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<div class="at-above-post-homepage addthis_tool" data-url="https://blog.lareviewofbooks.org/essays/heller-levinson-pro-hinge-protean/"></div>There’s danger in wanting to make it new, to tear down the walls of Helicon Central Banking. Heller Levinson razed that imploding temple, and he found the gold ingots, incense, and buried verb. In collections like ToxiCity and LinguaQuake Levinson shared what he has forged from that material: a singular voice that answers to itself alone.
The poet Will Alexander introduced me to Levinson in 2003.  We quickly became friends, meeting up at a saloon in West Los Angeles, filling notebooks with poems and ideas shared over plates and mugs of beer — perfect synergy. By that time, Levinson had already crafted several open sequences prescient of his Hinge method. Our sessions together resulted in a chapbook titled See-Saw. I smile whenever I hear how so-and-so found this rare little collection to be marvelous.
Prior to those first open sequences, he was a traditional writer by the name of James Heller Levinson. The handsome James Heller Levinson left New York during the early 1980s. His intelligence and energy served him well in the textile industry. (In the great American tradition of Wallace Stevens, William Carlos Williams, William Bronk, Bert Meyers, and Charles Reznikoff, Levinson knew of struggles other than the university lecture hall or ivory tower.) His years as a salesman resulted in a novel entitled Another Line, published and celebrated by the same press that brought out Leaving Las Vegas.
The book’s razor-like prose recalled that of John Rechy or Henry Miller. James Heller Levinson received some due recognition, yet he knew that he was not to be a novelist. He had started writing poetry — well-honed verse in the American idiom, one-pagers gathered in the chapbook Pulled Apart. His poems appeared in celebrated, conventional journals. Solid stuff. But again, James Heller Levinson had deeper rivers within.
I mention those early volumes because Levinson might have succeeded on the normal road to the market. His is a mind, as I know from our conversations, that absorbs everything: philosophy, economics, history, anthropology, musical theory, hermeneutics, Paris, martial arts, animal behavior… Levinson could have remained James and now be teaching at some MFA factory, or PhD mill.
But he demanded new perspectives, wanted to break open his poems.  And so he came upon the Hinge Theory for composing poetry. Like Williams’s “variable foot” or Jerome Rothenberg and Robert Kelly’s “deep image,” the theory is both tangible and ether. But, like Rothenberg and Kelly, Levinson has fellow writers working at the Hinge method. And what matters more is that he had found his own trail and could avoid the dead, felled trees blocking his way. And recognition has come, slowly but surely. As poet Leigh Herrick writes in her review of Levinson’s Smelling Mary for Jacket2, the poet is “delivering nothing less than poetry at its best, ensuring [his work] will be studied for centuries to come.”
In addition to books published by Black Widow Press, Levinson has collaborated with Linda Lynch on artist books. Lynch’s work radiates as an amalgam of Franz Kline, Cy Twombly, Agnes Martin, and the drawings of Arshile Gorky. To my mind, their joint books and broadsides are some of the most exciting creations in American poetry and art from the last 20 years.
On their own, Levinson’s poems are frantic SOS messages from interstellar reaches, vacancies and ruptures of radiation, the real cosmic news, the intergalactic sandwich we all need to nourish our minds.  And now we have a new collection — Seep. Dig in.
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Heller Levinson: Pro-Hinge, Protean

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<div class="at-above-post-homepage addthis_tool" data-url="https://blog.lareviewofbooks.org/reviews/el-misterio-nadal-lost-rescued-book-roberto-bolano/"></div>My copy of El Misterio Nadal reached me by post, inscribed with a “best wishes” and signed “A.B.” A few weeks earlier, while corresponding with me about new translations and poems to post on the mad-bad-and-dangerous-to-know <a href="https://www.dispatchespoetrywars.com/">Dispatches from the Poetry Wars</a> website, poet-translator Kent Johnson had asked whether I’d like to read this strange book, which he had helped facilitate in publishing. Why not? After all, it purportedly included texts by Roberto Bolaño. But what awaited me was much more: a delightful hall of mirrors, or dead-end paths and shadows, sudden atriums flooded with light, then more mazes… Have I found my way out yet? No. Has it been worth it? Without a doubt. I entered without Ariadne and ball of string, without even a flashlight. I hope these notes on the book will help readers, or at least whet their appetites.
Perhaps a distant inspiration — even unbeknownst to the mysterious sources of this book — is the The Aspern Papers by Henry James. There is the same air of intrigue and investigation, as well as obsession. The book celebrates not only the work of Bolaño, but of a whole literary culture rooted in Latin American Modernismo, Anglo-American Modernism, and Surrealism. It is a culture I share with other poets, like Kent Johnson, and which involves lengthy e-mails and conversations about hidden voices like Carlos Martínez Rivas, Joaquín Pasos, Antonio Gamero… Like Pale Fire or Hopscotch, this “Lost and Rescued Book,” as its subtitle describes it, closes with an appendix of disposable chapters, fragments that gather a narrative frame of their own, leaving the reader with perhaps the fifth or sixth book within a book within a book (to describe the novel’s architecture). In that closing section, one discovers Bolaño’s preference for Kent cigarettes and his talent in the kitchen — “very good paella” — not to mention the Thermidorean Reaction, the White Terror, Monarchiens and Girondists, Mensheviks, Kadets, poets with oddly Slavic-sounding names like Amado Nervoski and Dickinsonova, as well as Bourgeois Revolutionary Estridentista Poetry.
El Misterio Nadal focuses intensely on the essential Surrealist poet Benjamin Péret, the only one who never abandoned the movement, nor ever experienced the wrath of André Breton and expulsion inflicted by that explorer of life as taking place elsewhere. Starting with an appreciation by Roberto Bolaño — again, one takes this as a real text, or “real” in the Nabokovian sense — of Péret and comments on previously unpublished texts and transcriptions, the section continues with many voices converging and departing down separate paths in the labyrinth. Why Péret? It’s important to recall his initially uneasy friendship with Octavio Paz. Exiled in Mexico during World War II, the Frenchman was in close social contact with Paz — the darling boy of government grants, the official voice of Mexican culture — yet Péret was never one to mince words. He dismissed most Mexican poetry, and criticized the country’s cultural life as being excessively self-involved, and when he was chided by Paz, Péret coolly responded that Paz only sought admiration, and anything else was perceived by him to be an insult.
Paz, perhaps like current poets and writers favored by the State’s cultural apparatus, professed great admiration for poets and thinkers who were marginal, outcasts, or trailblazers of new visions, hence his numerous texts on Surrealism, Luis Cernuda, Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, and others. His poetry may be more risk-taking than the well-chiseled reveries of the countrymen who proceeded him, like Jaime Torres Bodet or Enrique González Martínez, yet Paz seemed always to seek a pluralism at the same time as he sought a centrist position, be it politically — decidedly left of center by North American standards, yet ultra-right in the view of many Latin Americans — or in his work. One long poem in particular, though, Piedra de sol, miraculously captures the Pre-Colombian Mexico that fascinated Péret, along with such literary appurtenances as Melusina, l’amour fou, Heloise and Abelard, and the Spanish Civil War. The exchanges between Péret and Paz cumulated into lasting friendship, and in 1959, Péret’s French translation of Piedra de sol was published, although sans the prologue promised by Bréton.
Knowing of Bolaño’s caustic take on Mexican poetry and poets, it’s no wonder that Péret receives so much space. Just as importantly, the transcription of a translation of the interrogations of Péret by the Police Intelligence Division of Brazil, followed by the “Cultural Attaché” of the Embassy of France in Brazil, introduces Brazilian letters into the book, and also contains some of the most wild and delightful passages on Surrealism itself, with none other than “Péret” explaining the movement to detective thugs, in a prose that flows magically with “giant mollusks and driftwood,” “fat ladies with clouds for derrieres,” “slogan-yelling trees,” “paths of wonder,” and the “marvelous” that can never be comprehended by “brains of wood.” The energy in these pages seems to tap into the best prose by Gérard de Nerval or the visions in Théophile Gautier’s Le Club des Hachichins, not to mention Breton and his Soluble Fish.
The longest “Bolaño” text is an autobiographical chronicle about his friendship with the mysterious Nadal, setting up the rest of the book with references to translations of the two interrogations involving Perét, as well as of Péret’s poetry. This chronicle is followed by a multiplicity of translators and editors playing a type of “hot potato” game, so that even the careful reader is unable to pin down just who is responsible for this… found text? assemblage of fictional fiction? One thing is for sure: the assembler of this book is a well-weathered explorer of Latin American poetry. Apart from documenting Péret’s appearance in 1940s Mexico and Brazil, El Misterio Nadal includes wonderful pages on two of Latin America’s most original and least known poets: Carlos Oquendo de Amat (Peru, 1905-1936), recognized for his sole collection of fold-out poetry, 5 Meters (1926), and Omar Cáceres (Chile, 1905-1936), another poet with a single and legendary volume, Defense of the Idol (1934). The passages pertaining to those poets include letters addressing Eliot and e.e. cummings. Real correspondence? That’s all part of the fun. Without a doubt, El Misterio Nadal is a must read for students of Latin American literature, as well as Iberian letters. And while connecting this book to The Aspern Papers may seem a stretch to some, the Quixote’s metafiction is undoubtedly the gushing spring from which this volume flows.
This eccentric and wildly unique tome holds many delights for the enthusiast of Mexican, Chilean, and Argentine poetry; Surrealism; detective fiction; explanatory notes and scholarly asides like those that crowd the fictions of Borges and Nabokov; apocryphal writers and masks; Marxism and political trends in Latin America; “translations” like Kenneth Koch’s versions of South American poets; and the effluvium of voices, genres, deserts, jungles, and cities of the imagination. The very sui generis nature of El Misterio Nadal may make the book resistant to traditional reviews and appraisals, yet like other titles in the estuary between genres, it will come as a thrilling relief for readers yawning at the usual suite of MFA-endorsed poetry and prose. Its narration is unreliable, but it is certain to be a reliable source of wonder.
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El Misterio Nadal: A Lost and Rescued Book by Roberto Bolaño

El Misterio Nadal: A Lost and Rescued Book by Roberto Bolaño

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<div class="at-above-post-homepage addthis_tool" data-url="https://blog.lareviewofbooks.org/reviews/poetry-jose-eugenio-sanchez/"></div>I have felt the electric thrill of watching José Eugenio Sánchez (Guadalajara, Mexico, 1965) read at several poetry festivals in Ciudad Juárez and Tijuana. The poems he incanted were more than firecrackers; they were authentic conflagrations of joy and union with the audience who were there to hear him. Whilst so many other poets at such events rely on the captive audience of high school yawners, university literary students, functionaries, or other poets attending the same festival, Eugenio Sánchez was privileged with an audience of admirers.
In Juárez, audience members called out favorite titles, and Eugenio Sánchez obliged. He shimmied, he jitterbugged, and he acted out his wild poems about porno love, aliens, happiness as a warm gun, wind whistling a Frank Sinatra song, bombs, and other colorful confetti.
In Tijuana, at an underground art gallery, he performed his poems over the rock groove of the band Un País Cayendo a Pedazos and he briefly resuscitated that tradition of music, audience, and the communal bread of power-chords in a space only a few blocks from gringos entering the red-light district. It worked for Ferlinghetti, Patchen, Kerouac, and Rexroth with Be-Bop augmented chords and saxophones, and it worked for Eugenio Sánchez with musicians exuding the enthusiasm and the sloppy skills of MC5.
Indeed, Eugenio Sánchez was then, and still remains, a poet on the margins of his country’s canon. No need to repeat it, but apart from disparate voices like that of Castillo Udiarte, Tijuana’s Godfather of Counterculture, or Salvador Novo and his wicked humor and homoeroticism, and Guadalajara’s bad-boy, Ricardo Castillo, much of Mexican poetry is very chiseled, refined, exquisite, and replete with allusions that would boil the brains of the typical MFA student in the States. This is not a put-down about Mexican poetry — far from it. I prefer the feverish strophes in Muerte sin fin by José Gorostiza as opposed to much of the Anglophone poetry culled for anthologies. This is simply an observation that Eugenio Sánchez was tapping into something different: a bit of Vachel Lindsay and his communes with students in Midwest high school gyms; Mayakovsky, Eusenin, and a poetry like swigging from a bottle with your neighbor; our favorite footpad Villon; young Jean-Arthur flinging lice at the passersby; ancient Archílocus sharpening his barbs; even Jim Morrison and his scream of the butterfly, while he whirls and leaps in Bacchanalian release.
This is all cause for celebrating the deeply talented translator Anna Rosenwong and her publication of <a href="http://www.autumnhillbooks.org/sun-s-for-real.html">here the sun’s for real, selected poems</a>, published in a handsome edition by Autumn Hill Books of Bloomington, Indiana. The cover art itself, with comic-style images of handgun, a robot from 1950’s sci-fi, sun, and bovine, remind one of late indie label SST album covers, perhaps the Descendents, all quite appropriate. Rosenwong has really rolled up her sleeves for this book, and the acknowledgements reveal the years it took to realize this bottle-rocket (their first collaborations began in 2006).
Rosenwong, after her deft work with Rocío Cerón, once again displays her prowess as a translator. Poems by Eugenio Sánchez tend to unravel quickly like a solid coil of liquid fire, breathless, crackling with wacky humor and references. They are like images from a Jim Dine and she is able to carry over that energy into English. I have always enjoyed Sanchez’s “happiness is a warm gun,” and in Rosenwong’s version we read:
eta killed students policemen chauffeurs nurses officials 
the ira, ladies who went to buy groceries 
idi amin, congress members farmers gardeners workers soldiers 
jockeys 
child molesters parish priests  
[…] 
the bbc killed lady di 
and mother theresa of Calcutta 
and the titanic’s 1551 passengers 
[&#8230;] 
kraft killed heinz 
pepsi, coke 
coke, gringos 
ddt, lice 
lsd, protestants
Until the hit-list ends with the crack: life was invented by money. All of the poems use a lethal commixture of lyricism and witness, with humor and a punk-like celebration of burning down the ghetto. Such an example can be found in the poem “the music of clattering canines.” In this stab at a Hard Times type of childhood, Eugenio Sánchez quips:
we were so poor in my house only the dog worked 
he worked as a police dog 
he’d leave for work early with his hat and bulletproof vest 
and get back the next da with dark circles under his paws 
to eat our scraps 
[…] 
we were very poor and lived to the letter of the law 
the dog was always confiscating things 
and despite the captain’s orders 
[…] 
who diagnosed him with an irredeemable loss of smell
The collection’s bonus track comes in the form of the chapbook-long “climax with double cheese: exterior somewhere in the world a subtitle appears.” Rosenwong had previewed the poem as a small plaquette published in a limited edition by Sin Papeles in 2015, a series curated by David Shook and myself. Rosenwong tackles the poem with gusto; it’s a poem which mixes and mashes all of the worst film clichés possible: a raging storm, a super hot chick, a pizza delivery boy, urban flooding, urban destruction, low camera angles, doggie-style, an entire ocean swishing into the filth, darkness…all of that finally does “spin in the gyre/of a city-sized toilet bowl.”
One would be foolish to not grab this collection. It doesn’t get more fun than this, with regards to poetry, as much as it doesn’t get all the more serious too. The sun’s for real, as are the global heat waves, blazes in California, clogged drainpipes, bombs, terminator machines, and the innumerable dead from humanity’s inhumanity. Joy!
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The Poetry of José Eugenio Sánchez

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<div class="at-above-post-homepage addthis_tool" data-url="https://blog.lareviewofbooks.org/essays/sugar-saliva-gifts-muse/"></div>Brian Paeper was kissed by the Muse. He resided in London where he met David Gascoyne, the British surrealist poet who had lived in Paris entre-deux-guerres, mixing with Breton et al. Eventually, Paeper settled in Los Angeles, where he ran the now shuttered Alias Books. The loss of that bookstore is something to mourn. Not too long ago, I was invited by poet-translator Piotr Florczyk to read from my translations of Salvador Novo at Alias. As usual, I reached my destination very early. Paeper surprised me with the gift of Novo’s Florido Laude, an artist book published in 1945 by the legendary Editorial Cultura of Mexico, which had also published Lorca’s essential Poeta en Nueva York. I was left speechless. The large book also contained exquisite drawings by Mary Helen Morgan, and it was signed by Salvador Novo, numbered as 190 out of a printing of 200 copies.
Paeper invited me to the back room of his store. Unlocking a door, he revealed a Ali Baba’s treasure cave of books. He had acquired a collection from failed colleges, translators, professors of Mexican and Latin American letters. I found — and bought! — the collected works by the great Nicaraguan poet Jose Coronel Urtecho, in addition to collections by José Gorostiza, Manuel Maples Arce, Alfonso Reyes, and others. One book, in particular, hooked my gaze: Antología de la poesía en el Salvador, edited by José Roberto Cea and published in 1971 by the Editorial Universitaria.
The anthology did include the expected poets, but also some discoveries. Roque Dalton (1935-1975), was given his ample space. Perhaps because of his tragic death, he has become El Salvador’s most recognized poet, one who promised verses like bread for everyone. That is, he is the most recognized internationally, while Alfredo Espino (1900-1928) remains the most popular at home. I employ “popular” in all its senses. Espino also died tragically young, and he left his nation with one collection: Jícaras Tristes. Published posthumously in 1930, it celebrated the countryside, the gaze of oxen, pueblo evenings, tamarind trees, his mother’s hands, all from his “tierruca.” Also included in Antología was the great Claudia Lars (1889-1974). Her eclectic poetry alludes to Andrew Marvell, Christina Rossetti, Whitman, and Blake.
More intriguing were poets hitherto unknown, such as Alberto Guerra Trigueros (1898-1950), who wrote in free verse and also composed an intriguing suite entitled “The Song of Vulgar Things,” a Whitmanesque catalog in which the poet addresses things from daily life, and inquires about the chair’s, the mirror’s, or the chest of drawers’ daily struggles. It proves to be an interesting counterpart to Nicaraguan Joaquin Pasos’s epic meditation, “A War Song of Things,” recently translated by David Shook and included in his collection Our Obsidian Tongues. Guerra Trigueros’s poem of three sections ends with an apostrophe to “Brother things” which “Man, because of his ingratitude, never comprehended,” consigning them to “eternal slavery.” The greatest focus is placed on the bed, “the daily tomb,” and the “floor of the primitive cavern,” where we awaken each morning charged with a “new virginity of energy.”
The pages devoted to younger voices at the time of the anthology’s publication provide a glimpse into Salvadoran letters during the early 70s. Manlio Argueta (b. 1935) offered poetic explosions. In his perfect “Post-Card,” he addresses the reader with words about his homeland: “Better not come here, / Better stay at home. […] Children and dogs piss on the doors of homes. / Beggars swipe bread from hotels. / You could die from hunger, / You could die from cholera, / But never die from mere death.” The poem rambles on, and then ends with a strafe of anaphora: “We would gouge your eyes out and eat them, […] / And your bones eaten by the venomous ants… / And your bones eaten… / And your bones…and your…and…”
José Roberto Cea (b.1939), the editor of the Antología wasn’t shy about including 40 pages of his own work. Why should he have been? Cea regales the reader with some of the best poems in the book. His “Instructions for a Young Man from the Third World and the Countryside Who Is about to Travel by Air for the First Time” is particularly sharp. The narrator advises the bumpkin to reach the airport on time, and reminds him that there are no boats at the airport, only planes that look like “dried and stuffed whales.” He then continues by stating that when the “flight starts, you will feel like you do when you find yourself before the woman / you desire, yet you say nothing, because of fear, because of your misery.” Once the young man is soaring among the clouds, he will never wish to leave the airplane, especially because of the stewardesses who look a thousand times better than the women at Locha’s brothel.
As with all anthologies, there are idiosyncrasies. The treatment of Espino stung. Cea appraised him as an inconsequential curio adopted by his nation due to his engagement with folklore, his exploitation of a rural life that no one in his country would really wish to experience. Also odd was the omission of Espino’s most celebrated verse, “Sugarcanes Flowering,” five bittersweet stanzas that read, in my translation:
Sugarcanes Flowering
The sugarcanes I contemplated one day 
were like a vast sea, 
(as my phantasmal boat rowed 
above those tides).
Unlike the sea, the sugarcanes 
swell not garlanded with foam, 
for their flowers resemble feathers 
wielding emerald swords…
And the winds, those urchins, 
rush down from the mountains, 
and one hears how they scatter, 
ripping off leaves, verses…
The adult, too, proves unfaithful, 
for despite the kindness of the fields, 
he raises a machete 
then robs their syrup!
And how dreadful is the mill 
despite the crowd that descends 
joyously upon the hacienda. 
Because the sugar mill eviscerates 
the canes…and the canes, in return, 
can only weep their syrupy tears!
I have heard these words in their superior Spanish recited by plumbers, gardeners, and mechanics, while seated with my wife or friends at pupuserías. Someone near our table would point to my pen and Moleskin, and the volume of poetry in Spanish, and ask: Gringo? Argentino? I would respond: Gringo…y traductor y poeta. A mug of Regia would be raised, and then I would hear the rising rhythm of “Eran mares los cañales / que yo contemplaba una día / mi barco de fantasia / bogaba sobre esos mares.” The North American reader must invoke that distant past when John Greenleaf Whittier, William Cullen Bryant, and Longfellow were recited with gusto during school assemblies. Such a tradition hasn’t passed from the schools of Latin America just yet.
There is another interesting note in section IV of the anthology’s introduction. Cea included information about a poet whom he had excluded from the anthology. His name is Antonio Gamero (1917-1974), and he is mentioned as the author of a particularly salacious poem entitled “Searching for Your Saliva,” which Cea implied was writ but for faire frissonner les femmes. I was intrigued. When I discovered that the poem was included in a volume entitled TNT which boasted a cover image of an explosion that reminded one of the Futurists and the Mexican Estridentistas, I knew that I had to find a copy. TNT reached my hands through the magic of interlibrary loan (there were only two copies listed on Worldcat!) and the kind assistance of a friend. It was indeed dynamite. In the infamous poem, Gamero begs to savor the saliva of his lover.
Yet I have arrived searching for your saliva: 
your saliva that cures blindness, 
your saliva that can burnish metals, 
your saliva that relieves my sore limbs, 
your saliva that drowns the rage of viragos, 
your saliva that washes the shirt of god, 
your saliva that softens one’s conscience, 
your saliva that opens holes in stones, 
your saliva that is fragile the moment we embrace, 
your saliva that is perfumed, colorless blood, 
your saliva that is the seed of saints and prophets, 
your saliva that is salt and holy water 
extinguishing the wrath of demons. 
The rest of the collection maintained the same energy. I am currently translating it, all thanks to the vagaries of meeting one poet-translator who introduced me to another-poet translator who invited me to a bookstore where the owner had acquired a treasure-trove of books. I like to think that these serendipitous encounters are the gifts of the muse…not as glorious as skyscrapers and casinos, nor as essential as wood, steel, and milk, but as sweet and satisfying as sugar, or as the saliva of one’s beloved.
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Sugar and Saliva: On the Gifts of the Muse

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<div class="at-above-post-homepage addthis_tool" data-url="https://blog.lareviewofbooks.org/reviews/divergent-streams-poetry-roberto-echavarren/"></div>By <a href="https://lareviewofbooks.org/contributor/anthony-seidman/">Anthony Seidman</a>
The notion of a singular “Latin American poetry” perturbs the reader who discerns the radiant gathering of traditions, ruptures, and voices among the Spanish- and Portuguese-speaking peoples of the Americas. For example, the Poesía Negra of the Puerto Rican Luis Palés Matos (1898-1959) looks simply decorative when compared to the politically charged poetry of the Cuban Nicolás Guillén (1902-1989), another voice from the Negrismo movement. The controlled sonnets of Borges bear little resemblance to the overflowing cadences of Nicaraguan poet Joaquín Pasos. The Whitman who supposedly informs Neruda proves to be a different and more tangible presence in the poetry of the Dominican Pedro Mir (1913-2000). The Mexican José Gorostiza (1901-1973) is “difficult” in a way wholly different from that of the Peruvian César Vallejo (1892-1938). And yet many poets fresh from MFA programs gush about the singular burning coal of “Latin American poetry,” which was pressed against their lips so they could sing. Roberto Echavarren’s <a href="https://cardboardhousepress.org/the-espresso-between-sleep-and-wakefulness-roberto-echavarren/">The Espresso Between Sleep and Wakefulness</a> may be a disappointment for these readers, who only expect the love lyrics or elemental odes of Neruda. Then again, he may be revelation. <a href="https://blog.lareviewofbooks.org/reviews/divergent-streams-poetry-roberto-echavarren/#more-3825" class="more-link">Read more</a>
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Divergent Streams: The Poetry of Roberto Echavarren

Making Peace with the Crüe

Anthony Seidman’s most recent collection of poetry is <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Sleepless-Man-Sits-Up-Bed/dp/1908998539">A Sleepless Man Sits Up in Bed</a> (London: Eyewear Publishing, 2016). His translation of <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Love-Dollar-Memoir-J-M-Servin/dp/1944700013">For Love of the Dollar</a> by Mexican “gonzo” journalist J.M. Servín appeared from Unnamed Press in Los Angeles in 2017. His poems and translations can be found in such journals as Huizache, World Literature Today, Crítica (University of Puebla, Mexico), The Bitter Oleander, Modern Poetry in Translation, Poets &amp; Writers, and Poetry International.