There is nothing to say which the poems can’t say themselves. They started one night on a typewriter in CAConrad’s apartment while I was housesitting. From there it was just a matter of chasing the rest down or letting them surprise me. They’re derived from family stories, dreams, drug trips, past loves, hookups, horror movies, transmissions from my spiritual patron, political anxieties, sessions of psychoanalysis, small towns both up north and down south, New York, and my own gender transition. They document the mess of my early 20s and my own burgeoning practices as an expat southerner, poet, mystic, and transexual. I’m sure I’ll be embarrassed by most of them in 5-10 years. If you want to hear about theory, process, and influence, read the introduction. If you have faith in poetry, read the fucking poems.