Judith Goldman's book is one of my favorite books of poetry because of a poem in it called "Procedures" and because Judith Goldman has always been nice to me. "Procedures" is a hard poem to describe. A lot of the words in it are crossed out and there are slashes. It fits in with its counterparts in the section, "Dark Horse"; it comes out of nowhere, and it sort of comes on you like your own thoughts like some kind of new stream of consciousness. "Procedures" exposes the jutting and jolting false starts and restarts of artistic process and the static through which the artist peers with squinting eyes, the smokey casino where everything is on the line, the house, the cars, the motorcycles; the artist can lose it all, so she looks to see who's looking, and you, the reader, with all the whites around your eyes exposed to the acrid gray, stare back in astonishment. And it hurts, this book; there's something that hurts about it.
The copy I am giving away is signed. It is addressed to me, Jack Morgan, and has a little, one-word, inside joke that she wrote on it. The first person who emails me their address will get it.
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