounded by the landscape he is only vaguely aware of being surrounded
-by. He believes that he is alone, surrounded by desert and mountain, but
-behind him---he now sees it---someone is sneaking up on him. He spins around
-fast, but no one is there on Earth. He looks back up and they are yet
-closer in the night sky. Again he looks over his shoulder but there is
-nothing, not even a desert mouse. As he looks up again he realizes it's
-a cloud above him, which due to optics has looked like someone else. The
-cloud blocks out the moon which is now a mirror, and the viewer is
-completely alone.
@@ -4,23 +4,26 @@ project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves'
 ...
 
 The other side of this mountain \
-is not the mountain. This side \
+is not the mountain.  This side \
 is honey-golden, sticky-sweet, \
-full of phone conversations with mother. \
+full of phone conversations with mother.  \
 The other side is a bell, \
 ringing in the church-steeple \
 the day mother died.
 
 The other side of the mountain \
-is not a mountain. It is a dark \
-valley crossed by a river. \
+[is not a mountain.  It is a dark][apollo] \
+valley crossed by a river.  \
 There is a ferry at the bottom.
 
-This mountain is not a mountain. \
+This mountain is not a mountain.  \
 I walked to the top, but it turned \
-and was only a shelf halfway up. \
+and was only a shelf halfway up.  \
 I felt like an unused Bible \
-sitting on a dusty pew.
+sitting on a [dusty pew][].
 
-A hawk soars over the mountain. \
+A hawk soars over the mountain.  \
 She is looking for home.
+
+[apollo]: 10-apollo11.html
+[dusty pew]: 08-and.html
@@ -12,8 +12,11 @@ if he holds it up to his ear the air shifts \
 like stones in a stream uncovering a crawfish \
 it finds another hiding place watching you \
 Its eyes are blacker than wind \
-on the serengeti they are the eyes of a predator \
+on the serengeti they are the [eyes of a predator][formal] \
 they are coming toward you or receding \
 a storm cloud builds on the horizon \
-Are you running toward the rain or away from it \
+Are you [running][] toward the rain or away from it \
 Do you stand still and crouch hoping for silence
+
+[formal]: 19-onformalpoetry.html
+[running]: 35-squirrel.html
@@ -6,18 +6,21 @@ project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves'
 He builds a ship as if it were the last thing \
 holding him together, as if, when he stops, \
 his body will fall onto the plate-glass water \
-and shatter into sand. To keep his morale up \
-he whistles and sings, but the wind whistles louder \
+and shatter into sand.  To keep his morale up \
+he whistles and sings, but the wind whistles [louder][] \
 and taunts him: Your ship will build itself \
 if you throw yourself into the sea; time \
-has a way of growing your beard for you. \
+has a way of growing your beard for you.  \
 Soon, you'll find yourself on a rocking chair \
-on some porch made from your ship's timbers. \
+on some porch made from your ship's timbers.  \
 The window behind you is made from a sail, thick \
 canvas, and no one inside will hear your calling \
-for milk or a chamberpot. Your children \
-will have all sailed to the New World and left you. \
+for milk or a chamberpot.  Your children \
+will have all sailed to the New World and left you.  \
 But he tries not to listen, continues to hammer \
 nail after nail into timber after timber, \
-but the wind finally blows him into the growling ocean \
+but the wind [finally blows][] him into the growling ocean \
 and the ship falls apart on its own.
+
+[louder]: 10-apollo11.html
+[finally blows]: 12-theoceanoverflowswithcamels.html
@@ -0,0 +1,19 @@
+---
+title: 'Spittle'
+project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves'
+...
+
+My body is attached to your body by a thin spittle of thought.  \
+When you turn away from me, my thought is broken \
+and forms anew with something else.  Ideas are drool.  \
+Beauty has been slobbered over far too long.  [God][] \
+is a tidal wave of bodily fluid.  Even the flea has some \
+vestigial wetness.  We live in a world fleshy and dark, \
+and moist as a nostril.  Is conciousness only a watery-eyed \
+romantic, crying softly into his [shirt-sleeve][]?  Is not reason \
+a square-jawed businessman with a briefcase full of memory?  \
+I want to kiss the world to make it mine.  I want to become \
+a Judas to reality, betray it with the wetness of emotion.
+
+[God]: 22-howithappened.html
+[shirt-sleeve]: 24-lovesong.html
@@ -1,16 +0,0 @@
----
-title: 'Spittle'
-project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves'
-...
-
-My body is attached to your body by a thin spittle of thought. \
-When you turn away from me, my thought is broken \
-and forms anew with something else. Ideas are drool. \
-Beauty has been slobbered over far too long. God \
-is a tidal wave of bodily fluid. Even the flea has some \
-vestigial wetness. We live in a world fleshy and dark, \
-and moist as a nostril. Is conciousness only a watery-eyed \
-romantic, crying softly into his shirt-sleeve? Is not reason \
-a square-jawed businessman with a briefcase full of memory? \
-I want to kiss the world to make it mine. I want to become \
-a Judas to reality, betray it with the wetness of emotion.
@@ -9,13 +9,16 @@ how long to jump, when to grab the air \
 and catch in it and turn, and land on branch \
 so gracefully it's like dying, alone \
 and warm in a bed next to a summer window \
-and the birds singing. And on that branch there \
+and the [birds singing][].  And on that branch there \
 is the squirrel dancing among the branches \
-and you think What if he fell? but he won't \
+and you think *What if he fell?* but he won't \
 because he's a squirrel and that's what \
-they do, dance and never fall. It was erased \
+they do, [dance][] and never fall.  It was erased \
 long ago from the squirrel, even \
 the possibility of falling was erased \
 from his being by the slow inexorable evolution \
 of squirrels, that is why all squirrels \
 are so full in themselves, full in who they are.
+
+[birds singing]: 31-mountain.html
+[dance]: 98-hez-movingsideways.html
@@ -0,0 +1,24 @@
+---
+title: 'Swan song'
+project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves'
+...
+
+Swans fly overhead singing goodbye \
+to we [walkers of the earth][ithappened].  You point \
+to them in formation, you tell me \
+you are not you.  You are the air the swans \
+walk on as they journey like pilgrims \
+to a temple in the south.  A curtain \
+there separates me from you, swans \
+from the air they fly through.  I say \
+that you are no longer the temple, \
+that you have been through fire \
+and are now less than ash.  You are \
+a [mirror][] of me, the [air without a swan][trumpet].  \
+Together, we are each other.  You \
+and I have both nothing and everything \
+at once.  We own the world and nothing in it.
+
+[ithappened]: 22-howithappened.html
+[mirror]: 28-moongone.html
+[trumpet]: 43-deathstrumpet.html
@@ -1,20 +0,0 @@
----
-title: 'Swan song'
-project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves'
-...
-
-Swans fly overhead singing goodbye \
-to we walkers of the earth. You point \
-to them in formation, you tell me \
-you are not you. You are the air the swans \
-walk on as they journey like pilgrims \
-to a temple in the south. A curtain \
-there separates me from you, swans \
-from the air they fly through. I say \
-that you are no longer the temple, \
-that you have been through fire \
-and are now less than ash. You are \
-a mirror of me, the air without a swan. \
-Together, we are each other. You \
-and I have both nothing and everything \
-at once. We own the world and nothing in it.
@@ -4,32 +4,32 @@ project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves'
 ...
 
 It was one of those nameless gray buildings that could be seen from the
-street only if Larry craned his neck to almost vertical. He never had,
+street only if Larry craned his neck to almost vertical.  He never had,
 of course, having heard when he first arrived in the city that only
-tourists unaccustomed to tall buildings did so. He'd never thought about
+tourists unaccustomed to tall buildings did so.  He'd never thought about
 it until he'd heard the social injunction against such a thing; it was
 now one of the things he thought about almost every day as he rode to
 and from work in gritty blue buses.
 
 Inside the building, the constant sound of recirculating dry air made
 Larry feel as though he were at some beach in hell, listening to the
-ocean, or more accurately at a gift shop in a landlocked state in hell
+[ocean][], or more accurately at a gift shop in a landlocked state in hell
 listening to the ocean as represented by the sound a conch shell makes
-when he holds it up to his ear. The buzz of the fluorescent bulbs
+when he holds it up to his ear.  The buzz of the fluorescent bulbs
 overhead sounded like the hot sun bearing down all day in this metaphor,
 a favorite of Larry's.
 
 His cubicle was made of that cheap, grayish-blue plywood that cubicles
 are made of; inside it, his computer sat on his desk as Larry liked to
-think an eagle perched on a mountainous crag much like the crag that was
-his desktop wallpaper. The walls were unadorned except for a few
-tacked-up papers in report covers explaining his script. When Larry made
+think an [eagle perched][] on a mountainous crag much like the crag that was
+his desktop wallpaper.  The walls were unadorned except for a few
+tacked-up papers in report covers explaining his script.  When Larry made
 a call to a potential customer it always went the same way:
 
-"Hi, Mr/Mrs (customer's name). My name is Larry and I'm with (client's
+"Hi, Mr/Mrs (customer's name).  My name is Larry and I'm with (client's
 name), and was just wondering if I could have a minute of your time?"
 
-"Oh, no, sir; I don't want whatever it is you're selling." (customer
+"Oh, no, sir; I don't want whatever it is you're selling."  (customer
 terminates call).
 
 Larry had only ever read the first line of the script on the wall.
@@ -37,37 +37,41 @@ Sometimes he had an urge to read more of it, to be ready when a customer
 expressed interest in whatever it was Larry was selling, but something
 in him---he liked to think it was an actor's intuition that told him it
 was best to improvise, though he worried it was the futility of it---kept
-him from reading further into the script. So when Jane said, "Sure, I
+him from reading further into the script.  So when Jane said, "Sure, I
 have nothing better to do," he was thrown completely off guard.
 
-"Um, alright Mrs…Mrs. Loring, I was wondering---"
+"Um, alright Mrs ... Mrs. Loring, I was wondering---"
 
-"It's Ms, not Mrs. em ess. Miz. No ‘r,' Larry." She sounded patient, as
+"It's Ms, not Mrs.  Em ess.  Miz.  No ‘r,' Larry."  She sounded patient, as
 if she were used to correcting people about the particulars of her
-title. But how often can that happen? Larry thought, and he was suddenly
+title.  But how often can that happen?  Larry thought, and he was suddenly
 deeply confused.
 
 "Oh, sorry, ma'am, uh, Miz Loring, but I wanted to know whether you'd
 like to, ah, buy some…" Larry put his head in his hand and started
 twirling his hair in his finger, a nervous habit he'd had since
-childhood, and closed his eyes tightly. "Why don't you have anything
+childhood, and closed his eyes tightly.  "Why don't you have anything
 better to do?"
 
-Immediately he knew it was the wrong question. Even before the silence
+Immediately he knew it was the wrong question.  Even before the silence
 on the other end moved past impatience and into stunned, Larry had a
 mini-drama written and staged within his mind: she would call customer
-service and complain loudly into the representative's ear. The rep would
+service and complain loudly into the representative's ear.  The rep would
 send a memo to the head of telemarketing requesting disciplinary action,
 and the head would delegate the action to Larry's immediate supervisor,
-David. David would saunter over to Larry's cubicle sometime within the
+David.  David would saunter over to Larry's cubicle sometime within the
 next week, depending on when he got the memo and when he felt like
 crossing fifty feet of office space, and have one of what David liked to
-call "chats" but what Larry knew were lectures. After about half an hour
+call "chats" but what Larry knew were lectures.  After about half an hour
 of "chatting" David would give Larry a warning and ask him to come in
 for overtime to make up for the discretion, and walk back slowly to his
-office, making small talk with the cubicled workers on the way. The
+office, making small talk with the cubicled workers on the way.  The
 world suddenly felt too small for Larry, or he too big for it.
 
-Quietly, with the same patience but with a bigger pain, Jane said, "My
+Quietly, with the same patience but with a [bigger pain][], Jane said, "My
 husband just left me and I thought you could take my mind off of him for
 just a minute," and hung up.
+
+[ocean]: 12-theoceanoverflowswithcamels.html
+[eagle perched]: 31-mountain.html
+[bigger pain]: 11-arspoetica.html
@@ -5,22 +5,25 @@ project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves'
 
 I saw two Eskimo girls playing a game \
 blowing on each other's' vocal chords to make music \
-on the tundra. I thought about how \
+on the tundra.  I thought about how \
 once we played the same game \
 and the sounds blowing over the chords of our throats \
-was the same as a wind over frozen prairie. \
+was the same as a wind over frozen prairie.  \
 We are the Eskimo girls who played \
-the game that night to keep ourselves warm. \
-I run my hands over my daughter's \
+the game that night to keep ourselves warm.  \
+I run my hands over [my daughter][]'s \
 voicebox as she hums a song \
 about a seal and about killing the seal and about \
 skinning it and rendering the blubber \
-into clear oil to light lamps. \
-I remember you are my lamp. She remembers \
-you although you left before she arrived. \
-I can never tell her about you. \
+into clear oil to light lamps.  \
+I remember you are my lamp.  She remembers \
+you although you left before she arrived.  \
+I can never tell her about you.  \
 I will never be able to express that taste of your oil \
-as we pushed our throats together. \
+as we [pushed our throats together][spittle].  \
 I will never be able to say how \
-we share this blemish like conjoined twins. \
+we share this blemish like conjoined twins.  \
 I will fail you always to remember you.
+
+[my daughter]: 08-and.html
+[spittle]: 34-spittle.html
@@ -4,19 +4,21 @@ project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves'
 ...
 
 There are more modern ideals of beauty \
-than yours, young padowan. Jessica has \
+than yours, young padowan.  Jessica has \
 some assets, that I'll give you easily, \
 but in my women I prefer pizzazz.
 
 I don't want to bring you down, or make you think \
-that your perfected woman isn't so. \
+[that your perfected woman isn't so][trumpet].  \
 It's just that, like Adam said, 2006 \
-has come and gone. What did she do
+has come and gone.  What did she do
 
-in that year anyway? IMDB \
+in that year anyway?  IMDB \
 has, surprisingly, none, though in '05 \
-she's in four titles. Sin City \
+she's in four titles.  Sin City \
 I've never seen, although from many I've
 
-heard it's good. But it's still irrelevant--- \
+heard it's good.  But it's still irrelevant--- \
 no matter how comely, she lacks talent.
+
+[trumpet]: 43-deathstrumpet.html
@@ -0,0 +1,35 @@
+---
+title: 'Death's Trumpet'
+project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves'
+epigraph: 'So Death plays his little fucking trumpet.  So what, says the boy.'
+epigraph-credit: 'Larry Levis'
+...
+
+He didn't have any polish so he spit-shined the whole thing, \
+top to bottom.  It gleamed like maybe a tomato on the vine \
+begging to be picked and thrown on some caprese.  Death loved caprese.
+
+He stood up and put the horn to his lips, imagining \
+it was a woman he loved.  He blushed as he realized \
+it was a terrible metaphor.  \
+He practiced for six hours a day---what else to do?
+
+Death looks at [himself in the mirror][moongone] as he plays.  \
+The trumpet is suspended in midair.  Damn vampire rules.  \
+Death is always worried he might have missed a spot shaving \
+but he'll never know unless a stranger is polite enough.  \
+Not that he ever goes out or meets anyone.
+
+He wakes up late these days.  Stays in bed later.  \
+He thinks he might be depressed.  The caprese has gotten soggy \
+since he made it, maybe three days ago or maybe just two.  \
+The sun streams through his kitchen blinds like smoke.  \
+He decides to go to the arcade.  When he gets there,
+
+there's only a [little boy][] with dead eyes.  So far so good.  \
+He's playing a first-person shooter.  Death walks past him \
+and watches out of the corner of his eye.  The kid's good.  \
+Death wants to congratulate him.  His trumpet is in his hand.
+
+[moongone]: 28-moongone.html
+[little boy]: 15-angeltoabraham.html
@@ -1,32 +0,0 @@
----
-title: 'Death's Trumpet'
-project: 'Elegies for Alternate Selves'
-epigraph: 'So Death plays his little fucking trumpet. So what, says the boy.'
-epigraph-credit: 'Larry Levis'
-...
-
-He didn't have any polish so he spit-shined the whole thing, \
-top to bottom. It gleamed like maybe a tomato on the vine \
-begging to be picked and thrown on some caprese. Death loved caprese.
-
-He stood up and put the horn to his lips, imagining \
-it was a woman he loved. He blushed as he realized \
-it was a terrible metaphor. \
-He practiced for six hours a day---what else to do?
-
-Death looks at himself in the mirror as he plays. \
-The trumpet is suspended in midair. Damn vampire rules. \
-Death is always worried he might have missed a spot shaving \
-but he'll never know unless a stranger is polite enough. \
-Not that he ever goes out or meets anyone.
-
-He wakes up late these days. Stays in bed later. \
-He thinks he might be depressed. The caprese has gotten soggy \
-since he made it, maybe three days ago or maybe just two. \
-The sun streams through his kitchen blinds like smoke. \
-He decides to go to the arcade. When he gets there,
-
-there's only a little boy with dead eyes. So far so good. \
-He's playing a first-person shooter. Death walks past him \
-and watches out of the corner of his eye. The kid's good. \
-Death wants to congratulate him. His trumpet is in his hand.
@@ -0,0 +1,7 @@
+TODO:
+-----
+
+* add in prose stuff from Elegies
+* remove numbers from filenames & links
+* add genre to YAML metadata blocks
+
@@ -8,6 +8,7 @@
 <p>
     Content goes here, natch.
     For example, the README of the whatever is
-    <a href="README.html">here</a>.
+    <a href="README.html">here</a>. And
+    <a href="TODO.txt">a list of what still needs to be done.</a>
 </p>
 </body>