Christopher Janke (I'm not sure if his name is pronounced with the hard 'j' of 'jump'; the soft 'j' of 'jejune'; or if it's a 'y'; or none of these. Furthermore, I know not if it's the long 'a', in 'thank' or is it the short 'a' in 'pasta' or the inbetween 'a' of 'apple'? For that matter, Ada has a similar ambiguity of sound. Anyway, this is written and so there need be no shame of mispeakery. I'm fairly certain I know how to say Christopher at least.) will be reading from his newly minted book Structure of the Embryonic Rat Brain. His poems, like my asides, run long and so I can't quote one whole. Here's a segment from number three: For the phrenologist on the top of the world scouring the surface for pure water for his throat, for a way to carve, a way to go, shall you write a constitution or take delight in a banker or carry one above your head, is your stunting from your own hand, should you build the Hoover Dam, become strong and phlegmatic, make a bolo out of your own choosing or craft a teleological talisman to hang around your neck. The crux of a mammal, the ankle of a moment, the echo of a ping and its harmonies imagined by wolves and prisoners in black skull caps, and the sound of men burying children on a hill. Janke's book won the Fence Modern Poets Series. In its bottom right-hand corner is a flip-book of a dancing rat.


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