Under a Saturday sun in the church parking lot, a poet behind the mic says, “I had brain surgery seven days ago. Buy my chapbook and I’ll show you my scar.” Weaving through the dwindling crowd, I approach with a ten and glimpse jagged line breaks on every beautiful page.

Guy Biederman lives on a houseboat, serves as valet to a dainty Tuxedo, and writes during catnaps which are short but fortunately frequent.