I can’t stop thinking ab0ut MONKEY BARS.  It’s fucked up.  It’s egomaniacal.  I should not be so obsessed with my own book but I am.  I want everyone to buy it.  It’s weird.  I don’t even care if they read it or not.  It’s so beautiful.  It’s so hip and delightful to hold.  It’s like holding a bird.  That’s not true, I want everyone to buy and it and read it.  I go to bed and think about how I can come up with twelve things the next day to promote the book.  It’s so juvenile but so much fun.  It’s like putting a puzzle together that will never end.  I should start telling lies about it.  That I conceived of the poems in prison, that I rode the rails of America and wrote on birch bark, that I was a barker in a gypsy carnival, be like Bob Dylan.  I used to think, ah, let the poems speak for themselves, the world will come to them.  It don’t work that way.  Not now, anyway.  Hey, you, go buy the book!  I love you.

It’s been a year.  More than that.  But, here it is, MONKEY BARS.  Check it out.