Asking for Directions
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ASKING FOR DIRECTIONS is a happy hour of poetry, blurring the lines between straight-up realism, goofy weirdness, linear narrative, dreamscape, lovestruck awe, wonder, and joy. Poetry for Firth is under every rock. Poetry is the handyman who should be tiling a kitchen backsplash but instead relives lost dreams of hockey glory. Poetry is a creepy and distracted high school geography teacher. Poetry is snowmobilers on a patio drinking beer next to a thawing, late-March lake. Poetry is impending heart surgery, birds, the dead, euchre parties, funerals, graffiti, Sunday morning hotel rooms, ashtra...
ASKING FOR DIRECTIONS is a happy hour of poetry, blurring the lines between straight-up realism, goofy weirdness, linear narrative, dreamscape, lovestruck awe, wonder, and joy. Poetry for Firth is under every rock. Poetry is the handyman who should be tiling a kitchen backsplash but instead relives lost dreams of hockey glory. Poetry is a creepy and distracted high school geography teacher. Poetry is snowmobilers on a patio drinking beer next to a thawing, late-March lake. Poetry is impending heart surgery, birds, the dead, euchre parties, funerals, graffiti, Sunday morning hotel rooms, ashtrays, blue flowers, desiccated chipmunk carcasses, and, of course, sex, love, and laundry. Poetry.
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