Landscape
with bloodfeud
“Barnes’s poetry admits homesickness driven by shame, guilt, love, and most of all, a search for some kind of truth to be found in the place the speaker damns and praises, loves and left.”
I want to tell stories by acknowledging emptiness, refusing the conventional tallying of victories.
The result is perhaps not a history at all, just one of many possible accounts and accountings, contaminated, hybrid, boundary-less, bleeding its episodes across the clean, bound pages of official versions
