Cup of Joe and Other Poems is a born book. And a memory-reflection book. And an experience-history book. It could be called Portrait of an Artist as an Old Man in celebration of the great modern, existential Irishman, James Joyce, who told a story about Stephen, the youth who chose the word lineage of the artist upon which to construct his self. Not the priest. Not the politician. Then again it could be called The Ferlinberger Blue Plate Special because word choice is everything, and “Ferlinberger” celebrates Lawrence Ferlinghetti, especially his poem “Autobiography,” and Allen Ginsberg, especially his poem “Howl.” While writing Cup of Joe, I came back time and again to these language well-springs in much the same way we come back to diner meals served on blue plates, often in Blue Willow pattern, divided into sections: one for meatloaf, one for fried potatoes, and one for fresh-from-the-can carrots. These meals fuel America, the muscle-bones which make our cities of gods; these words dreamed America, the spirit-minds which vision our choke cherry pie slices in the skies. Think of Cup of Joe and Other Poems as our single, mother tongue splitting into the five word channels of the “Cup of Joe” and then into the six word rivulets of the Other Poems. This splitting is akin to a geological land form called an alluvial fan. For reference think of the one around Ephrata, Washington or the ones spread across Death Valley, California. Some of the six rivulets pull from chosen artists’ and writers’ word flows and biographical details and drop them in the alluvial fan of fresh contexts. Other rivulets pull words from missed connection ads and drop them in the alluvial fan of fresh human relationships.