Cigarettes and Old Regrets

I’m obsessed. I remember when I was in graduate school putting my final collection of poems together. l lined them up on the floor, stalked around them, smoking, looking for the move. Flow, impact, modulate length, feeling, keep the line moving. Into the abyss, into the fray. Or so it felt, my fifty some odd messages to the gods of confusion and obfuscation. My beloved professor compared me to Fran Leibovitz, not as a compliment. To this day, when I read a collection of poems, I start with the first, read the title poem, and then the last. By then I’ll know. I’m so tired of people saying you should give him another chance. With this novel, it’s more like a sliced rye and a rubber room.

What is your idea of order?