Some of the best cautionary advice that could be given any writer—young or old, famous or obsucre—is to never forget that not every word you write will be worth preserving. Much of any writer’s output is junk. Still Missing Flight Myself is the end result of, in some cases, more than a decade of winnowing and tinkering. What was originally a 600-poem body of work has been reduced to just these 51—and that’s all that remains of nearly two decades worth of writing poetry.
Exploring moments of both transcendent beauty and abject desolation, this collection provides succinct glimpses into the unspectacular, average lives that most Americans have lead and will always lead—the lives most of us will go to extraordinary lengths to pretend we are not living. The disposable existence of a manicurist suddenly realized; the unexceptional loneliness of a fatherless child who has become used to his predicament; the minor frustrations of listening to an unjacketed LP; or driving home drunk enough to no longer care about the ramifications of drunk driving: the poems here collected expose and inflate quotidian moments until each seems like the paradox it actually is—simultaneously singularly significant and utterly, ineluctably forgettable.
Now available as a softcover trade paperback in the bookstore.