I'm sorry, Peter, but I don't know how to write this introduction. I am reading and re-reading your poems attempting to discover a way, but I find myself only able to apologize, only able to seek a manual of instructions to guide me. As you (or is it Pig-Pen?) write here: "Every task I'd took was an embarrassment." As I read these poems, I keep seeing this thing that might be my self reflected in the language. As I read these poems, I keep convincing my self that they are my words. At least, I know I've used these words at some point in my life, though probably not in these orders, in these particular accumulations. Your poems make me unsure of my self, unsure of your self, unsure of the source of the self and the self's voice. Is it really me speaking when I'm speaking your words? "With the same phrases, I didn't know how to frame my unique equity." "Excuse my tongue its record straight." "[T]he final shadow with a torso of intoxicating separations." "No matter what I wanted to say."