Got Tomaž Šalamun's The Book for My Brother, which I've waited for, yet I haven't yet cracked it yet. It's in a bag. I put it in a bag and carried it home and it's still in the bag.

My five-month wait is nearly over but. Clover is a pleasure. I am very lazy and that's usually good enough. It is a pleasure pleasure. This morning I tilted it near the kitchen window and used it to boil an egg. I remain worried however that I can't order/stock Sarah Manguso's imminent book, Siste Viator, because none of our four distributors can be arsed to offer west-coast copies. Oh yeah. The old regime sucketh. Are we bumpkins who only want to read poems about Mt. Tam? No, I don't think so. This is an S.O.S. I'm going to feel a little pain.

I can already feel it.