Teeny Tiny Publications did a great job of bringing out this strange little prose-poem, part Alfred Jarry, part Lawrence Sterne, written by a long-forgotten American poet for a long-forgotten Tennessee newspaper. I suspect that the piece was dashed off in the wee hours of the morning as filler, and thus the content is close to the subconscious of the writer as he yawned among the lamps and candles with the type-composer in his hand. I’m fascinated by the pre-dawn world Henry Faxon looked out on: the dew-wet streets of Clarksville, and the larger world of the old South, and the even larger world of strife-torn America. Could he see the coming tragedy that what nip whatever promise he had in the bud and consign him to an early grave? For a copy (and hurry, they’re running out fast!) write to mandypoet[at]hotmail.com or visit www.teenytiny.org.

A. Jacks, with his petrified turtle soup and his whangdoodle placed firmly upon his hewgog, is already making his way to special collections at the Bodlean, Harvard, the University of Chicage, Brown, UC-San Diego, and other first-rate accommodations. Jess