I jotted "Lyric Flypaper Paging Chris Sullivan" in a composition notebook at a trio of connected metal-vinyl waiting chairs at the Wound Clinic, Medical Center of Louisiana New Orleans, all occupied and mine next to a large woman in an overwhelmingly aggressive perfume, nor a hopeful portent for the diagnosis I waited for; I'd make a book of the lyrics I'd written and stole from things and places and people like Jake Fussell telling me about Phenix City, and Butch Anthony saying anything, posted on telephone poles or assigned to 1st graders or a Brief Introduction of the Product Cushion, or...