I Know Where I'm Going
Carlen, Fran Fran Carlen's poetry reads as if it had been written at the turn of the last century, on the continent, had been forgotten, and then found its way to the present day in a steamer trunk, as if a translation of a romance language, where the translation doubles as the original, everyday concerns metamorphose into flirtations with the absurd, and then back to the banal. Voices and wit such as this are difficult to find and more impossible from whi...