Letter from Ohio. The green so green it must be chemical. Faint
drift of charcoal smoke. Rock radio. The pink azaleas thrusting at
the blue. And all the same desires come crashing back: incredible
X-ed out scenes and afterward the whoosh of traffic surf, our
bodies bathed in the whole sweep of towers and freeways and meadows
of blanket flowers. I want it all: heat puddle in the chest,
moments like handfuls of honeycomb, split, dribbling...Enough.
We've lived apart for weeks now and your voice cracks from the cell
reception, hums and dips and breaks for seconds, as evening peaks
to orange in the sycamores, and the need to see you stretches into
the days that follow: stray lifetime spent in office rooms and
parks and station halls as they fall to the curve of earth, the
ocean. In El Dorado, Peter Campion explores what it feels like to
live in America right now, at the beginning of the twenty-first
century. Splicing cell-phone chatter with translations of ancient
poems, jump-cutting from traditional to invented forms, and turning
his high-res lens on everything from box stores to trout streams to
airport lounges, Campion renders both personal and collective
experience with capacious and subtle skill.
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