Introduction: Aaron Fagan

Like Love Canal, near Niagara Falls, genetically we have a clean slate. A cell connection? I am in my life, and in the library, Aaron Fagan's poem tell, when the satellites fell out of the sky, a blazing guitar solo no one will hear. Reciting lines from the Paradiso, life should feel ridiculously full of hope again. I scream but the machine is loud, like a whispering pollen giving hay-fever to my imagination. Note to self: saltwater amplified the pain as the boss's model-hot daughter sauntered by. I was dead a thousand parts ago in a universe with too much space, glow and stench of sex here, a kind of beacon, like Batman's. Lathe, punch-press and broach I inhaled a gorgeous looseness, then the last of my madness. I want to show you something disgusting: in a room built by other animals, my notions of a depeopled earth eventually dull. We put a living together on machines, in a lead Mark V diving suit, and exhaustion. The human part prayed and left. Use the brain of a deer to soften the hide of a deer they say. "Guess what?! Guess what?!" Aaron Fagan's poem's ask, questioning the theory of light, the wild permutations. The naked trees, the gymnopediste, coughed up its genetic code in tune to me: naked, in Italian, and hidden in the poisons we picked. Shaving barnacles off my hands with a rusted-out straight razor, the beauty is, if beauty is the word, the instrument used to measure pain. Aaron Fagan.