After coming home from an afternoon walk, I had to wait for the mailman who had parked in my driveway. His truck was idling. I couldn’t really tell what he was up to. I suspect it was likely something he didn’t want to do right on the street. In my mailbox, I found the newest issue of the Golden Handcuffs Review, edited by Lou Rowan. It has two pieces by me, a story called “Wart” about my experience of unwanted fungal skin growths while living in Baltimore, and an essay, “A Gas Gas Gas,” about what I think is the lost mission of The Avant Garde. It is weird and great to appear in a magazine along side folks like David Antin, Meredith and Peter Quartermain, Charles Bernstein, Toby Olson, and so on. It’s a beautiful magazine and should be, according to the editor, making its way to those places that carry literary magazines.