CentoQuest

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You read the sixteenth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Substitution (2):]] [["7 up or down."]] [[Take a poem or other, possibly well-known, text and substitute another word]] [[for every noun, adjective, adverb, and verb;]] [[determine the substitute word by looking up the index word in the dictionary and going 7 up or down, or one more,]] [[until you get a syntactically suitable replacement.]] [[(Cf.: Lee Ann Brown's "Pledge" & Michael Magee's "Pledge"]] [[or Clark Coolidge and Larry Fagin, On the Pumice of Morons;]] [[or Bernadette Mayer's "Before Sextet."]]

You pinch the furniture tag between your fingers and notice its unsettlingly porous texture. It feels like the worst point on the spectrum between "fabric" and "paper." Whatever it's made from is definitely not biodegradable. \n\nWith mild horror, you imagine alien archeologists discovering Earth's ruins in the far-flung future. All that remains from centuries of human literature and culture is this one sliver of text. An alien scholar turns it over in their hands... (tendrils? claws?)\n\nThey shrug, toss the tag underfoot (underpincer?), and fire up their spaceship to get some takeout from a cooler galaxy down the road.\n\n...\n\n\nWith a grimace, you return to the task at hand. \n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[WARNING]]\n1. [[This product holds a maximum of 300lbs/136 kgs.]]\n[[Exceeding this limit will damage the product and]]\n[[may cause personal injury.]]\n2. [[Care should be taken to avoid tipping while seated.]]\n3. [[Use product only on level ground.]]\n4. [[To avoid injuries to fingers, use care when]]\n[[assembling the product.]]\n\n[[CARE INSTRUCTION]]\n1. [[Store product indoors in a cool and dry location]]\n[[out of direct sunlight.]]\n2. [[If product becomes wet, dry thoroughly before storing.]]

You read the sixty-sixth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Visual poetry:]] [[write poems with strong visual or "concrete" elements — including a combination of lexical and nonlexical (pictorial) elements.]] [[Play with alphabets and typography, placement of words on the page, etc.]] [[See Visual Poetry anthology for examples. ]][[(See UBUWEB for more examples,)]]

You click on the sixth entry from the top of the list.\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[• Updated:]]\n   [[◦ New back-end organizational system on Twine, making my life incredibly easier.]]\n   [[◦ Increased font size for readability.]]\n   [[◦ Color tweaks for aesthetic improvement.]]\n   [[◦ More efficient game logic.]]\n   [[◦ New ending (with a reward for all of your hard work!)]]\n   [[◦ Prompt to "save" your poem.]]\n\n[[• Added:]]\n   [[◦ Several new books.]]\n   [[◦ Two new rooms.]]\n   [[◦ Names of playtesters in "Credits," who deserve many, many thanks.]]\n\n[[• Removed:]]\n   [[◦ Like, seven typos. (Edit: eight.)]]

You read the eighty-eighth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Proliferating styles.]] [[In 1947, Raymond Queneau, a founding member of OuLiPo (Ouvroir de Littérature Potentielle, or "Workshop of Potential Literature")]] [[published Excercises de Style, 99 variations on the "same" story.]] [[Each of these 99 approaches could take a place of honor in this list but best to turn to that work for the enumeration and explanation.]] [[For present purposes (if purposes doesn't strike an overly teleological chord),]] [[suffice it to say that an initial incident, mood, core proposition, description, idea, or indeed, story, might be run through the present list of experiments,]] [[though to what end only the Shadow knows, and maybe not even the Shadow.]]

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\n<<set $animorphs to 1>>\s\nYou glance at the browser's fifth tab. When you do, your vision goes all fuzzy, just for a second.\n\nThere's a sudden static in your ears. It doesn't quite mask the sound of a velvet curtain, swishing in the wind.\n\nA memory washes over you. You're eleven. You're at a community theatre production of //Oliver!// It's intermission. While everyone around you hustles to the venue's foyer to use the bathroom and stock up on discount Raisinets, you stay in your seat. You watch the stage curtain, which swishes a bit. It doesn't come all the way down to the stage floor, and when it moves sometimes -- just sometimes -- you can glimpse an actor's foot hustling from stage left to stage right. The shoe of a stagehand tweaking a piece of the set. The anachronistic socks of someone in the middle of a costume change.\n\nIn retrospect, //Oliver!// wasn't that good. But the age-old magic of The Theatre still worked its ways on you. The first act enraptured you, absorbed your attention. You forgot, for fifty-odd minutes, that you were watching a play. You forgot about the construction of it all -- frankly, you only had a faint idea of who Charles Dickens was at the time, let alone the fact that you were watching local middle schoolers put on Lionel Bart's adaptation of the orignal novel. \n\nYou were there, with the orphans. You were there, eating the gruel.\n\n...And then you saw the actors' feet, during the intermission. And you remembered that it was art. And you remembered that it was artifice. And you remember this again, right now, as you stare into the monitor's digital light.\n\n\n...\n\n\nThe static dies down. The fuzziness ebbs.\n\n...What were you thinking about again?\n\n\nAnyway, [[you move the cursor and click on the fifth tab from the left.]]

You scroll down to the tenth comment. It was posted by the username "alexasmith."\n\nWhich line do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[courgettes, squash, marrow, carrots, ]]\n[[morsel, gobbet, trace of maple syrop, fat ]]\n[[On an onion tuft ]]\n[[Above her, new layers keep arriving; ]]\n[[when the zucchini ]]\n[[And whereto? ]]\n[[borders, journeys, archives, landscapes, reading, time, memory, myth, legend, ]]\n[[time slushes, ]]\n[[staining purple, a few tongues stained, too, ]]\n[[long pick necks pink curling ]]\n[[and blue in the crayfish-stream ]]\n[[The earth's crust shifting — may turn into fields ]]\n[[fire-roasted with some char remaining, ]]\n[[those strata of sour dead. ]]

<<if visited ("desktop2")>> <<display "desktop2">> <<else>>\s\n<<set $desktop to 1>>\s\nYou step over to the computer desk, where a silver Macintosh computer sits on top of a dark wooden table. The computer is one of those sleek, all-in-one models in which the entirety of the machine is housed within the body of an impossibly thin, rectangular monitor—all of it held aloft by a curved silver base that’s deceptively much heavier than it looks. Several white cords snake around the monitor’s base, each leading to a pertinent peripheral: a flimsy silver-and-white keyboard, a rectangular external hard drive, a USB-powered desk lamp. \n\nThere’s also an idiosyncratically Microsoft-branded wireless computer mouse to the right of the keyboard—its black color and ergonomic curvature palpably clashes with the design of its surrounding Apple-branded objects. This unsettles you more than you’d expect, and it's difficult to describe why. It frustrates that little pattern-hungry gremlin inside your brain, picky eater that it is. \n\nYou sit down in front of the sleeping computer. The reflection of the black screen shows your murky face, the room behind you blurred and reversed through the monitor's dark mirror. For a second, the pattern gremlin contentedly recognizes the vague blob of your face, fills in the gaps with cognitive watercolors.\n\nAnd then your elbow nudges the table, which nudges the wireless mouse, which sends a bluetooth signal through the air to the computer, which, ultimately, [[flicks the whole contraption awake|desktop2]]. <<endif>>

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\n...\n\nIt's a receipt. Maybe someone was using it as a bookmark?\n\n...\n\nWhich of these... //lines// do you add to your poem?\n\n[[BRENDAN,]]\n[[Thanks for shopping at Best Buy today!]]\n[[Your My Best Buy balance as of 01/18/2020]]\n[[Posted points: 0]]\n[[Go to BestBuy.com for more info]]\n\n[[Cell phones, cellular tablets, and cellular]]\n[[wearables have a 14-day return policy]]\n[[year-round for all customers. Major]]\n[[appliances have a 15-day return policy]]\n[[year-round for all customers. 15-day]]\n[[return policy on almost everything else.]]\n\n[[Restocking fee applies on select items.]]\n\n[[A valid receipt is required for all returns.]]\n\n...the rest of the receipt is ripped off.

You wait...\n\n...\n\n...\n\n...\n\n...\n\n...\n\n...\n\n...\n\n...\n\n...\n\n...\n\n...\n\n...\n\n...\n\n...\n\n...\n\n...\n\n...\n\n...\n\n[[...and continue to wait.|runge2a]]

You set //Hum Decode// on the other side of the room, propped up on a wall shelf and facing an angle slightly askew from you. You step back to your original position and give the disheveled bedroom a practiced and casual lookover. \n\n... oh, who's that over there?\n\nYou glance back over at the shelf and notice a small red chapbook sitting there. Is... is that... hm. What was their name again? //Him Decade//? //Hung Demand//?\n\nNo, that's not right. You swear you know that chapbook, but it's been some time since you last met. You just can't quite remember their name. You pause, lost in thought, as your attempts to remember the chapbook's name lead you through the rabbit hole of nostalgia. Before you know it, you're meandering through the memories of a previous time in your life, previous friends, previous streets. That little studio apartment you had. Those open-mic readings. That one cold December night, walking back from downtown when you...\n\nWait. What were you doing again? Oh that's rig--\n\nIt's too late. The chapbook has noticed you, and they're walking your way. They're smiling, waving, they clearly remember you too! And, uh oh, they're not just smiling--they're calling your name! Clearly! With correct pronunciation! Shit!\n\nYou bide your time with a smile and wave of your own, giving the chapbook one of those exaggerated "oh-no-way-can't-believe-you're-here" facial expressions. Hurry up. They're almost here. What was their name? What was their name?\n\n"It's okay," says the small, red chapbook, chuckling with gentle confidence. "It's been a while. I'm //Hum Decode//, and it's very good to see you again."\n\nYou breathe a sigh of relief. You chat for 10-15 minutes and make loose plans that neither of you will ever follow up on. This might be the last time you ever see them, who knows. As they turn to leave, you shake their hand. With that quick gesture, you realize that //Hum Decode// is now open to page four.\n\n\nWhat line do you add to your poem?\n\n[[Men who fall]]\n[[asleep in libraries.]]\n[[Little boys]]\n[[able to make beast]]\n[[screams.]]\n[[Love is sinking]]\n[[into the arm]]\n[[chair. Like water]]\n[[carried]]\n[[without swallowing.]]\n[[How dark]]\n[[feels on the bed.]]\n[[Certain songs]]\n[[sung best.]]\n[[The afternoon]]\n[[is an amateur]]\n[[violinist.]]\n[[Atheists]]\n[[decapitalizing]]\n[[god.]]\n[[Startling]]\n[[to touch blood.]]\n[[Awe snake charms]]\n[[on the neck.]]\n[[An old poet]]\n[[writes 'near death']]\n[[many ways.]]\n[[The words]]\n[[spend their time]]\n[[like window breath]]\n[[going away.]]\n

You read the eightieth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Multilingual poem:]][[ write a poem using several languages that are integrated into the single poem.]] [[(Cf: Anne Tardos).]]

You thumb the book open like a barbarian. How brutal!\n\nYou are on page fifty-seven. Which line do you add to your poem?\n\n[[DREAM 5.22.97]]\n\n[[Skimming a lake The Beloved Lake pooled]]\n[[with viscous oil flamingos drowned]]\n[[long pick necks pink curling]]\n[[towards bellies On the Vegas steamboat]]\n[[I clamor stairs up down past slots wheels]]\n[[lights light neon On the deck]]\n[[I lean over the lake take up the slick]]\n[[from the spilled tanker in a slot machine]]\n[[quarter's cup like fat from a soup]]\n[[ More flamingos dancing]]\n[[drowned in the wake of our passing]]\n[[and I think (desperate now) I will at last]]\n[[find a job]]

You read the sixty-first experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Write a poem consisting of one-word lines;]] [[write a poem consisting of two-word lines;]] [[write a poem consisting of three-word lines.]]

A sharp intake, and the book opens.\n\nYou are on page seventeen.\n\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[i make the poem's stuttering my own she said]] [[she cheered herself on]]\n[[indicating with her fingers that]] [[she put herself in parenthesis]] [[i do this not]]\n[[just for us she said an unkind reminder]] [[that nothing is ours not even our]]\n[[speech when it disrupts]]

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nThis sticky note hangs just barely on the bottom frame of the computer monitor, carefully placed so the adhesive doesn't touch the screen itself.\n\nIt looks like a rough draft of a little poem, hastily scrawled.\n\n\nWhich line do you add to your own poem?\n\n//[[W. comes over with a hammer]]\n[[For my brain. We have some fun]]\n[[In the morning, he drinks]]\n[[my whole house underwater.]]\n[[How rare to have]]\n...\n[[How decadent to have???]]\n...\n[[No, how rare to have]]\n[[someone attend to you without knowledge]]\n[[without asking or even tasting want]]\n[[one who saves you from the hension.]]//

You weren't expecting to get so absorbed in a book while visiting the bathroom, but here you are. You decide to sit down for a bit while you read, and, after some consideration, you peel back the shower curtain and sit on the edge of the tub. You always feel a little strange about sitting on a toilet when not pursuing its intended use.\n\nAfter noting the title and contents pages, you reach the first major block of text, though it's not a formally numbered page. It's marked with a roman numeral, that indication of something extraneous to the text, a "page" that isn't actually a "page." An addendum. Context.\n\nStill, the very first line of the prose catches your eye, especially considering that it's introducing, ostensibly, a book of poetry. It's written by Iain Galbraith, Sebald's translator.\n\nYou are on page "ix." Which line do you add to your poem?\n\n[[Translator's Introduction]]\n\n[["My medium is prose," W.G. Sebald once declared]] [[in an interview, a statement that is easily misconstrued]] [[if a subtle distinction the German author added]] [[is overlooked: "...not the novel."]] [[Far from disavowing his attraction to poetic forms,]] [[Sebald's sworn allegiance to what he called "prose"]] [[deliberately placed his work at arm's length from the generic exactions]] [[(plot, character development, dialogue)]] [[levied by the more conventional modes of writing fiction.]] [[Indeed, it is perhaps only in reading Sebald's poetry--]] [[whose breathing and tone, especially in the later poems,]] [[frequently recall the timbre of the narrative voices]] [[in Vertigo, The Emigrants, and The Rings of Saturn--]] [[that we may begin to sense the poetic consistency of his literary prose itself,]] [[and also that of his writing as a whole.]] [[Reversing the focus, readers of Sebald's prose fiction]] [[who are coming to his shorter poetry for the first time]] [[may be surprised to find that many of the concerns of his acclaimed later prose]] [[works are prefigured in his earliest, most lyrical poems:]] [[borders, journeys, archives, landscapes, reading, time, memory, myth, legend,]] [[and the "median state" (Edward Said) of the exile,]] [[who is neither fully integrated into the new system]] [[nor fully free of the old.]] [[Following the development of the poetry]] [[from its lyrical beginnings to the later narrative forms,]] [[we can trace the trajectory of the author's gradual reach]] [[for the epic scope of his work in the 1990s,]] [[a quest that, I argue, initially culminated in]] [[the tripartite, book-length, narrative poem Nach der Natur (After Nature, 1988).]] [[On the way, we will discover poems to value]] [[for their singular artistic achievements:]] [[some puzzling,]] [[some dazzlingly hermetic,]] [[others deceptively slight or simple,]] [[several witty or ironic,]] [[each in its different way an encounter with life's unresolved questions and mysteries,]] [[each gazing into the abyss of twentieth-century European history.]]\n\n[[W.G. Sebald began publishing poetry]] [[as a student in the 1960s,]] [[and he continued to write poems throughout his life, publishing]]

You read the first experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Homolinguistic translation:]] [[Take a poem (someone else's, then your own)]] [[and translate it "English to English"]] [[by substituting word for word,]] [[phrase for phrase,]] [[line for line,]] [[or "free" translation as response]] [[to each phrase or sentence.]] [[Or translate the poem into another literary style]] [[or a different diction,]] [[for example into a slang or vernacular.]] [[Do several differnt types of homolinguistic transation of a single source poem.]] [[Chaining: try this with a group,]] [[sending the poem on for "translation" from person to another]] [[until you get back to the first author.]] [[See John Sweeney's basic English translation of Donne.]]

You read the eighty-sixth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[From Stacy Doris:]] [[I. Write a poem (or take a poem you have already written on the topic) about sex.]] [[Then rewrite it, substituting words having to do with warfare for the words having to do with sex.]] [[II. Write a poem (or take a poem you have already written on the topic) about love.]] [[Then rewrite it, substituting words having to do with government for the words of amorousness.]] [[III. Write a poem (or take a poem you have already written on the topic) about god and religion.]] [[Then rewrite it, substituting words having to do with a political figure whose policy you oppose for the words referring to faith and god.]]

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nSomewhat carefully, you remove a square hardcover book from the row. It's heavier than you expected, and its cover boasts a photo of two indulgently multicolored rice bowls, topped with a mixture of carrots, zucchini, tofu, cilantro, sesame seeds, and a yellow curry sauce. One of the bowls sits rustically atop a white dish towel. \n\nIn the top right corner, a little white flag notifies you that this isn't just any off-brand pressure cooker recipe book. No, this book is "AUTHORIZED BY INSTANT POT," which you didn't realize was actually a registered trademark until now.\n\nThe bottom right corner of the cover boasts that you'll find "wholesome, indulgent plant-based recipes" inside. \n\nWell, there's only one way to find out -- how do you open this book?\n\n[[I set the book flat on the counter and grab the first several pages.]]\n\n[[I gently skim, stopping when I see a tasty picture.]]

You read the poem printed on the outside of the fold’s crease.\n\n\nWhich line do you add to your poem?\n\n[[“THE CITY INSIDE OUR BODIES KEEPS OUR BODIES ALERT”]]\n\n\n[[when the library burned down, it didn’t change everyone’s lives overnight.]]\n\n\n[[men carried the pieces out of frame while a river ran]]\n[[behind them. we could not see]]\n[[what it carried and tossed]]\n[[wet with heavy memory]]\n\n\n[[many locals didn’t have library cards, or did and talked about loving the library but never made time to]]\n[[go. and now they never will. but this became a conversational regret, something they could perform]] \n[[without feeling]]\n\n\n[[telephone wires juggle fire & talk]]\n[[across your epitaph, flopped open]]\n[[‘hello author why do we care about you’]]\n[[giggles in the back row of battles and wars]]\n\n\n[[as the smoke turned the books into ashes that hung over the city for weeks, and people’s lives went on]]\n[[turning, running errands, doing jobs, making meals, making love, giving birth, wailing and shushing and]]\n[[gathering and gossipping and lying and apologizing and arguing and saying goodnight and singing]]\n\n\n[[a parade, cinder, flags]]\n[[a gray blanket patterned with antelopes]]\n[[pale silt streams down]]\n[[a gutter in the background]]\n\n\n[[and as they moved through the valves of the city bartering daily measures of life the ashes swirled around]] \n[[their breath and crackled in their lungs]]\n\n\n[[bricks spiced the thick hot air]]\n[[so subtly we weren’t sure at first if]]\n[[we were tasting the walls or the prick of sweat]]\n[[on our lips still freshly steamed but dissipating]]\n\n\n[[as page by page, the books they lost began to break their hearts: each stanza now a room of smoke]] \n[[inhaled and forgotten, each line inflamed the lining of each throat unteachable and shortening]]\n\n\n[[our breath, held]]\n[[us there to see how long we could]]\n[[stand it before swallowing]]\n[[into a fade]]\n[[it can be]]\n[[your hill next]]\n[[burning infinite sides]]\n[[your pharmacy your]]\n[[nuclei your daughters]]\n[[crinkling]]\n[[exponential]]

You slowly flip the pad's sheets between your fingers, taking care not to dislodge any of the notes as you do so.\n\nAs the sheets flip before your eyes, you watch the stick figure leisurely amble from left to right. It's a gentle, unhurried walk. On the final few pages, you watch the stick figure arch their back into a long stretch. Despite the fact that they have no mouth, you imagine them yawning contentedly after such a calm stroll.\n\n\n[[I read the other sticky notes.|some bright pink sticky notes]]

You click on the entry at the bottom of the list.\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[• Added Emily Dickinson.]]\n[[• Nerfed Walt Whitman.]]

You read the forty-fourth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Brainard's Memory:]] [[ Write a poem all of whose lines start "I remember ..." ]] [[(Cf.: Joe Brainard's I Remember & audio from PennSound ).]] [[ALSO: Brainard's: Imaginary Still Lifes]]

You read the sixty-second experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Pick 20 words, either a word list you generate yourself or from source texts.]] [[Write three different poems using only these words.]]

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\n\s\nYou pick up a book from the floor whose cover bears the familiar white stripe and black footer of an official Penguin Classics collection. The front image is "After the Bath," a 1917 woodblock print by Ito Sinsui. It depicts a woman clad in a red and white garment from the waist down, squatting on a step while wringing a wet cloth that extends out of frame. She faces away from the viewer, her back arched, the angle of her bicep covering her naked chest.\n\nTurning the book over, you glance at the back copy. "Penguin Classics: The Best Books Ever Written."\n\n\nHow do you open this book?\n\n[[I fan the pages front-to-back, allowing my thumb to stop after counting to three.]]\n\n[[I fan the pages back-to-front, allowing my thumb to stop after counting to two.]]\n\n[[I close my eyes, turn the book over in my hands four times, and open it without pause.]]\n\n

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nYou immediately recognize the liquid's color as stomach medicine -- in fact, after racking your brain, you can't think of a single other liquid that shares this pastel pink hue. You swirl the bottle gently, and the fluid coats the bottle's inner surface before slowly trickling down the sides.\n\nMemories of its flavor swarm you, muddled in your brain as a strange back-and-forth between cherry and wintergreen. Unfortunately, most of your memories of the stuff are associated with pretty unfortunate bodily symptoms.\n\nYou've heard that some people actually love the taste of this stuff. You grimace at the thought. ...Yet, at the same time, you can't help but crave a juicy stick of bubblegum. \n\nIt's pretty unnerving.\n\nAs you turn the bottle to read its rear label, you notice that it's less than a quarter full. The expiration date isn't for at least another year.\n\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[WARNINGS]]\n[[Reye's syndrome:]] [[Children and teenagers]] [[who have or are recovering from]]\n[[chicken pox or flu-like symptoms]] [[should not use this product.]]\n[[When using this product,]] [[if changes in behavior]] [[with nausea and vomiting occur,]]\n[[consult a doctor]] [[because these symptoms could be an early sign of]] [[Reye's syndrome,]]\n[[a rare but serious illness.]]\n

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nYou pick up the tube of toothpaste. It seems about half-full, but it's hard to tell -- the tube has been tightly squeezed in the middle, with all of its contents pressed against the front and back halves of the tube. It looks like your host is one of those kinds of people that just grabs and squeezes, rather than methodically rolling the tube from its end. \n\nYou shudder at the implication of this evidence.\n\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[BAKING SODA NEUTRALIZES ACID]]\n[[for HEALTHIER TEETH & GUMS]]\n\n[[Your teeth and gums thrive in a neutral,]]\n[[non-acidic environment. The proven power of]]\n[[baking soda in all ARM & HAMMER toothpastes]]\n[[actively neutralizes acid, helping create the]]\n[[optimal environment for strong teeth and gums.]]

<<if $lines lt 14>>\s\n<<set $poemyes to 1>>\s\nYou add Lockwood's acknowledgements to your own poem.\n\nWhere would you like to continue your poem?\n\n[[The living room.|living room]]\s\n<<if $hallway is 1>> [[The hallway.|hallway]]<<endif>>\s\n<<if $bathroom is 1>> [[The bathroom.|bathroom]]<<endif>>\s\n<<if $kitchen is 1>> [[The kitchen.|kitchen]]<<endif>>\s\n<<if $pantry is 1>> [[The pantry.|pantry]]<<endif>>\s\n<<if $back is 1>> [[The back path.|back path]]<<endif>>\s\n<<if $basement is 1>> [[The basement.|basement]]<<endif>>\s\n<<if $bedroom is 1>> [[The upstairs bedroom.|upstairs bedroom]]<<endif>>\s\n<<if $desktop is 1>> [[The desktop computer.|desktop computer]]<<endif>>\s\n<<else>><<display "living room">><<endif>>\n\n<<if $lines gt 0>>\s\n<<if ($lines lt 6)>>\s\n ''Your poem is starting to come together.''<<else if ($lines gte 6) and ($lines lt 10)>> ''You've filled about half of the page.''<<else if ($lines gte 10) and ($lines lt 13)>>''Your poem is nearly finished.''<<else if ($lines is 13)>> ''One more line left.''<<else if ($lines is 14)>>''Let's read your finished poem.'' [[Read your poem.]]<<endif>> <<endif>>

You read the seventeenth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Substitution (3):]] [[Find and replace.]] [[Systematically replace one word in a source text]] [[with another word or string of words.]] [[Perform this operation serially with the same source text,]] [[increasing the number of words in the replace string.]]

Whatever that smell is, it's too tantalizing to resist.\n\nYou open the oven just a crack to peek inside. A wave of heat and spice greets your face, with just a slight vegetal scent.\n\nYou see two loaf pans, both of which contain a wet, pale-gold batter. There's thin green strands mixed in... is that zucchini?\n\nThese loaves still have a long way to go until they're finished, but you hope there's a warm slice in your future.\n\nReturn to the [[kitchen]]?

You open Waldrop's book to page one hundred and forty-nine.\n\nWhich line do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[SONG]]\n\n\n[[fire tied]]\n[[under your breast]]\n[[all angles an apple]]\n[[could fall]]\n\n\n[[distances traveled]]\n[[a fish to the West]]\n[[the leaves blue]]\n[[as the sun]]\n\n\n[[it is your turn]]\n[[to think]]

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nYou pick up the small, square book from the top of the stack. The cover has no image, only a thick black border surrounding a light blue square, within which you read the name of the author and the book's title. You recognize the book -- both from its iconic design and the label inside the upper black border -- as one of "The Pocket Poets Series," a long-standing poetry series put out by City Lights Books in San Francisco. This book is, specifically, number sixty-seven in the series. The series is most famous for its edition of //Howl// by Allen Ginsberg, but you also remember seeing their edition of Frank O'Hara's //Lunch Poems// in a number of bookstores throughout the years. True to the series's name, this book would fit neatly in your back pocket after just barely squishing the pages. \n\nOn the book's rear cover, you read the following:\n"TUMBLEWEED DREAMS\nA New Enlarged Edition"\n\n"Originally published in 1987 -- ten years after the death of the author -- the original edition was compiled by Stone's widow, Claudine Stone, and distributed amongst Stone's friends and collaborators in Tucson, Arizona. This new edition includes nine additional poems from Stone's first publication, a handprinted collection titled GRASSFIRE."\n\nHow do you open this book?\n\n[[I thumb a page while reading the back cover's copy.]]\n\n[[I use my left hand to fan the pages back-to-front.]]\n

Turning around, you survey the resulting disarray from your chaotic entrance. A large cardboard box rests on its side. A flood of small booklets spill from its mouth, bound in a wide variety of paper, color, and size. Most of them seem to be poetry chapbooks.\n\nYou crouch down to inspect the damage. Luckily, most of them seem to be unharmed, aside from a few creased edges. Oh, and there's one with a big, dark shoeprint right on the front cover. Whoops.\n\n\nA handful of chapbooks are on top of the pile:\n\n[[IURDSTVO: Reflections on Foolishness -- Ken Feit]]\n[[dossier for the postverbal -- Carleen Tibbetts]]\n[[Hum Decode -- Justin Runge]]\n[[Amblyopia -- Jena Osman]]\n[[Meadowlands / Xanadu / American Dream -- Joshua Wilkerson]]\n[[PIXXXELS -- Sig Erikson]]\n[[The Impercipient Lecture Series, Vol. 1, No. 10]]\n[[Each Acre -- Megan Kaminski]]\n\n\n[[I stand back up.|upstairs bedroom]]\n

You take some time to learn more about hickory.\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[HICKORY]]\n[[(Carya)]]\n[[Found: North America -- different trees of this family]]\n[[live in different areas of North America]]\n[[Hickory nuts (this includes the Pecan):]]\n[[these nuts are very nutritious and can be eaten raw]]\n[[or added to other dishes (pecan pie).]]\n[[Liquor: made by pounding the whole nut (including shells)]]\n[[until it is a powder.]] [[Add water.]] [[Let ferment until]]\n[[you have a thick milky colored oily liquid.]]\n[[Try it you might like it!]]

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nYou lift the carton of eggs, noticing that it feels a little lopsided--it looks as if there's only three eggs left.\n\nYou read the front of the carton. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[NOAH'S PRIDE]] [[KEEP REFRIGERATED]]\n[[Lancaster County Fresh]]\n\n[[Fed all vegetarian diet]]\n[[No Antibiotics]]\n[[No animal by-products]]\n[[No added hormones]]\n\n[[12 EGGS]] [[cage free]] [[BROWN]] [[LARGE]]

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nAfter another brief pause, you hear the disc drive shift. The screen goes black. For a moment, nothing happens. Perhaps this dusty relic has finally given up the ghost.\n\nSuddenly, the sound of a pan flute and recorder ensemble flits from the speakers, supported by an underlying pipe organ. A logo fades into the screen: "SQUARESOFT." As the music continues, the television fills with a montage of a mystical, fantasy world. Huge airships soar through the sky as a transparent map fades in and out of view. A blue beam of immense light floods out of a castle town. A dusty cyclone encircles a massive tree as tall as a mountain.\n\nThe images fade to a title screen with stark black, serifed font projected in front of a glowing blue crystal: ''FINAL FANTASY IX''. \n\n\nBelow the title, there are two options:\n\n[[NEW GAME|ff9_new]]\n\n[[CONTINUE|ff9_continue]]

The text shudders, finds its own way open.\n\nYou are on page forty. \n\n\nWhich line do you add to your poem?\n\n[[the woman/i went hungry]]\n[[in another's percussive throat]]\n\n[[a guttered self-respect]]\n[[lit from within]]\n\n[[the woman/i born in this]]\n[[orthodoxy of pain]]\n\n[[this other-than-oneness of a thing]]\n[[this unknowable vocabulary of loss]]

After rereading the last line, you sit quietly for a moment. \n\nYou hadn't realized until now, but you feel a slight blush in your cheeks. There's a kind of warmth that spreading from your forehead, down to your shoulders, and outward, into the room around you.\n\nYou chuckle, thinking about one of the combinations that surprised you in your finished draft.\n\nEventually you remember some of your other tasks for the day. There's a few errands you should run, some correspondence to catch up on. Somehow it's a little later than you expected. It's probably time to get going.\n\nAs you stand and fold your new poem into your pocket, you hear a small //ding// from the kitchen, followed by the clatter of kitchenware and some scurrying footsteps. Following the sounds, you enter the kitchen. There's nobody to be found--but on the center table you see a small white plate holding a thick slice of zucchini bread, still steaming. Next to the plate, there's a key. Next to that, a note, which reads:\n\n//Come back any time.//\n\nYou pocket the key, enjoy your treat, and head out to face the day.\n\n...\n\nThanks for playing.\n\n\n- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - \n\n[[Save your poem?]]

You open the collection to page one hundred and sixty-four. Which line do you add to your poem?\n\n\nMATSUMOTO TAKASHI\n\n[[Her summer kimono]]\n[[Loose, untied,]]\n[[Yet somehow trim.]]\n\n[[Cicadas shrieking:]]\n[[The arc of stars]]\n[[Grows steeper still.]]\n\n[[In the brothel]]\n[[A room, empty:]]\n[[Autumn evening.]]\n\n[[On an onion tuft]]\n[[A butterfly settling:]]\n[[Lonely, sad.]]\n\n\n\nISHIDA HAKYO\n\n[[Sparrows scurrying]]\n[[As if storm-mounted]]\n[[Scudding over fields.]]\n\n[[Sick-room window]]\n[[Lacquered over]]\n[[With grey winter cloud.]]\n\n[[Dead fly husk]]\n[[Lies by my sleeve]]\n[[As if in waiting.]]\n

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nFrom the middle of the stack, you remove a paperback with a soft cover. Behind the title's bright white and deeply serifed font, you see a saturated image of orange, white, and yellow flowers arranged around a murky body of water. The image is cavernous, claustrophobic, the flowers--all slightly twisted or crumpled, on the edge of decay--pack around the corners of the book, weave into one another's stems. Looking at this book, you're struck with the ghost-scent of a sweetened rot, somewhere between rich and retch.\n\nAt first glance, the image seems to be an exquisitely detailed oil painting, almost oozing with moisture. But on closer inspection... is it a photograph? It's too intense to tell. Turning the book over, you read that the cover is a detail of //Fair is foul, and foul is fair// by Margriet Smulders.\n\nYou look away for a moment, allowing your eyes to refresh. When you eventually turn back to the book, how do you open it?\n\n\n[[I open it to a page number corresponding with a measurement on the workbench.]]\n\n[[I just, you know, open it.]]

You hold the book in your left hand and rotate your right, bringing the fingernails of your middle and ring fingers against the pages. Precision is impossible – the paper slips right against your nails’ hard surface, only catching when it touches the very edge of a cuticle. \n\nAfter a few tries, you open the book to page seventy-three. It looks like you’re only catching the last few lines of a poem that began on a previous page.\n\n\nWhich line do you add to your poem?\n\n[[a galaxy of wildflowers]]\n[[shimmers. Shimmers]]\n[[and hollers,]]\n[[“C’mon!”]]

Perched over the book, you lean over to open the pages.\n\nYou open the absolute unit of a book to page one hundred and sixty-four.\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[KOKKINISTO]]\n[[BRAISED BEEF WITH TOMATOES, CINNAMON, AND CLOVES]]\n\n[[What I love about Greek braises]] [[is that they are so simple and delicious.]]\n[[The tomatoes in which]] [[the beef are braised]] [[give kokkinisto its name.]]\n[[which literally means "red."]] [[The cinnamon and cloves always add]] [[a sweet]] \n[[and mysterious element]] [[that makes people wonder]] [[just what is going on in your stew.]]\n[[You can apply this method to chicken]] [[and lamb]] [[with equally delicious results.]]\n[[In Greece,]] [[this dish is served simply]] [[with pasta or orzo and a sprinkle]]\n[[of freshly grated cheese.]] [[Like all braises,]] [[this is best made a day in advance]]\n[[-- or do like my yiayia does]] [[and make it in the morning]] [[to be served]]\n[[for a late lunch.]]

You read the seventy-eighth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Data mining:]] [[an extenstion of the pervious two:]] [[make a poem based on variious web searches or other forms of data mining.]] [[For example, Karri Kokko's Shadow Finlandia: An Extract ( tr. Lehto):]] [[a collage of depressive or otherwise dark or gloomy fragments in Finnish blogs.]]

You flip through the pages quickly, pausing in the few moments where there's more than three or four lines of text per page -- true to The Economy Press's name, these are fairly sparse pages. After comparing a few of the longer pages against one another, you determine which one contains the most text. It's slightly over half a page long. \n\nLike many books published in the chapbook style, there aren't any printed page numbers. Rather than count by hand, let's just say this: you're on the page with the highest number of words.\n\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[I perceive good and evil in myself and the world but]]\n[[see the greatest danger for our society in the decline of]]\n[[excellence and fidelity in relationships, work, self-]]\n[[regard and nature-regard, loss of faith and]]\n[[disconnectedness from history and tradition.]]\n[[Institutions have become the new idols conferring]]\n[[through their high priests (bosses / executive boards),]]\n[[salvation (career advancement), grace (pay raises /]]\n[[corporate profits), absolution (union / company]]\n[[policy), a sacred language (jargon), service (seductive]]\n[[advertising), and immortality (the ability of successful]]\n[[institutions to outlive their members).]]

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nYou reach in the pile and pull out a slim, white book with black and red markings on the cover. The front shows a series of characters arranged in a square-shaped, five-by-five pattern. The outer ring of characters is made up of a repeating, sans-serif letter E, rotated at varying increments of ninety degrees to also read as an M, W, or backwards E. The middle ring of characters follows the same rotational practice, this time with the letter C. Finally, smack dab in the middle is the first character, now with its arms pointing upward to make a letter W.\n\nThe book's title, ''AMBLYOPIA'', is squeezed between the first and second rows of characters, printed in a sharp red font. Between the third and fourth row: ''JENA''. Between the fourth and fifth row: ''OSMAN''.\n\nThe back cover hosts three blurbs, printed in a small, black typeface with rectangular margins, written by poets Ann Lauterbach, Ted Pearson, and Leslie Scalapino, respectively. At the bottom, you see "Avenue B," presumably Osman's publisher. The bottom left corner lists the book's original price, $8.00, while the bottom right displays its ISBN.\n\n\nHow do you open this book?\n\n\n[[With a nudge.|Osman1]]\n\n[[With a stroll.|Osman2]]\n\n[[With my full attention.|Osman3]]

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nThe bright yellow of Joshua Wilkerson’s //Meadowlands/Xanadu/American Dream// immediately catches your eyes, as does the large, slightly serifed font of the small book’s three titles. \n\n\nHow do you open this book?\n\n[[With the unassigned urgency of a mall walker|wilkerson1]]\n\n[[With a meandering through some liminal atrium|wilkerson2]]\n\n[[Like I’m in middle school and stealing into a Spencer’s Gifts|wilkerson3]]

You read the eighth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Misheard:]] [[Write a poem composed entirely of misheard song lyrics, clichés, overheard conversations, news headlines, menu items, etc.]]

<<if visited("pantry")>><<display "pantry">><<else>>\s\nSinglemindedly, you gracefully skirt the small table in front of you, crossing the kitchen with lithe steps.\n\nIn one deft movement, you grab the door's small wooden knob and pull it towards you. \n\n...\n\n...nothing happens.\n\n...\n\nUpon closer inspection, you realize this is a //sliding// door. There's wheeled tracks in the door frame and everything.\n\n[[Okay, fine, I slide the door open.|pantry]]\n<<endif>>

With your left hand, you gently lift the monitor to retrieve the almost-hidden sticky note. As you look more closely, you note that the entire desk has a slight cover of dust--nothing gross, just the amount that might gradually accumulate over a week or two. Interestingly, the dust immediately around the monitor's base is streaked and disrupted. It seems like the monitor's moved much more recently than anything else, perhaps in a hurry.\n\nYou pull out the pink note and give the messy handwriting a read. It's a list of names. The scrawl is particularly rough, as if the words aren't meant for anyone's eyes but those of their author. Still, you make it out with some effort:\n\n\n//- sorenson\n- stone\n- pinkowitz\n- erikson//\n\n\n...These names seem somewhat familiar to you.\n\n\n[[I read the other sticky notes.|some bright pink sticky notes]]

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nYou pinch the pink wad and bring it up to your face, unfolding it as you do. It's got a list of... phrases? Titles? You're not quite sure what these refer to.\n\nIt looks as if the author was trying to make a decision on something, as each phrase is written on a sequential line and all of them, save for the final line, are crossed out.\n\nAre these titles for a chapbook or something? It's unclear. Strangely, your brain starts to hurt when you think too closely about what you're reading. Best not to give it your full attention.\n\n\nWhich line do you add to your poem?\n\n//[[Bibliomancy]]\n[[Bibliomancy: The Game]]\n[[The Poet in The House]]\n[[A Poet is You!]]\n[[Housepoems]]\n[[Dr. Robotnik's Mean Poem Machine]]\n[[The Amazing Cento Generator]]\n[[Cento Quest]]\n[[Centoquest]]\n\n[[CentoQuest]]//\n\n\nThe final line, "CentoQuest," has a definitive circle drawn around it. When you read it, your brain gives you another pinprick of existential confusion. It's sharper this time.

You read the eighty-third experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n\n[[Digital poems.]] [[See sample at Digital Poetry.]] [[Use spreeder.com]] [[to construct a kinetic version of a poem.]]

You dart over to the open window and stick your head outside, looking frantically for some kind of clue about the scene you've entered upon. Now that you're looking downward, you see that someone has tied the bedsheet into a series of sequential knots, each one big enough to serve as a reasonable hand- or foothold. \n\nYou think of those old VHS tapes from your childhood, some family-friendly adventure where the plucky tween protagonist sneaks out from the hold of their overbearing parents, or their draconian babysitter, or the encroaching holiday-season home-invasion threat of two bumbling burglars. \n\nYou reminisce a tad too long, and just barely notice a flash of movement darting between the bushes and into the next door neighbors' occluded back yard. A flash of movement that seemed to be... limping? A little bit?\n\nYou look down. Whoever hastily tied this escape rope definitely didn't think about the actual height of the window. The end of the bedsheet hangs a good seven feet from the ground. The tip of the fabric sways gently in the wind. Directly beneath it, the grass is all matted up, as if someone recently awkwardly fell--//hard//--and scrambled away.\n\nNext to the grassy imprint, you notice there's a small brick path winding around the side of the house. There's a couple of large trash receptacles along it.\n\n\nIt looks like whoever tied this rope is long gone by now.\n\nStill, when you think about it, you've never actually climbed down one of these things--despite how often you thought about sneaking out into the dark nights of your own childhood. In your imagination, your rambunctious 10-year-old self gives you a couple nudges with their elbow, gestures at the bedsheet rope, wiggles their eyebrows with excitement. They shrug mischievously: //Eh? Ehhhhh?//\n\n\n[[I'm an adult and this whole thing is bizarre. Besides, I've got a poem to write. I'm not going to break my neck rappelling into the yard, thank you very much.|upstairs bedroom]]\n\n[[Hell yeah, I'm already climbing down this thing!]]\n

Whoever was recently using the computer must have departed in a hurry, as the lock screen hasn’t even had enough time to activate. The desktop greets you with soft purple background populated by an assortment of digital folders, unsorted files, and archaic application shortcuts, none of which seem to be organized in a particular fashion. \n\nYou cock your head. Well, perhaps the density of icons drifts slightly to the right side of the screen. Slightly.\n\nHovering in front of it all is a web browser window that’s currently open to [[the Wikipedia page for poet Bernadette Mayer]]. You recognize the site’s standard black text dotted with waxing and waning clouds of blue hyperlinks. \n\nThere are also a few other tabs currently open in the web browser. But you wouldn’t go snooping through someone else’s browsing habits, now would you?\n\n[[Of course not!|upstairs bedroom]]\n\n\n...\n\nThough… it wouldn’t so bad to just //glance// at the tab titles, would it? While you’re here?\n\nYou quickly skim your eyes across the top border of the browser. Almost entirely by impulse, really. These are the other tabs you see:\n\n<<if $animorphs is 1>>\s\n[[Cento (poetry) - Wikipedia]]\n\n[[Passages - Twine Cookbook]]\n\n[[EXPERIMENTS]]\n\n[[CentoQuest by bibliomancer]]\n\n[[Gmail]]\n\nAs you continue clicking around, you accidentally drag the browser window a little bit to the left. \n[[Wait... what's that Private Browsing window?]]<<else>>\n\s\n[[Cento (poetry) - Wikipedia]]\n\n[[Passages - Twine Cookbook]]\n\n[[EXPERIMENTS]]\n\n[[CentoQuest by bibliomancer]]\n\n[[Gmail]]<<endif>>

Way at the bottom of this gargantuan list of poetry prompts, you find two paragraphs and a light blue box, all of which provide a bit more context regarding the list you’ve just read.\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[Remember: Poems can be in prose format!]] [[Rewrite and recombine,]] \n[[collage, splice together the material generated from these experiments]]\n[[into one long ongoing poem!]]\n\n[[Compiled by Charles Bernstein.]] [[© 1996-2019 by Poets' Ludicrously Aimless Yearning (PLAY).]] \n[[Dispense only as appropriate and under the supervision of an attending reader.]] \n[[Individual experiments are not liable for injury or failure resulting from improper use of appliance.]]\n[[Any profits accrued as a direct or indirect result of the use of these formulas shall be redistributed]]\n[[to the language at large.]] [[Management assumes no responsibility for damages]]\n[[that may result consequent to the use of this material]] [[in educational institutions]]\n[[or individual writing project.]] ~~[[revised July 2006.]]~~\n\n<blockquote><blockquote>\s\n[[This list was inspired by]]\n[[Bernadette Mayer’s compilation]]\n[[from the 1970s.]]\n[[For more Experiments,]]\n[[and journal ideas, go to:]]\n__[[Bernadette Mayer]]__\n</blockquote></blockquote>

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nOne of the chapbooks--a slim, crimson-red booklet--stands out to you for both its size and color. It's the size and shape of one of those clean, simple, and surprisingly overpriced notebooks they sell in the checkout line of your local bookstore. Picking it up, you notice how effectively it's been pressed--it sits firmly flat in your palm, no sneaky pages pushing upward, nothing ajar. Giving the insides a little peek, you notice that the chapbook's endpapers are made of repurposed street maps of the Los Angeles area. "CHINO HILLS 91709" immediately stands out.\n\nIt's a tight and efficiently made chapbook. It's very pleasing to hold it in your hand.\n\nThe front cover displays three items, top-to-bottom, in the following order: \n\n1. A simple side-profile line drawing of a roof. The illustration is so simple in fact--just four lines combined at slightly obtuse angles--that you likely would've never recognized the shape if it wasn't for a chimney poking out of the top, just right of the roof's peak. As you think a bit more, you realize that the illustration's spatial proximity to the top of the cover also subtly emphasizes its purpose.\n\n2. The chapbook's title (//Hum Decode//) and the author's name (//Justin Runge//). Both are printed in bold black letters with a slight deboss--you can feel the divots of each letter as you run your thumb over them. The font of Runge's name, especially, is reminiscent of that kind of mid-century American lettering one still finds on institutional buildings built in the '60s. \n\n3. Another simple illustration of a square coffee table with three-dimensional perspective. Upon closer inspection, you also realize the table and roof illustrations are also debossed, just not quite as intensely as the title and author.\n\nFinally, on the back cover there's one last simple bit of line art--a series of cocentric circles gradually and sequentially stretching into oval shapes. It's the only illustration that isn't cleanly printed, as you notice some inconsistent inking. Below it is the press name: "GREYING GHOST."\n\n\nHow do you open this chapbook?\n\n[[Like a friendly-yet-vague acquaintance.|runge1]]\n\n[[With some suspense.|runge2]]

<<set $bedroom to 1>>\s\n<<if $lines gte 14>><<display "living room">><<else>>\s\n<<if previous() is "open window">>Like a sensible adult who already has plenty of lower-back pain, you turn away from the window and regard the bedroom once more.<<else>>\s\nYou step gingerly over the [[mass of chapbooks]] splayed in the doorframe, taking care not to step on any more. (You wince at the clear black shoe print staining one of their covers.)<<endif>>\n\nYou see a small bedroom-slash-office in disarray. \n\nA few steps to your right is a newish [[desktop computer]] sitting atop a charismatically rough wooden table. You notice some slight chipping and discoloration around the the keyboard and mousepad, likely where the user rests their palms between keystrokes. A number of other objects are jumbled beneath and around the computer monitor: a table lamp, [[some bright pink sticky notes]], a few twisted-up paperclips, two cats-eye marbles (one a deep ochre, the other a bright swirl of reds and blues), a single, lime green six-sided die, and other loose papers. There's also two drinking vessels amongst the mess. One, a small, palm-sized cup made of translucent green glass, holds an assortment of pens, pencils, and permanent markers. The other, [[a wide, colorful mug]], is half full with coffee. You notice the smallest wisp of steam rising from it.\n\nNext to the computer desk is a short, black filing cabinet, atop which sits a stringy, wide-reaching fern in an orange clay pot. The pot's saucer is chipped in a few places, well-worn. Here, too, you notice some discolored rings of water damage on the table's surface, likely where the computer's user would place a drink if trying to save space on the desk. (Does your host //ever// use a coaster?)\n\nAcross the room is a mostly stripped, queen-sized bed. Pillows are haphazardly piled high in the corner, as if they were quickly thrown out of the way. The bleached-white mattress protector is on full display. It feels uncomfortably intimate to see the bed in this state of disarray, not unlike finding someone else's private laundry in your dryer at the laundromat.\n\nOn the other side of the disheveled bed, you see an [[open window]], through which runs a taut bedsheet that's been hastily stretched into a rope. One end of the sheet is tied slapdashedly to the bed frame while the other dangles out the window.\n\nThere is nobody in the room.\n\n\n[[I go back downstairs.|hallway]]\n<<endif>>

You read the twentieth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Recombination (1):]] [[Write a poem and cut it somewhere in the middle,]] [[then recombine with the beginning part following the ending part.]]

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nYou consider the jar of peppers with some trepidation. Within the jar, you see oblong red shapes floating in a translucent red fluid, not unlike mutated maraschino cherries. Are these... pickled? Or just soaking?\n\nThis is one of those kinds of condiments that tends to hang around half-empty for years. Eventually nobody remembers who bought it in the first place.\n\nYou don't even consider opening the jar, but you take a look at its label anyway. \n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[Cento Chef's Cut Roasted Peppers are]]\n[[fire-roasted with some char remaining,]]\n[[giving them a naturally flavorful taste.]]\n[[These California grown roasted red bell]]\n[[peppers are julienne sliced and packed in]]\n[[water, making them an excellent addition]]\n[[to your favorite salad or sandwich]]\n\n\n[[STORE IN A COOL, DRY PLACE.]]\n[[COVER WITH WATER AND]]\n[[REFRIGERATE AFTER OPENING.]]\n[[CONSUME WITHIN SEVEN DAYS OR FREEZE]]\n[[IN A PLASTIC CONTAINER.]]\n

You open the cover to the chapbook's title page. There's a slight resistance that comes from the spine's firmly saddle-stitched staples. What greets you is a cream-colored sheet of paper that's entirely blank, save for one small word:\n\n\n\n\n//IURDSTVO//\n\n\n\n\nYour curiosity only deepens, so you turn to the following page. There's an editor's note. You take a moment to learn more about the book--and this word, //IURDSTVO//--that you hold in your hands. \n\n(You also consider what language you'd like to add to your own poem):\n\n[[Iurodstvo means "holy foolishness"--the prophetic tradition]]\n[[of acting and speaking in shocking and unorthodox ways to]]\n[[communicate spiritual truths.]]\n\n[[Ken Feit (1940-1981) was a Chicago-born poet, performer,]]\n[[and self-proclaimed "itinerant fool." Relatively unknown,]]\n[[Feit's writings show him to be one of the twentieth century's]]\n[[most insightful and innovative practitioners of western]]\n[[iurodstvo.]]\n\n[[Collected here is a selection of Feit's short reflections on the]]\n[[role of the holy fool regarding justice, compassion, and]]\n[[identity.]]\n\n//Anthony Opal, Editor//\n//The Economy Press//\n\n\n\n(...no acknowledgement is made of the distinction in spelling between the chapbook's title, "IURDSTVO," and its referent term, "Iurodstvo.")

<<if $lines gte 14>><<display "living room">><<else>>\s\n<<set $kitchen to 1>>\s\nAs you enter the kitchen, the oven's ambient heat bathes over you--and with it, a nutty, cinnamon scent. Your mouth waters. A pleasant heat builds in your chest.\n\nTo your left is an [[oven]], clearly containing a treat midway through the baking process. The adjoining counter is dusted with a perfectly rectangular frame of light brown flour, as if someone recently removed a cutting board without sweeping up. Tucked beneath a measuring cup, you see a smudged piece of paper that looks like a [[recipe]].\n\nSlightly further down the counter, you see a [[short row of books, propped up by copper-colored bookends]].\n\n<<if $back is 1>>Across the room, you see the [[refrigerator]], <<if $pantry is 1>>the [[pantry door|skinny wooden door]]<<else>>a [[skinny wooden door]]<<endif>>, and the house's [[back door|back path]].<<else>>Across the room, you see the [[refrigerator]] and <<if $pantry is 1>>the [[pantry door|skinny wooden door]]<<else>>a [[skinny wooden door]]<<endif>>.<<endif>>\n\nTo your right is a double-basin porcelain sink. The right side is empty. The left is half-filled with soapy water, within which you see a whisk, a mixing bowl, and some more measuring cups soaking. There's a yellow/green sponge/scrubber combo and a couple brushes behind the faucet.\n\nFinally, on a small table right in front of you there's an invitingly-placed bowl of fresh fruit, a small plate of crackers, and a piece of [[scrap paper]] with some writing on it.\n\n\nReturn to the [[living room]]?\n<<endif>>

...\n\n...\n\n...\n\n...\n\n...\n\n\n\nYou open the chapbook to page eleven.\n\n\nWhat line do you add to your poem?\n\n[[It is morbid]]\n[[and obvious]]\n[[to say death.]]\n[[A piano]]\n[[is buttons]]\n[[to press.]]\n[[Left open]]\n[[like a window]]\n[[for a cat.]]\n[[Lo-fi speech.]]\n[[Sibilance. Rasp.]]\n[[Grant]]\n[[passage but first]]\n[[ensure]]\n[[the bootlaces]]\n[[are in a double knot.]]\n[[A path is made]]\n[[through trust.]]\n[[The mother]]\n[[tongue and paper]]\n[[calf.]]\n[[In the backyard]]\n[[where spiders]]\n[[graph]]\n[[out home.]]\n[[Regret]]\n[[must be]]\n[[built and built into.]]

You read the sixty-fifth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Anagrammatica: Recombine an existing work via anagrams,]] [[or otherwise make a work driven by anagrams.]] [[See, for example. K. Silem Mohammad's anagrams]] [[of Shakespeare's sonnets.]] [[Use an anagram engine]] [[(or this).]]

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You read the ninety-third experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Use the "Meaning Eater" engine]] [[to deform the text of a poem.]]

<<if $lines gte 14>><<display "living room">><<else>>\s\n<<set $bathroom to 1>>\s\nYou enter the bathroom.\n\nIt's a bathroom!\n\nMost of the room is a strangely comforting shade of light pink. They must have tiled the room in a different decade, though you aren't quite sure which decade makes the most sense. \n\nThere's a porcelain sink to your right. Next to the faucet is a small bamboo soap dish, and, on that dish, there's a bar of creamy blue soap, shaped in a worn oval. Two streaks of dried suds trail into the sink's basin. \n\nAbove the sink, there's a mirror-fronted [[medicine cabinet]]. You could open it and snoop around, if that's your kind of thing.\n\nPast the sink, there's a window with a tastefully drawn curtain. You see that your host has graciously provided some reading material, as four books lie horizontally stacked on the window sill.\n\nYou glance at the book's spines:\n\n[[Exercises in Style -- Raymond Queneau]]\n[[Tumbleweed Dreams -- Blake Stone]]\n[[Across the Land and the Water -- W.G. Sebald]]\n[[A thin, yellow-and-orange booklet without space for a title on the spine]]\n\nThere's also a bathtub, hidden by a seashell shower curtain, and a toilet. On top of the toilet's tank is a small tray, which holds two tea candles and a book of matches. The left candle is nearly depleted, while the right is still fresh.\n\nYou can [[use the toilet]] if you really need to.\n\nReturn to the [[hallway]]?\n<<endif>>

You know what you want, and you know how to get there.\n\nYou open the book to page two hundred and ninety-six, which brings you three pages into Chapter 30: "Edible Plants." It falls right between Chapter 29: "Poisonous Mushrooms" and Chapter 31: "First Aid."\n\nYour current page contains three columns of text filled with somewhat alphabetically organized descriptions of edible plants, starting with the letter H. For some reason the entries aren't //perfectly// alphabetical. You guess that the book's first priority is to fit as much text on the page as possible, after which alphabetization plays second fiddle.\n\nBetween the text and the book's spine are a series of small illustrations corresponding with each plant. The art style and image quality of each illustration varies widely, suggesting that the book's author crowdsourced at least some of this work. Still, the level of specificity is impressive... and likely //helpful//, if you were to ever find yourself stranded in the woods, digging around for roots and berries with a five-pound book strapped to your back.\n\nWhich plant do you wish to learn more about?\n\n[[Hazelnut]]\n[[Hickory]]\n[[Iceland Moss]]\n[[Highbush Cranberry]]\n[[Horseradish]]\n[[Hackberry]]\n[[Hawthorn]]\n[[Live-Forever]]\n[[Lamb's Quarter]]\n[[Kinnikinic]]\n[[Knotweed]]\n[[Jack-in-the-Pulpit]]\n[[Jerusalem Artichoke]]\n[[Groundnut]]

You take some time to learn more about the Jerusalem Artichoke.\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[JERUSALEM ARTICHOKE]]\n[[(Helianthus)]]\n[[Found: United States and Central Canada --]]\n[[grows in damp but not wet areas]]\n[[Tubers: should be dug after first frost.]]\n[[By removing the skin you can eat the tubers raw.]]\n[[To cook them simmer them in water]] [[and remove the skin.]]\n[[Serve the same way as potatoes.]]

You turn the chapbook around in your hands so that the spine faces you. With a slightly awkward gesture, you then open the book backwards, as if you were spreading the pages to show someone else facing you, someone who isn't there. \n\nIt's impossible to know to which page you've opened until you flip Kaminski's chapbook back towards yourself, at which point you see... that there are no page numbers to be found. \n\nYou quickly thumb through the pages between your selection and the front cover, do some mental math, it's not so hard. It looks like you're on page five.\n\nWhich line do you add to your poem?\n\n[[(face scarlet with salt)]]\n[[waxy leaf illuminated mid-day]]\n[[soil baking beneath feet]]\n[[white vinyl siding gravel lot]]\n[[no animal no skin no watery grave]]\n[[tractor-call through the valley]]\n[[brown grass on hills flies brown corn husk]]\n[[fields that echo fields that burn]]

Pinching the spine of //Each Acre// between your left thumb and pointer finger, you navigate your right pinky toward the gap between the chapbook's covers. The booklet is so thin that it takes you a few tries to actually catch a page and open it without using your other fingers. It's a delicate procedure of friction and patience.\n\nAfter finally splaying the pages, you take stock of where you are. Like many small-press chapbooks, there aren't actually any printed page numbers -- it's a small enough publication that a reader can't get too lost (and perhaps getting a little lost is part of the point).\n\nStill, this whole conceit starts to fall apart if you don't pick an actual page. You do some quick counting and determine that you've opened the chapbook to page nine.\n\nWhich line do you add to your poem?\n\n[[but even with these days of unending gray]]\n[[of cloud blanket and too-tight air]]\n[[lines are painted in asphalt]]\n[[people join together in halls]]\n[[white petals unfold slowly]]\n[[and tomatoes stay green on vines]]\n[[this carry and fall this whistle wolf-ward]]\n[[this echo of bear-fall and moose on the mountain]]\n[[sung half-heard unto prairie onto field]]

You click on the seventh entry from the top of the list.\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Added:]]\n[[• Ability to check your poem's progress at any time.]]\n   [[◦ (This can be helpful while selecting your next line.)]]\n[[• Significant visual upgrade.]]\n[[• More rooms in the house.]]\n[[• More books in those rooms.]]\n[[• More descriptions of those books.]]\n[[• Credits page.]]

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nYou lift a narrow, white chapbook from the top of the pile. On the front cover there's a black rectangle, within which you see white outlines of interwoven blades of grass. Multiple images of the grass are overlaid upon one another and shrink in size as they reach the middle of the cover, leading to a gap in the very middle. Staring at the illustration, you imagine the perspective of a small creature, perhaps a field mouse, navigating a path beneath an overgrown canopy of tallgrass.\n\nAt the tips of the tallest blades you see the author's name, Megan Kaminski. Above that is the chapbook's title, //Each Acre//. Each word is printed with the texture of handwritten chalk, further emphasized by the white-on-black inking.\n\nOn the back cover, you notice the publisher's contact information printed in a blurry, pixelated script:\n\n''above/\n        /ground press\nc/o: rob mclennan\n2423 alta vista drive\nottawa ontario klh 7m9''\n\nAs you flip the chapbook over a final time, you notice the lime green endpapers between the covers and the contents -- it's the only colored component of the entire publication.\n\n\nHow do you open this book?\n\n[[I open the pages away from myself, then flip the chapbook around.|kaminski1]]\n\n[[I use my pinky finger to separate the pages.|kaminski2]]\n

You click on the second entry from the top of the list.\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[• Updates:]]\n   [[◦ Small language edits.]]\n   [[◦ A little bit of redecorating.]]\n   [[◦ Slight code improvements.]]\n   [[◦ Some more reading material.]]\n   [[◦ Your host is now ready to greet you.]]\n      [[▪ (or are they?)]]

You push the cans around a little to see what kind of selection's here. There's some pinto beans, garbanzo beans, black beans, red beans, white beans, Great Northern beans, jelly beans, lima beans, "ranch-style" beans, and black-eyed peas. You also spot a few varieties of crushed and diced tomatoes--both unseasoned and "fire-roasted." There's a few cans of fish in oil, and a whole row of, strangely enough, "okra in sauce."\n\nYou're unsure of what kind of sauce is best for serving with canned okra, and you decide it's probably best to keep it that way.\n\nTucked underneath a stack of cannellini beans (oh, right, those are here too) you notice a [[folded sheet of white paper]].\n\nContinue rooting around the [[pantry]]?

You unfold your poem and read it again:\n\n\n''<<if $poemtitle is 0>> - - - - - - - - <<else>><<print $poemtitle>><<endif>>''\n\n<<if $line1 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 0>> <<print $line1>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line2 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 1>> <<print $line2>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line3 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 2>> <<print $line3>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line4 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 3>> <<print $line4>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line5 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 4>> <<print $line5>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line6 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 5>> <<print $line6>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line7 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 6>> <<print $line7>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line8 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 7>> <<print $line8>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line9 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 8>> <<print $line9>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line10 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 9>> <<print $line10>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line11 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 10>> <<print $line11>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line12 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 11>> <<print $line12>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line13 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 12>> <<print $line13>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line14 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 13>> <<print $line14>> <<endif>>\n\n - - - - - - - -\n\n\n\nWhen you close this game, your poem will disappear. If you'd like to save your work, I recommend either taking a screenshot, copy/pasting your poem into the text editor of your choice, or pulling out an old-fashioned paper notebook to copy down your work.

You read the eleventh experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Burroughs's fold-in:]] [[Take two different pages from a newspaper or magazine article, or a book, and cut the pages in half vertically.]] [[Paste the mismatched pages together.]] [[(Cf.: William Burroughs’s The Third Mind.)]] [[Use the computer Lazarus cut-up engine to perform a similar task automatically;]] [[also engines at "Language Is a Virus:"]] [[Cut Up Machine, Slice-n-Dice, Exquisite Cadavulator, & God's Rude Wireless.]] [[Perumtations 1, 2 & 3]]\n[[And: Ron Starr's travesty engine.]]

You read the ninetieth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Take phrases from a source text and embed within a narrative of your own construction.]] [[(See Alan Ramón Clinton's use of a Bob Perelman poem.)]]

You read the seventy-third experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Negation/Opposites:]] [[Negate every phrase or sentence in the poem or]] [[in some way substitute opposite words for selected words in the source text:]] [["I went to the beach" becomes "I went to the office";]] [["I got up" becomes "She sat down";]] [["I will" becomes "I will not", etc.]] [[As an alternative, take a poem and change what it says]] [[line for line or phrase for phrase; not opposite, just different.]]

Standing on your tip-toes, you remove a small glass jar filled with various staples. Lifting the lid, you can't help but marvel at the diversity of what you've found. It looks like there's something for every occasion in here.\n\nLooking a bit more closely, it appears some of them are still clumped together.\n\nYou see some thick ones, with rounded backs. Plenty of the squarely bent, rectangular variety. There's even multicolored ones--you see bright red, baby blue, and even some glittering gold ones mixed in with the typical grey.\n\nWhy anyone would store so many different types of staples just //loose// in the same jar is a mystery to you.\n\n...\n\nYou know, it doesn't even look like there's a stapler in here.\n\nYou carefully replace the jar on the top shelf and continue rooting around in the [[pantry]].

You give the door three short raps with your knuckles.\n\n...\n\n...\n\nThere's no answer.\n\n\n[[I try the knob again.]]\n\n[[I knock politely.]]\n\n[[I put my shoulder into it.]]\n\n\nReturn to the [[hallway]]?

With your right hand, you pluck Axinn's book by the spine. Using your left hand, you spread the pages out to make two "wings."\n\nHolding the "plane" aloft, you "fly" it for a few laps around the kitchen, giving the oven a narrow "flyover" like a maneuver straight out of Top Gun. After narrowly avoiding an emergency water landing in the sink, you stop to catch your breath and check where you've actually opened the book.\n\nAlright, Maverick. You're currently on page forty-eight.\n\nWhich line do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[THE MEADOW]]\n\n[[Early lift-off, I climb and seek]]\n[[what's inside this bathed and bright morning.]]\n\n[[Unloosened from the ground,]]\n[[my wings are swan-like,]]\n\n[[long and graceful, feathers spread,]]\n[[I drink sunrise thoughts,]]\n\n[[fantasies, and fly new day-dreams.]]\n[[I'm high on spiced, fruity air;]]\n\n[[eyes poke around the patches]]\n[[on the blanket below,]]\n\n[[land waves rolling on a fall sea, nature]]\n[[resting after spring and summer work.]]\n\n[[Hills rise up to view better,]]\n[[streams wander to reach ponds,]]\n\n[[families of evergreens gather]]\n[[(they're all related by color),]]\n\n[[back roads call upon quiet farms;]]\n[[and off on the horizons,]]\n\n[[the big fellows, the greyed]]\n[[mountains hulk.]]

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nYou pick up one of the tins of coffee and turn it in your hands. It's "Chock full o'Nuts" brand, which claims to be "New York's coffee since 1932."\n\nEven though you've seen these tins everywhere for years, you've never actually understood the brand's name. Sick of this long-standing confusion, you decide to conduct the most advanced research possible:\n\nYou read the back of the tin.\n\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[Dear Customer,]]\n[[You're holding Chock full o'Nuts.]] [[No, there are no nuts in here]] [[(it's a long story)]]\n[[- just the most flavorful,]] [[freshest beans we can buy.]] [[And then we slow roast them]]\n[[like we have since 1932]] [[when we started out in Brooklyn.]] [[All to give you a rich, aromatic]]\n[[blend that brews into the boldest coffee]] [[you've ever put to your lips.]] [[The coffee that's]]\n[[fueled New York for generations.]] [[So, it's perfect to start your day -]]\n[[whenever your day starts, that is.]]\n[[Cordially,]]\n[[Your friends at Chock full o'Nuts]]\n\n\n... That doesn't clarify anything!

You read the twenty-ninth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Write a poem in which you try to transcribe as accurately as you can]] [[your thoughts while you are writing.]] [[Don't edit anything out.]] [[Write as fast as you can without planning what you are going to say.]] [[(Sometimes called "free writing.]] [[Try this with handwriting.]] [[Compare versions done by hand and on a computer.)]]

You click on the fifth entry from the top of the list.\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[• Updates:]]\n   [[◦ Players can now title their poems.]]\n   [[◦ Updated names in Credits.]]\n   [[◦ More spaces to explore (...need any ibuprofen?)]]

You read the thirty-eighth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Imitation:]] [[Write a poem in the style of each of a dozen poets who you like and dislike.]] [[Try to make it as close to a forgery of an "unknown" poem of the author as possible.]]

''shhhhhhhhhlip.''\n\n''tup.''\n\n''urch-urch.''\n\n''fwip. fwip-fwip. fwip.''\n\nYou've reached page two hundred and three.\n\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[UNPUBLISHED EXERCISES]]\n\n\n[["On the bus..."]]\n\n[[On the bus. On the platform. We were tightly]]\n[[packed in. Roughly half past noon. A young]]\n[[man with glasses. A hat with a cord instead of]]\n[[a ribbon. A skinny chicken neck. At a stop, he]]\n[[protests against the man who is behind him:]]\n[[Sir, you are pushing me every time people get]]\n[[off. Then he throws himself onto a vacant seat.]]\n\n[[Two hours later, I meet him in the Place Saint]]\n[[Lazare (Cour de Rome). He is with a friend who]]\n[[is advising him to have a button added to his]]\n[[overcoat.]]

You open and close the book five times in rapid succession, finally landing on page two hundred and thirty. It holds a single, page-long poem by Adrienne Rich: “Consanguinity.”\n\n\nWhat line do you add to your poem?\n\n//[[Consanguinity]]//\n\n[[Can history show us nothing]]\n[[but pieces of ourselves, detached,]]\n[[set to a kind of poetry,]]\n[[a kind of music, even?]]\n[[Seated today on Grandmamma’s]]\n[[plush sofa with the grapes]]\n[[bursting so ripely from the curved mahogany,]]\n[[we read the great Victorians]]\n[[weeping, almost, as if]]\n[[some family breach were healed.]]\n[[Those angry giantesses and giants,]]\n[[lately our kith and kin!]]\n[[We stare into their faces, hear]]\n[[at last what they were saying]]\n[[(or some version not bruited]]\n[[by filial irritation).]]\n\n[[The cat-tails wither in the reading-room.]]\n[[Tobacco-coloured dust]]\n[[drifts on the newest magazines.]]\n[[I skulk here leafing ancient copies]]\n[[of LIFE from World War II.]]\n[[We look so poor and honest there:]]\n[[girls with long hair badly combed]]\n[[and unbecoming dresses–]]\n[[where are you now?]]\n[[ You sail]]\n[[to shop in Europe, ignorantly saved]]\n[[for you, an age ago.]]\n[[Your nylon luggage matches]]\n[[ eyelids]]\n[[expertly azured.]]\n[[I, too, have lived in history.]]

You open the book. You close the book.\n\nYou open the book. You close the book.\n\nYou open the book. You close the book.\n\nYou open the book. You close the book.\n\nYou do this again.\n\nYou repeat it once more, the opening and the closing.\n\nYou open the book a final time.\n\nYou’re on page one hundred and sixty. There’s an excerpt from a longer work by W.D. Snodgrass: //Heart’s Needle//.\n\n\nWhat line do you add to your poem?\n\n[[Child of my winter, born]]\n[[When the new fallen soldiers froze]]\n[[In Asia’s steep ravines and fouled the snows,]]\n[[When I was torn]]\n\n[[By love I could not still,]]\n[[By fear that silenced my cramped mind]]\n[[To that cold war where, lost, I could not find]]\n[[My peace in my will,]]\n\n[[All those days we could keep]]\n[[Your mind a landscape of new snow]]\n[[Where the chilled tenant-farmer finds, below,]]\n[[His fields asleep]]\n\n[[In their smooth covering, white]]\n[[As quilts to warm the resting bed]]\n[[Of birth or pain, spotless as paper spread]]\n[[For me to write,]]\n\n[[And thinks: Here lies my land]]\n[[Unmarked by agony, the lean foot]]\n[[Of the weasel tracking, the thick trapper’s boot;]]\n[[And I have planned]]\n\n[[My chances to restrain]]\n[[The torments of demented summer or]]\n[[Increase the deepening harvest here before]]\n[[It snows again.]]

You read the ninety-fourth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Use a sound editor to scramble,]] [[resound a sound file of a poem.]] [[(See PennSound Deformance page, under construction.)]]

You open the book about a third of the way through and close it. Then you split the pages straight down the middle and close it again. The third time you open the book, you’re on page two hundred and three.\n\nYou find yourself partway through a section of poems by W. S. Merwin.\n\n\nWhat line do you add to your poem?\n\n[[While the children they both had begotten,]]\n[[With old faces now, but themselves shrunken]]\n[[To child-size again, stood ranged at her side,]]\n[[Beating their little Bibles till he died.]]\n\n\n//[[Views from the High Camp]]//\n\n[[In the afternoon, while the wind]]\n[[Lies down in its halcyon self,]]\n[[A finger of darkness moving like an oar]]\n[[Follows me through the blinding fields; in the focus]]\n[[Of its peculiar radiance I have found]]\n[[Treasures I did not know I had lost, several]]\n[[Perhaps still in the future. Among them]]\n[[This epitaph for someone:]]\n\n//[[Discoverer of absences, beloved lamp,]]\n[[You that wait,]]\n[[I have migrated from these footsteps,]]\n[[I, alone, my own sole generation.]]//\n\n[[Later, loss will wake like the drowsing birds]]\n[[And have no word. Here we have watched]]\n[[The great yellow days turning their spokes]]\n[[Toward autumn and departure]]\n[[Through month after month of drought, while daily]]\n[[The sun has hoisted a long cloud of decision]]\n[[And hung it in my sight at no distance, in the form]]\n[[Of a tent full of wind, each cord wrenched in turn.]]\n\n[[Be assured that the rain will be released]]\n[[When it is too late to save the harvest.]]\n

You take some time to learn more about horseradish.\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[HORSERADISH]]\n[[(Armoracia)]]\n[[Found: North America ]]\n[[Leaves: cooked, steamed or baked in salty water and served]]\n[[as spinach with oil or butter.]]\n[[Roots: grate the roots and add lemon to produce horseradish]]\n[[which you can use to season bland food (usually cooked meats)]].\n[[The roots are nutritious and contain calcium, phosphorous,]]\n[[iron, potassium and ascorbic acid.]]\n[[Horseradish roots can be cooked, the liquid cooled]]\n[[and drinking small quantities at a time,]]\n[[will help bowel movements.]] [[Do not use large doses]]\n[[as it may irritate the digestive tract.]]

You don't bother coming up with a particular strategy this time. Sometimes you've just got to open a book where it calls to you.\n\nYou open the book to page one hundred and nine.\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[The Deepest Sea]]\n\n[[This is being written with green ink]][[--though in fact it is not,]]\n[[not yet.]] [[Quite some time has passed since this pen was last used]]\n[[--and, compared to the other fountain pen I have,]] [[which is used]]\n[[very often, it is indeed rather unwieldy--]] [[and perhaps for that reason]]\n[[alone I am finding it quite difficult]] [[just to get on with something.]]\n\n[[It would seem the last time it was used]] [[the ink running from its nib]]\n[[was blue black.]] [[In fact it still contained the old cartridge,]]\n[[more or less empty,]] [[and I wonder--I can't help it--where]] [[all the ink]]\n[[from that cartridge went.]] [[Quite some time has passed you see since this pen]]\n[[was last used and actually I have a fair idea]] [[where most of the ink from that]]\n[[last cartridge went]] [[because the pen itself had been a gift]] [[as a matter]]\n[[of fact,]] [[and since there was a notebook along with it]]\n

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nWith still-damp fingers, you pinch the small tag and bring it closer to your face. You see the unknowably complex eldritch glyphs that seem to correlate with the hand towel's laundry care instructions. Whatever meaning lies behind these obscure markings of trapezoids and dotted lines has been lost to time.\n\nLuckily, there's some written instructions beneath the symbols.\n\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[Machine wash warm with]]\n[[like colors. Deep colors]]\n[[bleed. Wash before use.]]\n[[Tumble dry. Do not]]\n[[bleach colored towels.]]\n\n[[Lavar a maquina con]]\n[[colores similares.]]\n[[Colores obscuros]]\n[[destinen. Lavar antes de]]\n[[usar sedue. No usar]]\n[[blanqueador.]]

You lean over the desk and count the pink square sheets. They're scattered all over the workspace. There are two stuck to the computer monitor itself, one on the [[top right corner]] and the other on the [[bottom edge of the screen]]. There's [[one that's been seemingly discarded]]--it's all wadded up--on the far end of the desk, behind the computer.\n\nYou notice [[the original pad]], still fairly thick with pink sheets, resting next to the computer's mousepad. The top sheet, still adhered to the pad, has a little stick figure doodle on it. \n\n... You almost miss it, but you just barely notice the [[tiniest sliver of pink paper]] sticking out from beneath the base of the computer monitor.\n\n\n[[I step back to look at the room again.|upstairs bedroom]]

The receipt is very thin and short, and it looks like it was printed from a handheld price calculator, rather than a standard receipt printer. On the front, there are some faded purple numbers: a date, a dollar amount, some added tax, and a few other numbers you can't identify.\n\nIt looks like whoever bought this book did so on July 10th, 2018. After tax, they paid $7.42.\n\nOn the back, written in darker blue ink and sloppy handwriting, is a small poem. Really a "sketch" of a poem, more than anything.\n\nWhich line do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[FAILURE]]\n\n[[to pass. the]]\n[[small coupe]]\n[[hovers, stationary]]\n[[at 70 mph,]]\n[[suckerfish to]]\n[[the whale of]]\n[[public transit.]]\n\n[[I blink. Send]]\n[[out one fiber]]\n[[& latch it to]]\n[[the tow bolt.]]\n\n[[It lasts a day.]]

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\n\s\nYou find a thin, crimson chapbook wedged between the Ammons and Lockwood. Its thick-grain cover is cut coarsely -- not quite construction paper, but close. On the front, you see the title and author's name in a bright white, sans-serif font. The title's slightly off-center alignment and uneven trimming of its pages gives you the impression this chapbook was printed and bound by hand.\n\nBeneath the title, there's a woodcut print of a target practice sheet, the kind with a human outline and a dotted reticle marking vital organs. Rather than the standard bullseye, however, the shape of a cross-sectioned valentine's heart hovers over the outline's torso.\n\nTurning the chapbook over in your hands, you note that the spine is bound with thin black thread, cut tight and sharp. The stitching's precision seems incongruous with the cover's casual printing. You wonder if the chapbook was a collaborative affair. \n\n\nYou flip it over once more. How do you open it?\n\n[[I gently peel the first three pages to the left.]]\n\n[[I tug each page, choosing the one with the loosest binding.]]\n\n[[I open it a little too roughly.]]

You pick up the sticky note pad in your right hand, little pink brick. The stick figure doodled on the top sheet has a blank face and two little circles for hands. They're slightly more detailed than your average stick figure -- you note the clear delineation of elbows and knees in their appendages.\n\nThe figure seems poised, caught in the moment before movement, eager to dash away. They look toward the flaps of the sheets below, expectantly. \n\nThe whole pad has a convex bend to it, as if it's been flipped through over and over again. You peek between the sheets further down the pad. There's stick figures on each of them, all in slightly different positions.\n\n\nHow do you flip through this pad of sticky notes?\n\n[[Slowly.|stick figure walk]]\n\n[[Rapidly.|stick figure run]]

You take some time to learn more about Jack-in-the-Pulpit.\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT]]\n[[(Arisaema)]]\n[[Found: Eastern North America from Florida]]\n[[to the Canadian Maritime provinces]]\n[[Roots: it is very important to remove the acridness]]\n[[by drying the fresh roots.]] [[It might take a month to dry naturally.]]\n[[When dry the roots can be eaten like chips.]] [[If the roots are pulverized]]\n[[the powder can be added to wheat flour.]]

You scroll down to the eleventh comment. It was posted by the username "alexasmith."\n\nWhich line do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[That friend that starved you after school: a saltine nightmare]]\n\n\n[[of chickens don't know when they're dead. ]]\n\n[[In the brothel ]]\n[[shred zucchini very thin ]]\n[[STORE IN A COOL, DRY PLACE. ]]\n\n[[But — if I stained my Apron — ]]\n\n[[narrowing by which a squirrel shucks a spruce ]]\n[[A bird dabbed me, a virgin soil, as I issued ]]\n\n[[Could I clean them in the creek? ]]\n\n[[Dear Customer, ]]\n[[No, there are no nuts in here ]]\n\n[[(it's a long story) ]]\n\n\n\n-\n\n//[[Credits:]]//\n//[[This was a collaborative cento composed by]]//\n//[[the Spring 2021 Creative Writing: Poetry workshop]]//\n//[[at Temple University, ENG 2003 SECTION 002;]]//\n//[[in-class gameplay facilitated by Alexa Smith.]]//\n\n//[[A note to the developer:]]//\n//[[The authors were very upset that they couldn't eat any snacks]]//\n//[[they found until the end, despite multiple investigations]]//\n//[[of the kitchen and pantry.]]//\n//[[One author described this as a "SCAM."]]//\n//[[The title is their commentary.]]//

You read the forty-eighth experiment prompt. It only includes a single parenthetical line. I suppose this is what you're adding to your poem, either way:\n\n\n[[(Removed for further study)]]

You read the seventy-sixth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[FLARF:]] [[Michael Magree explains,]] [[in this Experiments List exclusive report,]] [["The Flarf Files."]]

You bend the front cover to the left and flip through a few pages. The pages are unnumbered but, after taking a quick count, you realize that you're on page six. The pages are so smooth they slip through your fingers a bit as you count.\n\n\nWhat line do you add to your poem?\n\n[[BANGING]]\n\n[[I listen to my inner voice]]\n[[It calls things by their inner names]]\n\n[[Tridelt is short for delta delta delta]]\n[[Triage is short for age age age]]\n[[Chrysanthemum is christ unfolded]]\n\n[[People, banging to history]]\n[[People, blank as a trotter]]\n[[People, linked at the waist]]\n[[Children, play fair]]

You bend the back cover to the right and flip backward through a few pages. The pages are unnumbered but, after taking a quick count, you realize that you're on page thirty. The pages are so smooth they slip through your fingers a bit as you count.\n\n\nWhat line do you add to your poem?\n\n[[ANDALUSIA]]\n\n[[the stars are two looking]]\n[[fish thinking]]\n[[trees thinking 100]]\n[[times before doing anything]]\n\n[[you are fresh as a bird]]\n[[fresh from the egg]]\n[[with the shell-top still]]\n[[on your head]]

You scroll down to the second comment. It was posted by the username "katiegarth."\n\nWhich line do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[This is to reassure his viewers, who continually fear his death. ]]\n[[like Kafka's essay ]]\n[[I see it, ]]\n[[Without anguish, quietly drifting. ]]\n[[A nameless Bird — a Stranger ]]\n[[I would rest a bit there or take a plane— ]]\n[[I won't be held accountable ]]\n[[The arc of stars ]]\n[[I picture whole streams, new currents, ]]\n[[galactic slurs even, luminescences, plasmas, ]]\n[[And yet, there's still so much to be done ]]\n[[playing for a moment in the air—even shapes ]]\n[[She tugs down the map to look and it flies up again like a windowshade. ]]

You take charge and open the book directly to page one hundred and eighty-three. You've reached Chapter 17: "Compass & Maps."\n\nThis book is filled with far more information than you originally imagined -- tightly packed words are jammed within several boxes arranged on the page in a grid, each of which also contains extensive diagrams. \n\nAt a quick glance, it looks like all of the other pages are formatted similarly. The book's sheer amount of knowledge astonishes you.\n\nTurning back to this particular page, you begin to read the first box that your eyes light upon: "Staying on Course When Destination is Not Always Visible." Above the text, there's a cross-sectioned drawing of a hiker standing on a valley's ridge. They're calibrating their compass with a tree on the ridge opposite. A solid line illustrates the hiker's sightline to the tree. A secondary drawing shows the same hiker walking through the valley, at which point they lose sight of the original tree due to the topographical decline. A dotted line illustrates the hiker's now-obscured sightline. \n\nThe small hiker has a calm and assured posture -- they look like they know exactly where they're going.\n\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[Staying On Course When Destination is Not Always Visible]]\n\n[[If the path to a location is not always visible]] [[because of woods or hollows]]\n[[then a compass can be used]] [[to give you the direction.]]\n\n-- [[At a point when the destination can be seen]] [[use your compass to establish]]\n[[the bearing of your path.]] [[To establish the bearing point]] [[the Direction of Travel]]\n[[Arrow at the destination.]]\n\n-- [[Turn the rotating dial]] [[so that the N on the rotating dial]] [[is lined up with]]\n[[the North end]] [[(the luminous end)]] [[of the magnetic compass needle.]]\n\n-- [[Read the bearing at]] [[the Direction of Travel Arrow line.]] [[This is the bearing]]\n[[of the destination.]] [[If you do not turn the rotating dial]] [[while you are traveling]]\n[[use the Direction of Travel Arrow]] [[to indicate your direction]] [[when you can not see]]\n[[the destination; otherwise remember the reading.]]\n\n-- [[Check your reading whenever the destination can be seen.]]\n\n[[The magnetic deviation does not have to be taken into consideration]]\n[[as all the readings are based upon the magnetic north.]]\n

In your hurry to open the chapbook, it slips out of your hands! The cover's rough paper scores across your left index finger as it falls to the floor, its pages splayed open against the wood.\n\nOuch! That's a nasty papercut! \n\nAs you gingerly retrieve the chapbook with your uninjured right hand, you discover that it has fallen open on page seventeen.\n\nWhich line do you add to your poem?\n\n[[TIME AND A HALF]]\n\n[[You call me in your office]]\n[[and give me your worst impression]]\n[[of vulnerability.]]\n\n[[I see it,]]\n[[the half-grin barely pinned,]]\n[[the strange shape of your mouth]]\n[[when "definitely" "empathizing,"]]\n\n[[like a quail's egg]]\n[[held between your teeth:]]\n[[you can't commit to the bit.]]

You read the fifth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Lexical translation:]] [[Take a poem in a foreign language that you can pronounce but not necessarily understand]] [[and translate it word for word with the help of a bilingual dictionary.]] [[(Rewrite to suit?).]] [[Or use Google's and other on-line translators, but keep it to word-for-word!]]

You read the fifty-third experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Canceling:]] [[Write a series of lines or rhymes]] [[such that every other one cancels the one before]] [[("I come before you / to stand behind you").]]

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nYou pull Pinkowitz's book from the bottom of the stack. The book is atypically printed in a wide, landscape format. When you imagine it on a bookshelf, it seems like its spine would jut out at least a full inch past the surrounding books.\n\nThe cover illustration is one long strip of yellow POLICE tape that runs from the front, over the spine, and across the back. Aside from the tape, the rest of the cover is a cloudy grey-blue.\n\nLooking closer, you can see the telltale indentations of repeated handwriting -- it looks as if someone's been using this book as a makeshift clipboard for writing notes and drawing sketches. Its wide format makes it a natural fit for the task.\n\nThe pages fray outward at their end. This book has seen some use.\n\nHow do you open this book?\n\n[[I use a pencil to prod the book open.]]\n\n[[I grab the last few pages and flick the whole book open with my wrist.]]\n\n

You read the second experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[He Do the Police in Voices:]] [[Dialect & Idiolect:]] [[Translate or compose a poem or other work into a different dialect or idiolect, your own or other.]] [[Dialect can include subculture lingo, slang, text messaging shorthand, etc.]] [[For example, Steve McCaffery's translation of the Communist Manifesto in West Riding of Yorkshire dialect (at PennSound): audio, text.]] [[See also Nathan Kageyam's translation of Pound's "The Return" into pidgin (Hawaiian Creole English).]] [[Use the dialect engine to translate a text into one of several "dialects," then use the results to make a poem.]]

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\n\s\nA slim, smoothly bound book catches your eye, just barely jutting out from between the two larger cookbooks. You slide it out, the cover awash in explosive color – bright orange streaks, oozing robin’s egg blue, splotches of crimson and pink dappled over matte greens. Fireworks? You raise book for closer inspection.\n\nNo, flowers. Blooms! \n\nThe percussive release of spring, rendered in tactile, drizzling oil paint. The impressionistic splotches of each plant suggest frenetic movement, a swaying and shaking at the behest of a mid-May breeze. In the center of it all, a slightly transparent white circle. Within it, you read the book’s title in unassuming and uncapitalized black letters, each word making itself at home within its own line break: \n\n&emsp;&ensp;catalog\n&emsp;&emsp;&ensp;of\n&emsp;unabashed\n&emsp;gratitude\n&emsp;&emsp;&ensp;•\n&emsp;ross gay\n\nThe back of the book replicates the front’s image, this time with an overlay of six larger circles. Three of them include center-justified blurbs from Evie Shockley, Scott Russell Sanders, and Aimee Nezhukumatathil. Another contains the press’s info: “Pitt Poetry Series - University of Pittsburgh Press.”\n\nThe remaining two circles are devoted to the book’s author. One frames a small, professional biography, while the other is a cropped author photo. Gay’s loosely curled hair seems equally in conversation with the breeze, below which he holds a wide, full-faced grin, framed by slightly blushing cheeks. A blurred yellow orb hovers in the background behind him – a streetlight maybe? A rain-dampened campus road?\n\nFinally, in the bottom-left corner, you read the credits for the cover image:\n\n“Cover painting: Arista Alanis, ‘...//on down the road//,’ Oil on canvas, 30”x24”, 2011\nCover design: Joel W. Coggins”\n\n\nHow do you open this book?\n\n[[I exhale, blow it open with my breath.|gay1]]\n\n[[I wiggle it, like a little wispy twig.|gay2]]\n\n[[I graze the pages with my fingernail.|gay3]]

You read the seventy-first experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[["Walking on Colors":]] [[Walk a city block or a country mile paying attention as much as possible to one color;]] [[list all the things found in this one color; write about it.]]

You read the third experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Homophonic translation:]] [[Take a poem in a foreign language that you can pronounce]] [[but not necessarily understand]] [[and translate the sound of the poem into English]] [[(e.g., French "blanc" to blank or "toute" to toot).]] [[Some examples:]] [[Louis and Celia Zukofsky's Catullus.,]] [[David Melnick's Homer at Eclipse: Men in Aida;]] [[Ron Silliman on homophonic translation (his own, Melnick's, and Chris Tysh's),]] [[and some examples by Charles Bernstein]] [[-- from Basque, from Portuguese and "Johnny Cake Hollow" suite.]] [[— Rewrite to suit?]]

You flip through the pages, paying more attention to the size of each poem than its contents. When you reach page sixty-five, you find something tiny: a little three-line poem.\n\nWhich line do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Abandoned]]\n\n[[like Kafka's essay]]\n[[on Goethe's abominable]]\n[[nature]]

<<if $slam is 5>> <<display "I slam the door a sixth time.">> <<else>>\s\n<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $slam to ($slam + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\n\s\nNope. Nothing. You might as well be throwing yourself against a brick wall.\n\nIn fact, there's a perfectly solid brick wall out back. Why not mix things up a little bit?\n\n\n[[I try the knob again.]]\n\n[[I knock politely.]]\n\n[[I slam the door a sixth time.]]\n\n\nReturn to the [[hallway]]?\n<<endif>>

You scroll down to the third comment. It was posted by the username "robbercarry."\n\nWhich line do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Morning — only the seed of Noon — ]]\n[[with busted slats or hinges, strollers with ]]\n[[A crowning mirage or a question ]]\n[[I picture whole streams, new currents, ]]\n[[Idly, not sobbing, not scurrying, ]]\n[[the area of a map that encloses information about the map itself. ]]\n[[borders, journeys, archives, landscapes, reading, time, memory, myth, legend, ]]\n[[Some day, this beach too — ]]\n[[before everyone arrives. ]]

There's a lot to absorb, and you're already feeling a little overwhelmed. \nMaybe it's worth taking it slow and starting from the beginning?\n\nYou open the book to page five.\n\nThe introduction is marked in red capital letters. Rather than take up the whole page, the prose is crammed into a vertical box on the left side, with the book's table of contents on the right.\n\n...You notice, incidentally, that there's thirty-one chapters in this book.\n\nYou gather yourself and begin reading the introduction.\n\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[INTRODUCTION]]\n\n[[This book has been written to help you acquire skills]] [[to enjoy]]\n[[the wilderness.]] [[It tells you how to travel,]] [[make a camp,]]\n[[understand your environment,]] [[and choose equipment.]]\n\n[[In the case of an emergency,]] [[it will help you find water,]] [[food,]]\n[[shelter from the weather,]] [[and care for yourself if you are sick or injured.]]\n\n[[The information is treated in topics]] [[such as Signals,]] [[Animals, and Weather,]]\n[[and then applied specifically to]] [[such special activities as]] [[Summer Hiking,]]\n[[Desert Travel,]] [[Water Travel,]] [[and Car Travel.]]\n\n[[Individual skills such as]] [[Maps and Compass,]] [[First Aid,]] [[and Mountain Climbing,]]\n[[provide a good foundation on which to build your knowledge]] [[of the outdoors.]]\n[[This information will help you enjoy the outdoors]] [[while at the same time alert you]]\n[[to the risks that you might encounter.]]\n\n[[Survival topics such as Woodcraft,]] [[Fire Making,]] [[Food and Water,]] [[Shelter,]]\n[[and Navigational Techniques]] [[are covered in detail.]] [[The book gives you a wide overview]]\n[[of nature and your surroundings]] [[so as to help you improve your ability]] \n[[to improvise and respond to your immediate situation.]]\n\n[[You can remain alive anywhere in the world]] [[if you keep your wits.]] \n[[Nature and the elements]] [[are neither your friend nor your enemy]]\n[[but it is your determination to live]] [[and your ability to make nature]]\n[[work for you]] [[that are the deciding factors.]] [[Camping & Wilderness Survival]]\n[[attempts to give you and your family]] [[a chance to enjoy the outdoors.]]

You begin to open the freezer door.\n\nIt's packed! \n\nAs soon as you open the door halfway, you dislodge a bag of frozen peas. You hear the friction of the other bags -- blueberries, corn, broccoli florets -- all begin to shift. Sensing the impending avalanche, you quickly stuff the peas back inside and slam the door shut. \n\nCongratulations! You narrowly avoided death by freezer burned mango chunks.\n\nDo you poke around in the [[fridge]] below? \nOr turn back to the [[kitchen]]?

You select CONTINUE.\n\nUnfortunately, the next screen does not show any available save files--there are no games in progress to continue!\n\nYou return to the game's main menu. After a few minutes, the menu fades away to a slideshow of the game's primary cast of characters. Each of the images is accompanied by an aphorism, written in a scrawling white font. You watch as the images automatically shift on the television.\n\n\nWhich of the aphorisms do you add to your poem?\n\n[[Virtue: You don't need a reason to help people.]]\n\n[[Sorrow: How do you prove that you exist...? Maybe we don't exist...]]\n\n[[Dilemma: Having sworn fealty, must I spend my life in servitude?]]\n\n[[Devotion: Someday I will be queen, but I will always be myself.]]\n\n[[Despair: To be forgotten is worse than death.]]\n\n[[Indulgence: I do what I want! You have problem!?]]\n\n[[Solitude: I don't wanna be alone anymore...]]\n\n[[Arrogance: The only dependable thing about the future is uncertainty.]]

You successfully resist the urge to sneeze. The tingling moves back up your nose and spreads into your forehead. You're fine, but you feel vaguely unfulfilled for the next few minutes.\n\nYou're still on page ninety-seven. Which line do you add to your poem?\n\n[[A bird dabbed me, a virgin soil, as I issued]]\n[[out under the open blue this morning, and]]\n\n[[thinking it beetle or moth, I brushed it off my]]\n[[shoulder and smeared do on one or more digits:]]\n\n[[my thoughts flew to geese dumps and the numbers]]\n[[of rafts of geese I've seen over unsoiled:]]\n\n[[do migrating geese not do do as they, sprinkling, go,]]\n[[or are they so high their droppings achieve]]\n\n[[vaporizing accelerations, like rocket launchers and]]\n[[reentry cones, often part solid: or are there]]\n\n[[not diarrhetic exceptions to control one might]]\n[[have seen splat or been shloshed by: so many]]\n\n[[specialities in our little knowledge: undone by]]\n[[do, I forged on, noting the eternity of the]]\n\n[[hill-line across the valley, uniting the ravines:]]\n[[from Merida, I'd keep vaguely north along]]\n\n[[the valley, road and valley river tangling crossings,]]\n[[down to where the road tends to the west and]]\n\n[[rises back up toward the ridge before Valera:]]\n[[I would rest a bit there or take a plane--]]\n\n[[probably I would not take a plane but rent a]]\n[[burro and go the long, small road on down to]]

You read the fortieth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Write a poem focussing on a single object or "thing."]] [[See Ponge on an orange.]]

You run your fingers along the mirror's edges and give each side a little tug in order to learn how it opens. You hear the soft click of a magnet unclasping, and the mirror swings open to the left, revealing three shelves wrapped in water-resistant vinyl.\n\nOn the top shelf, you see assorted white and orange pill containers alongside a [[sizable bottle of creamy, pink liquid.]]\n\nOn the middle shelf, you see a [[crumpled tube of toothpaste]], some nail clippers, and a can of shaving cream.\n\nOn the bottom shelf, you see a worn disposable razor and a nearly empty [[box of cotton swabs]].\n\n\nYou feel like you've reached an intimate understanding of your host through this investigation.\n\n[[I shut the medicine cabinet's door.|bathroom]]

<<if ($lines is 0) or ($line1 is 0)>> You haven't written anything yet! \n\n<<if previous() is "Credits" or previous() is "Enter Title">>[[Continue writing.|hub fork]]<<else>>[[Continue writing.|previous()]]<<endif>>\n<<else>>\s\nYou read your poem:\n\n\n''<<if $poemtitle is 0>> - - - - - - - - <<else>><<print $poemtitle>><<endif>>''\n\n<<if $line1 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 0>> <<print $line1>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line2 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 1>> <<print $line2>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line3 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 2>> <<print $line3>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line4 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 3>> <<print $line4>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line5 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 4>> <<print $line5>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line6 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 5>> <<print $line6>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line7 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 6>> <<print $line7>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line8 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 7>> <<print $line8>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line9 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 8>> <<print $line9>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line10 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 9>> <<print $line10>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line11 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 10>> <<print $line11>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line12 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 11>> <<print $line12>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line13 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 12>> <<print $line13>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line14 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 13>> <<print $line14>> <<endif>>\n\n'' - - - - - - - -''\n\n\nWhat do you think of your poem?\n\n<<if $poemtitle is 0>>\s\n[[I'd like to title my poem.|Enter Title]]\n\n[[I'm proud of this poem.]]\n<<if $lines lt 14>>\s\n\n<<if previous() is "Credits" or previous() is "Enter Title">>[[I'd like to continue writing my poem.|hub fork]]<<else>>[[I'd like to continue writing my poem.|previous()]]<<endif>>\n\n[[I'd rather toss this one out and start fresh.]]\n<<else>>\s\n\n[[I'd rather toss this one out and start fresh.]]<<endif>>\n\s\n<<else>>\s\n\s\n[[I'm proud of this poem.]]\n<<if $lines lt 14>>\s\n\n<<if previous() is "Credits" or previous() is "Enter Title">>[[I'd like to continue writing my poem.|hub fork]]<<else>>[[I'd like to continue writing my poem.|previous()]]<<endif>>\n\n[[I'd rather toss this one out and start fresh.]]\n<<else>>\s\n\n[[I'd rather toss this one out and start fresh.]]<<endif>>\n\s\n<<endif>>\n<<endif>>

<<if $trash is 1>> You discard your poem neatly into the wastebasket. Let's give this cento another shot.<<endif>>\s\n\s\n<<if $trash is 2>> You toss your poem on top of your previous attempt. There's no shame in trying again. <<endif>>\s\n\s\n<<if $trash is 3>> Your crumpled poem lands on top of several prior drafts. Wow, you're really taking this seriously! <<endif>>\s\n\s\n<<if $trash is 4>> Your crumpled poem bounces off all of the other balled-up drafts already crammed in there. It lands on the floor. You politely retrieve it and stuff it in the wastebasket. It's now nestled in there, a thrumming litter of imperfections. <<endif>>\s\n<<if $trash gte 5>>\s\nYou throw your poem on the growing pile. What a mess! Maybe someone should clean all this up? <<endif>>\n\n<<if $trash gt 0>> [[I take out the trash.]] <<endif>>\n\nReturn to the [[living room]]?

You gingerly set //PIXXXELS// on the nearby desk as if it were a bomb that might explode at the slightest wrong touch. You don't look straight at it. Instead, you keep the book in the edge of your peripheral vision as you delicately nudge the cover open, touching as little of the paper as possible. \n\nYou give the book a tiny glance head-on, just for a second. You've opened it to page eleven.\n\n\nWhich line do you add to your poem?\n\n[[LEFTOVERS]]\n\n[[It's the dirty sock I like]]\n[[some stained shirt, perhaps]]\n[[whatever marks your presence]]\n[[after the fact, a glimmer of you]]\n[[burnt into the screen of my bed]]\n[[from an overuse of longing]]

Sounds good. You're on page four. There's not much here.\n\nWhat line do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[credit where credit's due]]\n[[make me your coinslot]]\n[[and try again]]

I'm not going to describe how you do this, you pervert. Use your imagination. \n\nI'll wait.\n\n...\n\n...\n\nGreat. You're on page twenty-seven.\n\n\nWhat line do you add to your poem?\n\n[[this page intentionally left blank]]\n[[like the gap into which you led me]]\n[[streaming. void-plucked and laden]]\n[[with absence. you shifted the whole]]\n[[resolution against my wishes, my margins]]\n[[unwieldy, my blood]]\n[[crystal clear]]

You read the fifty-fourth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Erasure:]] [[Take a poem of your own or someone else's and crossout most of the words on each poem,]] [[retype what remains as your poem.]] [[(Cf.: Ronald Johnson's RADI OS from Milton.)]] [[See Wave Books erasure pages.]] [[See Deletionist app.]]

Holding the book, you step back from the workbench and sit cross-legged on the floor. You feel the coolness of bare concrete against your legs. From this angle, you can see a dense network of spiderwebs, arcing and weaving along the metal shelvings' undersides. You see a dusty tape measure and a few pencil nubs, long-forgotten in the corner of the room. The faint scents of soil, paint, and stagnant moisture drift around you.\n\nYou hold the Whitman in your lap and split it slightly to the right of middle, reaching page four hundred and six.\n\nWhat line do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[2]]\n\n[[Behold this compost!]] [[behold it well!]]\n[[Perhaps every mite has once form'd part of a sick person--]]\n[[yet behold!]]\n[[The grass of spring covers the prairies,]]\n[[The bean bursts noiselessly through the mould in the garden,]]\n[[The delicate spear of the onion pierces upward,]]\n[[The apple-buds cluster together on the apple-branches,]]\n[[The resurrection of the wheat appears with pale visage]]\n[[out of its graves,]]\n[[The tinge awakes over the willow-tree and the mulberry-tree,]]\n[[The he-birds carol mornings and evenings]] \n[[while the she-birds sit on their nests,]]\n[[The young of poultry break through the hatch'd eggs,]]\n[[The new-born of animals appear,]] [[the calf is dropt]]\n[[from the cow, the colt from the mare,]]\n[[Out of its little hill faithfully rise the potato's dark green leaves,]]\n[[Out of its hill rises the yellow maize-stalk,]] [[the lilacs bloom]]\n[[in the dooryards,]]\n[[The summer growth is innocent and disdainful above all]]\n[[those strata of sour dead.]]\n\n[[What chemistry!]]\n[[That the winds are really not infectious,]]\n[[That this is no cheat, this transparent green-wash of the sea]]\n[[which is so amorous after me,]]\n[[That it is safe to allow it to lick my naked body all over with]]\n[[its tongues,]]\n[[That it will not endanger me with the fevers that have deposited]]\n[[themselves in it,]]\n[[That all is clean forever and forever,]]\n

The instruction guide is so tightly folded that the paper can no longer hold a tight crease--the pressure with which it bends against itself releases as you separate the document from the rest of the wad. Cradling it in the palm of your hand, the guide unfolds itself gently, just as a butterfly might stretch its wings in the midday sun. It's uncanny--and somewhat mesmerizing--to see an inanimate object spring to life, briefly, in a slight gasp of potential energy.\n\n...\n\nThe moment passes, and the paper lies inert in your hand. Now that the tension's released, you unfold it the rest of the way with your fingers. You think of an entomologist, cautious in her study, pinning brittle wings to a slice of styrofoam.\n\n\nYou squint to read the tiny text at the center. It's a list of warnings and instructions for a newly-purchased bluetooth speaker.\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[GENERAL BATTERY PRECAUTIONS]]\n[[Never use or charge a battery]] [[if it appears to be leaking,]] [[discolored, deformed, or in any way abnormal.]]\n[[Never disassemble the unit]] [[or attempt to remove battery]] [[as that could cause leakage of alkaline solution.]]\n[[Avoid charging a rechargable battery]] [[when the temperature is not within]] [[5°C - 35°C]]\n[[Never expose a battery]] [[to any liquid or]] [[excessive heat, such as direct sunlight]] [[or fire.]]\n[[Always keep batteries]] [[out of reach]] [[of infants and small children.]]\n[[Attention should be drawn]] [[to the enviornmental aspects of battery removal.]]\n[[Do not dispose of batteries]] [[in the household]] [[trash or fire.]]\n

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nThis book is, bluntly put, a behemoth. No wonder these flimsy bookends can't put up a fight -- as you ease the book into your own hands, you marvel at its imposing size.\n\nThe front cover lacks any image, instead opting for a stark display of all-caps blue letters against a bright white background:\n\nMINA\nSTONE\nCOOKING\nFOR\nARTISTS\n\nBy the looks of it, the publisher seems to be leaning further into the "artists" category -- the book looks like it'd be more at ease in a gallery installation than this kitchen.\n\nHefting the book into your arms, you consider your options...\n\nHow do you open this book?\n\n[[I lay it flat on the floor and open it while crouching above.]]\n\n[[I balance it precariously in one hand while flipping it open.]]

You crouch to investigate the window. Through it, you see the basement--a single large room with a cement floor. From this angle, you can see some metal shelving and a toolbench.\n\nSurprisingly, the window is slightly ajar. It opens inward.\n\nYou could probably fit through it, if you hold your breath.\n\n\n[[I crawl through the window.]]\n\n[[I stand back up.|back path]]

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nAs you investigate further, you notice that a small, cream-colored booklet has been pinched between the overturned box and the adjoining wall. Just one corner of its thin paper juts out, which you give a tug. It slides out smoothly. Aside from a few little smudges and one tiny dog ear, it’s still in pretty good condition. The booklet has no cover, which makes the quality of its soft, semi-transparent paper all the more notable. At the top of the very first page you read:\n\n\n''//The Impercipient Lecture Series//\n//Vol. 1 No. 10 December 1997//\n\nThe Dictionary of Received Ideas''\n\n\nAfter a double line break the entries start alphabetically, with a bold, serifed “A” kicking things off. Entries of small phrases with their associated definitions (mostly the social markers and jargon of a decidedly modernist literary scene) run down the page, ringed by a fairly thick margin. Though the header dates the publication as 1997, the document design seems to be aping an older – and decidedly academic – publishing style. It reminds of you of those rows and rows of literary criticism along the back reaches of your old college library, dusty tomes only disturbed by the occasional graduate student in the early throes of a developing thesis project. As you skim a little further, it becomes pretty clear the pastiche is simultaneously tongue-in-cheek and reverent. It’s hard to pin down which of those two modes leads the charge here.\n\nHunting for a little more context, you flip the booklet over to find an epigraph:\n\n\n''“That with this bright believing band\nI have no claim to be,\nThat faiths by which my comrades stand\nSeem fantasies to me,\nAnd mirage-mists their Shining Land,\nIs a strange destiny.”\n\n//from// Thomas Hardy’s “The Impercipient”''\n\n\nAt the very bottom of the back cover/final page, there’s a few editorial notes:\n\n\n''//The Impercipient Lecture Series – “Thunder Against It”//\nEditors: Bouvard & Pécuchet\n\n“If you are interested in hosting an ILS lecture in your town, or in reprinting its contents in a more permanent form, please write us at 61 East Manning Street, Providence, Rhode Island, 02906-4008. While we do not accept unsolicited manuscripts, if you would like information about giving a lecture, please send us a query. We encourage you to copy the ILS in part or in full and share it with your comrades, though we ask that proper citation be employed out of respect for the authors.”''\n\n\n\nHow do you open this booklet?\n\n[[I don’t. I start reading the very first entries under “A,” right where we left off.|impercipient1]]\n\n[[I start backwards and flip all the way to “Z.”|impercipient2]]\n\n[[I try, without much caution, to split it down the middle.|impercipient3]]\n

You are on page twenty-five. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[MAYAKOVSKY]]   [[A visionary. A genius. A bo-hunk.]] [[Wore, and then]]\n            [[left off wearing, a yellow futurist jacket.]] [[Spoke with Sun.]]\n            [[Praised Brooklyn Bridge.]] [[Call him “The Russian Whitman.]]\n            [[Had a ménage with Lili and Osip Brik.]] [[Wasted his talent]]\n            [[propagandizing after the Revolution.]] [[Ridiculed Esenin’s suicide]]\n            [[but ended by shooting himself.]] [[Where, besides Apollinaire,]]\n            [[O’Hara got it all.]]\n[[MAYER, BERNADETTE]]   [[Compare her to Stein.]] [[Wrote a utopia.]]\n            [[Her “Experiments” started Language Poetry.]] [[Claim that only]]\n            [[ten percent of her writing has been published.]] [[“Her New York]]\n            [[apartment is crammed with manuscripts!”]]\n[[MEDIA]]   [[Always “mixed.”]] [[Collage with a bankroll.]]\n[[MEDIA, THE]]   [[Controls the world.]] [[“Poetry is news that stays news.]]\n[[MEDITATION]]   [[Be against it, unless Zen.]] [[“This next poem is a meditation on…”]]\n[[MEDIUM]]   [[Is the message.]] [[See (DICTATION)]]\n[[MELVILLE]]   [[Never lifted his pen from the page.]] [[Actually did hunt whales.]]\n            [[Of Moby Dick say: “I got bogged down in the whaling minutiae.’’]]\n            [[Prefer not to.]]\n[[MEPHISTOPHELES]]   [[Satan’s literary name.]]\n[[MERRILL]]   [[Inheritor of the Merrill-Lynch fortune.]] [[Wrote his last long]]\n            [[poems with a Ouija Board.]] [[“Just because he’s rich doesn’t necessarily]]\n            [[make him a bad poet.”]]\n[[METABOLISM]]   [[Either “too fast” or “too slow.”]] [[Blame your troubles on it.]]\n[[MFA PROGRAMS]]   [[Ceaselessly mock them:]] [[“Poetry can’t be taught.”]]\n            [[Apply anyway.]] [[(See GRADUATE SCHOOL)]]\n[[MICHAELANGELO]]   [[The women come and go speaking of him.]]\n            [[“Did you know he wrote poetry?”]]\n[[MID-CAREER]]   [[The span of time between your first book and being “an institution.”]]\n[[MILTON]]   [[“Didn’t he abuse his daughters?”]] [[Blank verse, Latinate syntax.]]\n            [[Find Satan the most interesting character in Paradise Lost.]]\n[[MONDRIAN]]   [[Be sure to call any group of colored squares and rectangles]]\n            [[a “Mondrian.”]]\n[[MONEY]]   [[Maintain that you have none.]] [[Inquire about everyone else’s.]]\n[[MONK, THELONIUS SPHERE]]   [[A visionary. A genius.]]\n            [[Dedicate at least one poem to him.]] [[(See RHYTHM)]]\n

You pause. There's something about rooting around in another person's fridge that seems like a particularly intimate breach of privacy. You turn back to face the [[kitchen]].

Beneath the Development log section you see eight entries, each labeled with an accompanying date. The links appear to correspond with small notes tracking the game's development progress, presumably written by the developer over the course of several years.\n\nYou have a hard time imagining that anyone's ever actually read these. \n\nWhich one do you read?\n\n\n[[Update: 11/29/23]]\n[[Update: 3/11/23]]\n[[Update: 12/25/21]]\n[[Update: 02/24/21]]\n[[Update: 05/01/20]]\n[[Update: 4/17/20]]\n[[Update: 2/2/20]]

Whip-quick, you open Dickinson's book to page one hundred and fifteen. Which line do you add to your poem?\n\n[[Vespers -- are sweeter than Matins -- Signor --]]\n[[Morning -- only the seed of Noon --]]\nc. 1861\n\n\n\t\t\t\t251\n[[Over the fence --]]\n[[Strawberries -- grow --]]\n[[Over the fence -- ]]\n[[I could climb -- if I tried, I know --]]\n[[Berries are nice!]]\n\n[[But -- if I stained my Apron --]]\n[[God would certainly scold!]]\n[[Oh, dear, -- I guess if He were a Boy --]]\n[[He'd -- climb -- if He could!]]\nc. 1861\n\n\n\n\t\t\t\t252\n[[I can wade Grief --]]\n[[Whole Pools of it --]]\n[[I'm used to that --]]\n[[But the least push of Joy]]\n[[Breaks up my feet --]]\n[[And I tip -- drunken --]]\n[[Let no Pebble -- smile --]]\n[['Twas the New Liquor --]]\n[[That was all!]]\n\n[[Power is only Pain --]]\n[[Stranded, thro' Discipline,]]\n[[Till Weights -- will hang --]]\n[[Give Balm -- to Giants --]]\n[[And they'll wilt, like Men --]]\n[[Give Himmaleh --]]\n[[They'll Carry -- Him!]]\nc. 1861

At the workbench, you find a paper with some sketches and diagrams of a rectangular wooden structure. It looks like someone's building raised beds for their garden.\n\nAtop the left corner of these sketches is a stack of three books:\n\n[[Leaves of Grass -- Walt Whitman]]\n[[Pond -- Claire-Louise Bennett]]\n[[Klutztown -- Jad Pinkowitz]]\n\n\nReturn to the [[basement]]?

<>\n<<set $lines to 0>>\n<<set $poemtitle to 0>>\n\n<<set $line1 to 0>>\n<<set $line2 to 0>>\n<<set $line3 to 0>>\n<<set $line4 to 0>>\n<<set $line5 to 0>>\n<<set $line6 to 0>>\n<<set $line7 to 0>>\n<<set $line8 to 0>>\n<<set $line9 to 0>>\n<<set $line10 to 0>>\n<<set $line11 to 0>>\n<<set $line12 to 0>>\n<<set $line13 to 0>>\n<<set $line14 to 0>>\n\n<<set $dickinson to 0>>\n<<set $trash to 0>>\n<<set $kitchen to 0>>\n<<set $pantry to 0>>\n<<set $bathroom to 0>>\n<<set $hallway to 0>>\n<<set $basement to 0>>\n<<set $back to 0>>\n<<set $slam to 0>>\n<<set $lock to 1>>\n<<set $wastebasket to 0>>\n<<set $upstairsdoor to 0>>\n<<set $bedroom to 0>>\n<<set $desktop to 0>>\n<<set $animorphs to 0>>\n\n<<display "Instructions">>\n<<endnobr>>

As you flip through the pages, you notice that the back half of the notebook's pages are perforated for easy removal. This made for a cleaner tear, but you can still tell where the author removed a page from the small tab of paper running along the fold: all that remains of the missing page's body, still pinched within the spine. Although there's no way to tell what language has been excised, you can still read the preceding page for some context.\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[Someone dropping the end of a couch,]] [[someone moving in.]]\n[[A thin clatter on the stairs --]] [[someone knocked the mail slot]]\n[[for the umpteenth time.]] [[Someone boiling a pot of water]]\n[[and playing some trumpet refrain]] [[on the stereo.]] [[Someone]]\n[[opening, closing]] [[the same cabinets, minutes apart.]] [[Something]]\n[[missing.]] [[Each sound, a wedge beneath a finger,]]\n[[and I finish the poem in bed,]] [[pack what mortar remains,]]\n[[move to dress]] [[and begin what living calls.]]

You take some time to learn more about knotweed.\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[KNOTWEED]]\n[[(Polygonum)]]\n[[Found: United States and Canada]]\n[[Roots: are tubers that can be roasted or boiled.]]\n[[Young shoots: cooked in boiling salted water]]\n[[and seasoned as asparagus.]]\n[[Long shoots: peel and cook.]]

You read the twenty-seventh experiment prompt. There's only a single line of text included with this prompt. It appears to be a kind of metatextual provocation, in which Bernstein questions the functional nature of the prompts themselves.\n\n...Or maybe he simply needed to fill another line.\n\nEither way, looks like this is the only option to add to your poem:\n\n\n[[This experiment intentionally left blank.]]

<<if $slam is 6>> <<display "I slam the door a seventh time.">> <<else>>\s\n<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $slam to ($slam + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nIf anything, the door seems more firmly shut than before.\n\n\n[[I try the knob again.]]\n\n[[I knock politely.]]\n\n[[I slam the door a seventh time.]]\n\n\nReturn to the [[hallway]]?\n<<endif>>

You glance furtively back towards the house. The coast is clear.\n\nIt seems somewhat invasive (and gross), but you reopen the lid to the container labeled TRASH and root around inside. Like a raccoon. Like a nasty little raccoon. Like a nasty little raccoon who also happens to be an avant-garde procedural poet.\n\nLet the beautiful cowards compose poetry in their fields of gilded lilies. Their pristine notebooks. Their delicately selected sterile verse. Let them praise the perfumed. Let them chew lavender. Let them write their lines with smooth fingers smelling of... clean... fingers.\n\n...\n\nNot you. You're a raccoon poet. [[And you're here on business]].

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nYou pick up the piece of paper. It's creased in rectangular gridlines, as if it's been folded and unfolded multiple times. There's a sliver of tape stuck to the top of the sheet, but the sticky side is too coated in baking detritus to be of much use. \n\nUpon closer inspection, it looks like a handwritten recipe for some sort of sweet bread. There's plenty of shorthand and scribbles along the margins. Looks like the recipe is an old standby.\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Preheat oven to 350, (GREASE)]]\n[[or parchment paper is fine]]\n[[shred zucchini very thin]]\n[[drain and squeeze out moisture with towel]] [[(VERY IMPORTANT)]]\n[[1st bowl: flour, cinnamon, baking powder/soda, salt]]\n[[2nd bowl: eggs, sugar, olive oil, almond milk, vanilla]]\n[[squeeze zucchini AGAIN and stir into egg mixture]]\n[[add dry ingredients]] [[don't overmix]]\n[[bake 45-50 minutes]]\n\n

You read the seventy-second experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Improvisation:]] [[Ask someone to suggest a poem title and topic.]] [[Write the poem immediately in response.]] [[Do this as a quick series, five minutes maximum for each poem.]]

You read the eighty-fifth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Take a poem, first another's then your own, and rerrange the line breaks or visual compostion,]] [[while keeping the same word order.]] [[Do this five times,]] [[some with freely composed arrangements and some using some form of counting.]]

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nYou reach directly into the bag and grab a handful of the crumpled papers (as well as some dead strands of a houseplant's corpse). The papers are coated with potting soil, but you're able to remove most of the dirt with a few good shakes. Unfortunately now you not only have stinky fingers--they're dirty too!\n\nYou unfold the wad to find two items. There's a square [[furniture tag]] with a bright orange warning label, and a tightly-folded [[electronics instruction guide]] that's packed margin-to-margin with tiny black font.

You read the ninety-second experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Use any of these experiments that involve a source text as a way of reading through already existing poems;]] [[that is, as interactive tools for "creative reading."]] [[As an extension, study poems via the modes of "Deformative Criticism" (the term is from Jerome McGann and Lisa Samuels).]] [[For example, take a poem and erase all but one part of speech, leaving the visual layout intact,]] [[or read it backward or otherwise re-order it, or translate it (using any of the translation exercises listed here),]] [[Alternately, use these experiments as a way to rewrite or transform your own poems.]]

You read the thirtieth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Autopilot:]] [[Trying as hard as you can not to think or consider what you are writing,]] [[write as much as you can as fast you can without any editing or concern for syntax, grammar, narrative, or logic.]] [[Try to keep this going for as long as possible: one hour, two hours, three hours:]] [[don't look back don't look up.]]

<<if $lines lt 14>>\s\nYou enter a cozy living room, lit by several lamps of varying shape, size, and shade. A ceiling fan spins lazily. Afternoon light filters through the curtains. The furniture is a little shabby, but clean--you get the sense that someone recently tidied up in here. It smells, faintly, like paper, pine oil, and cinnamon.\n\nIf you're curious, feel free to take a closer [[look around]]. \n<<if visited ("look around")>>\s\nThe bready, cinnamon smell wafts in from the [[kitchen]].\nThere's a [[hallway]] across from the couch.<<endif>>\n<<if $wastebasket is 1>>\s\nThere's a small [[wastebasket]] in the corner of the room.\n<<endif>>\s\n\n\nYou see a small pile of books on the floor. \n<<if $lines is 0>>Which book do you use to begin your poem?<<else>>Which book do you use to continue your poem?<<endif>>\n\n[[Garbage, a poem -- A.R. Ammons]]\n[[Target Practice -- Jenny Sorenson]]\n[[Balloon Pop Outlaw Black -- Patricia Lockwood]]\n[[Contemporary American Poetry -- edited by Donald Hall]]\n[[The Penguin Book of Japanese Verse]]\n[[The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson]]\n<<if $dickinson is 1>>//...wait, what's that [[piece of paper]] sticking out of the Dickinson collection?//\n<<endif>>\s\n<<elseif $lines is 14>>''Let's read your finished poem.'' [[Read your poem.|Check poem status]]\n<<elseif $lines gte 14>>\s\nYou look at your paper, confused about how you could have managed to get this many lines? Or maybe some of them are empty? Things feel strange...... this must be a glitch. Perhaps you should come back another time? [Please reload the game! Sorry for the mess!]\n<<endif>>

You read the sixth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Try a variant of these four translation exercises]] [[using the (now outdated) "Babelfish" and Google Translatate engines]] [[or the "Telephone" engine (another)]] [[–– or other web-based translations engines,]] [[such as Free Translation.com and Logopoeia's Shortwave Radio Engine.]] [[You can use Google tr. in telephone fashion:]] [[tr. from one language to another to another and back to original language.]] [[See also Translation Party]] [[and Bad Translator.]]

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nOn top of the stack, you see a dense, squat paperback with a black and yellow spine. The front cover sports a colorized portrait of Whitman sitting at a table, slightly slouched, his left hand supporting his chin, nestled into the tangled grey netting of his beard. Behind him is a painted landscape of rolling green hills and woods. The whole image is seemingly bathed in the warm, sepia glow of an afternoon golden hour.\n\nThis edition is, according to Simon and Schuster, an "Enriched Classic."\n\nHow do you open this book?\n\n[[I sit on the floor, opening it in my lap.]]\n\n[[I peel away its rear pages, like an apple skin.]]\n

The book is small enough for you to palm in a single hand. You perch its spine between your left pinky and ring fingers, and pinch the pages between your thumb and pointer finger. When you slide your thumb closer to your pointer finger, the trapped pages flit free one by one.\n\nJust as you think you might drop the book, you pause and hold on page eight.\n\nWhich line do you add to your poem?\n\n[[until every branch hangs sopping,]]\n[[the hackberry, defeated]]\n[[finally, the monsoon ceases.]]\n\n [[How thin, your cotton dress.]]\n\n [[I picture whole streams, new currents,]]\n [[arcing down your back.]]\n\n\n

You read the twenty-third experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Group sonnet:]] [[14 people each write one ten-word line (or alternate measure) on an index card.]] [[Order to suit. ]][[Alternate: write the poem in sequence, with each person writing the next line]] [[having read and considered the previous lines.]] [[Modify this to any form or to an open form with any number of participants. ]]

You read the ninety-fifth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Make a poem composed of all the things you don't know]] [[(or some of them)]]

Starting from the beginning, you let a few pages slip through your fingers. You do it again. \n\n...Again. \n...Again. \n...Again. \n\n...Once more.\n\nYou reach page thirty-four. On the adjacent page is the image of a painting by Winslow Homer, which, you presume, shares the title of this poem. You'll have to remember to look it up when you get home. \n\nWhich line do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[THE BERRY PICKERS]]\n\n[[A man who wants to be an artist should]]\n[[never look at pictures. How do you learn]]\n[[the shifting shape of wind, its rare summer]]\n[[sweetness, mornings when sun and rising fog]]\n[[wash the sky's crisp face with a whitened sheen?]]\n[[The children crouch in salt-licked shrubs,]]\n[[heads down, their shoulders sun-warm and fingers]]\n[[staining purple, their shoulders sun-warm and fingers]]\n[[staining purple, a few tongues stained, too,]]\n[[the thought of pie. The breeze is a child, shy]]\n[[thing for a day. It finds the red ribbon]]\n[[of a girl's hat, catching it like a kite tail]]\n[[that flutters toward the hint of song perched]]\n[[on a gray branch--more suggestion of bird]]\n[[than bird, tiny brushstroke in the broad sky.]]

Gently, though not smoothly, you nudge Osman's book open with the knuckles on your ring and pinky fingers.\n\nThe book opens to page twenty-seven.\n\n\nWhat line do you add to your poem?\n\n''[[10.]]''\n\n[[Waking is setting the body more still. After she had not slept.]]\n[[Place one ankle across another, then roll the ankles. It was]]\n[[where at first all the various comforts were remarked upon,]]\n[[until the point of little sleep erodes to a marked degree.]]\n[[Ambivalence leads her limbs to speak as if distracted. She]]\n[[proceeds through their relation as if the box were attached like]]\n[[a bracelet, arms dragging the sides of the river. Forgiveness]]\n[[does not set out in the face of betrayal. Each petal falls]]\n[[separately. The day the air turned green in the rain--]]\n[[everything--the buildings--marine. Separate from the ban-]]\n[[ners and various colors above our heads. A plaster corpse, this]]\n[[representing a kind of revolution or paragraph on a relatively]]\n[[fragile topic.]]

You pinch the book with your left hand and shape your right hand into a pair of walking legs: your pointer finger's the left leg, your middle finger the right leg, all the other fingers are curled up into your palm.\n\nYour finger-legs walk across the book's opening and perambulate onto page thirty-two.\n\n\nWhat line do you add to your poem?\n\n[[to move as well as sense the territory a mistake]]\n[[putting a hand awkwardly here unable to speak]]\n[[walking implies a knowledge beyond familiarity]]\n[[other issues between us a body or heart as]]\n[[principle spokesman for the unit negotiative]]\n[[understanding the opening sequence, documentary]]\n[[form, adds cindering credibility to this]]\n[[my opening speech appeal to you the country]]\n[[hallway I'm from]]\n\n\n\n\n[[a shaft or fetter clipped to a division part]]\n[[of the bones pinned separately to the center]]\n[[you must learn to desire what is outside of your desire]]\n[[using tools to voice our separate concerns the]]\n[[land in question is sectioned off given a list]]\n[[of appropriate vocabularies a blade containing]]\n[[a complexity of edges a mess, a beautiful cut]]

You open the book to the first page and read it closely.\n\nIt's blank, but you still give it a full inspection. Tilting the page back and forth against the room's dim light, you can just make out the texture of the paper's pulp: tight, miniscule flecks and ridges, almost imperceptible to the touch.\n\nThe next page is blank, too. You still read it.\n\nThe fifth page holds the book's title. The sixth contains a selection of other books also by Jena Osman. The seventh is a larger title page. It's signed by the author, with a small note scrawled in hasty red pen.\n\nThe eighth page contains copyright information, and you learn that the book's typography was set by //shuffaloff press// in Buffalo, New York. The ninth page holds an epigraph from Walter Benjamin.\n\n\nWhich piece of the epigraph do you add to your poem?\n\n[[Even if one has a general knowledge of the way people walk, one]]\n[[knows nothing of a person's posture during the fractional second]]\n[[of a stride. The act of reaching for a lighter or a spoon is familiar]]\n[[routine, yet we hardly know what really goes on between hand]]\n[[and metal...]]\n\n&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;[[--Walter Benjamin]]

<<if $lines lt 14>>\s\n<<set $poemyes to 1>>\s\nYou add a carefully tuned absence of language to your poem.\n\nWhere would you like to continue your poem?\n\n[[The living room.|living room]]\s\n<<if $hallway is 1>> [[The hallway.|hallway]]<<endif>>\s\n<<if $bathroom is 1>> [[The bathroom.|bathroom]]<<endif>>\s\n<<if $kitchen is 1>> [[The kitchen.|kitchen]]<<endif>>\s\n<<if $pantry is 1>> [[The pantry.|pantry]]<<endif>>\s\n<<if $back is 1>> [[The back path.|back path]]<<endif>>\s\n<<if $basement is 1>> [[The basement.|basement]]<<endif>>\s\n<<if $bedroom is 1>> [[The upstairs bedroom.|upstairs bedroom]]<<endif>>\s\n<<if $desktop is 1>> [[The desktop computer.|desktop computer]]<<endif>>\s\n<<else>><<display "living room">><<endif>>\n\n<<if $lines gt 0>>\s\n<<if ($lines lt 6)>>\s\n ''Your poem is starting to come together.''<<else if ($lines gte 6) and ($lines lt 10)>> ''You've filled about half of the page.''<<else if ($lines gte 10) and ($lines lt 13)>>''Your poem is nearly finished.''<<else if ($lines is 13)>> ''One more line left.''<<else if ($lines is 14)>>''Let's read your finished poem.'' [[Read your poem.]]<<endif>> <<endif>>

You read the forty-fifth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[["Pits":]] [[Write the worst possible poem you can imagine.]]

You give the door a second knock.\n\n...\n\nOnce again, nobody responds.\n\nWhat you do hear, however, is the unmistakable sound of someone shuffling frantically around the room. Drawers slam open and shut. There's pacing, a few grunts. Something heavy's being dragged across the floor. A mouse and keyboard click with machine-gun speed. There's a constant flutter of paper.\n\nSimilar noises go on for a bit, until you hear what sounds like rustling sheets of fabric. There's a big slam, a //fwip//, and an ~~"oh shit"~~ before one final thud. \n\nThen, silence.\n\n\n[[Okay, I clearly need to see what's going on in there.]]\n\n[[Sounds pretty normal! I head back downstairs.|hallway]]\n<<set $upstairsdoor to 2>>

Quickly flipping backwards, past the acknowledgments, you reach the final poem in the book in record time.\n\nYou are on page sixty-eight. Which line do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[MANNA, HONEYDEW]]\n\n[[Ravenous little angels of hunger,]]\n[[insects crawling the desert by night,]]\n[[scale, coccid, parasites of our Lord, eat]]\n[[for the sake of our starving hearts,]]\n[[weak and abraded, raw with doubt--]]\n[[suck, for the sake of our emptiness, the sweet]]\n[[phloem sap of what green fronds dare]]\n[[root here. Turn it, in the hidden path]]\n[[of your singular intestine]]\n[[to the grace of our each morning:]]\n[[the shit of seraphim our sustenance,]]\n[[kicked back and scattered, a fine frost]]\n[[melting in midday sun. Or, on the tongue,]]\n[[as wafers made with honey, white]]\n[[ seed of coriander.]]

You open Lockwood's book to page forty-three. Which line do you add to your poem?\n\n[[Last thing she knew he lived in the west.]] [[When his name appears in her mind, it is written in lasso.]]\n\n[[He always liked a good lie about storms, so here,]] [[when it thunders, a stampede of horses is flattening her son.]]\n\n[[And in the morning her trails are washed away.]] [[The ground here is a dapple animal, it won't stand still]] [[long enough to let her pull a bride path over its head.]]\n\n[[And where is the west now?]] [[She tugs down the map to look and it flies up again like a windowshade.]]\n\n[[At the edge of the desert, she discovers a rich vein of Detroitite]] [[- a "stone" made of the layered paint that streams away from car factories.]] [[She takes a pickaxe and a shovel and begins to dig.]] [[She dynamites the color deeper and deeper.]] [[She lives away from home, she rides a gray donkey down,]] [[she eats sandwiches in the mine at night.]] [[It is her Grand Canyon, and she sleeps in a long silver river at the bottom.]] [[Above her, new layers keep arriving;]] [[they will run here from the other world as long as there is somewhere to go.]]\n\n[[Then the vein is inside out,]] [[and she waks up one morning in her own bed again.]] [[The house is suddenly one floor deeper,]] [[she feels a room of basement rocks below her.]]

The paragraph on this page is titled "Synchysis." The S of the word is formed from an illustration of two acrobats tumbling together. The lower figure rests on their knees, lifting the second figure above their head with outstretched arms. The upper figure arches their back, forming the top curve of the S with their legs. \n\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[Synchysis]]\n\n[[Ridiculous young man, as I was on an S bus]]\n[[one day chock-full by traction perhaps whose]]\n[[neck was elongated, round his hat and who]]\n[[had a cord, I noticed a. Arrogant and snivel-]]\n[[ling in a tone, who happened to be next to]]\n[[him, with the man to remonstrate he started.]]\n[[Because that pushed him he claimed, time]]\n[[every that got off anyone. Vacant he sat down]]\n[[and made a dash towards a seat, having said]]\n[[this. Rome (Cour de) in the I met him later two]]\n[[hours to his overcoat a button to add a friend]]\n[[was advising him.]]\n\n

Throwing caution to the wind, you immediately grip the upmost knot with your hands and back yourself out the window, feeling around with your feet for the next knot below. You snag it, easily, and reduce the tension in your hands as you begin to descend the outside of the house.\n\nOnce you put your full weight on the bedsheet, you realize that you never thought to test the knot on the bed frame. You know. The one knot that's responsible for keeping your body from crashing violently into the ground below? That knot.\n\nI hope it's snug, for your sake.\n\n...\n\nTurning inward, you look around in your imagination, hoping to get some more reassurance from the phantom of your 10-year-old self. \n\nThey're over there in the corner, playing a Game Boy Color and pointedly ignoring you. You hear them mutter something about a "Charmander." \n\n\n[[Well, the only way down is... down.]]

You grab one of the loose carpenter's pencils from a shelf behind you and delicately slide the graphite tip between the book's pages. Spreading the book open to that location, you find yourself on page thirty-seven.\n\nWhich line do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[DATE NIGHT]]\n\n[[Where is the Thai restaurant?]]\n[[Where is the Japanese restaurant?]]\n[[Excuse me, where is the Mexican restaurant?]]\n[[Hello, where can I purchase Italian food?]]\n[[Where is the American Steakhouse?]]\n[[I am looking for the coffeeshop?]]\n[[Where may I find the boba tea shop?]]\n[[Is this the serve-yourself frozen yogurt shop?]]\n[[Excuse me, I would like to purchase a cocktail?]]\n[[Where is the best brewery in town?]]\n[[Hello, I would like to place an order for delivery?]]\n[[Hi, are you doing takeout?]]\n[[Yes, hi, hello, how much gratutity?]]\n[[Hi, yes, hello, yes, hi, is this the recommendation?]]\n[[May I please have the house red?]]\n[[May I please have the house white?]]\n[[Hi, I am inquiring about your valet services?]]\n[[Okay, thank you, yes, please tell, yes, please tell me about the specials?]]\n[[Where does, where, yes, where does one purchase, yes, the salmon?]]\n[[I would, okay, yes, the soup dumplings?]]\n[[Yes, okay, yes, yes, some espresso gelato, yes?]]\n[[Yes, okay, yes, yes, okay, I would, I will, yes, okay?]]\n

You open the refrigerator's bottom door. It's not very well-organized.\n\nAlong the inside of the door there's a shelf with various condiments. Some seem frequently used but others... look a bit crusty. At a glance, you see a bottle of [[squeezable mayonnaise]], a [[jar of peppers]], and a [[jar of jam]].\n\nOn the top shelf, you see a [[carton of eggs]] and a [[sealed bag of baby carrots]] among other items.\n\nOn the bottom shelf, there's only one item: a [[suspicious-looking tupperware]].\n\nYou can also check what's in the [[freezer]] or turn back to the [[kitchen]].

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nThe postcard is pinched between the grooves of the stove's various metal components. After a bit of wriggling, you manage to dislodge it. A small bit of the printed design tears off when you do, a thinly curled sliver of paper pulp still stuck in the stove's frame.\n\nOn the postcard's front, there's a fantastical illustration of Sherlock Holmes clad in his signature deer hunter cap, one hand in the pocket of his trousers, the other clutching a comically oversized magnifying glass. He stares pensively into your eyes, analyzing your expression while clenching a pipe between his teeth. His left foot is very nearly severed by the torn paper.\n\nStrangely, however, he seems to be standing at the bottom of the sea. Brightly colored aquatic vegetation surrounds his leather boots -- bright reds, yellows, blues, and greens, all shimmering in the surrounding water. Moving upward, you notice what Sherlock doesn't: six writhing, pink tentacles, a mere second away from grasping his shoulders from behind. Your gaze follows the tentacles upwards, where, at the top of the postcard's illustration, you see their owner, a gargantuan pink squid, grappling with a wood-framed, steampunky submarine. \n\nA cavernous expanse of water shimmers in the distance.\n\nFlipping the postcard over, you see that the back is an advertisement for a bookstore. Hand-lettered text decorates a watercolor painting of a small coffee table laden with books. A mug of coffee perches on the corner. Beneath it, a small dog slumbers. \n\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[A Feast for Book Lovers]]\n[[Shakespeare & Co.]]\n[[Missoula, MT]]\n[[www.shakespeareandco.com]]\n\n[[New Books]]\n[[Postcards Journals]]\n[[Magazines Notecards]]\n[[Bumper stickers Buttons]]\n[[Gifts Events]]\n\n[[The Literary Mash-up Series]]\n[[Limited to 1250]] [[Design No. 1]]\n[[Artwork by Courtney Brazon]]\n[[103 S. 3rd St.W. - Missoula, MT - 406.549.9010]]\n\n[[Sherlock investigates 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea.]]

You read the eighty-seventh exercise prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Christian Bök's lipogram Eunoia consists of a five sections each with words containing the same vowell]] [[(as in "O": Yoko Ono).]] [[This is reminiscent of certain notorious Ouilipian constraints,]] [[such as Perec's nover La Disparition , which suppresses the letter "e".]] [[Write a poem in the manner of Eunoia.]]

You scroll down a fair bit of the page and begin reading about Mayer’s personal life.\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Early in her life Mayer lived in Lenox, Massachusetts.]]\n\n[[Mayer was in a relationship with poet Lewis Warsh,]] [[with whom she had three children.]] [[She and Warsh began living together spring 1975.]] [[They initially moved from New York to an old farmhouse in Worthington, Massachusetts,]] [[and later to an apartment in Lenox.]] [[During this time their two daughters were born, Marie in 1975 and Sophia in 1977.]] [[In 1979, Warsh and Mayer and family moved to Henniker, New Hampshire,]] [[where they taught at New England College,]] [[and where their son Max was born.]] [[Of her romantic life, Mayer wrote,]] [["Left a beautiful anarchist lover of 10 years because he wanted no responsibility for children,]] [[I chose to have three with another, now living 'alone' with them."]] [[Mayer later lived with her partner the poet Philip Good in Upstate New York.]]\n\n[[In 1994, Mayer suffered a temporarily debilitating stroke.]] [[Although she recovered, it altered her motor skills and continued to affect her writing process.]]\n\n[[Mayer corresponded extensively with many writers,]] [[including poet Clark Coolidge with whom she collaborated on The Cave,]] [[a project revolving around a trip the two of them took]] [[to Eldon's Cave in western Massachusetts.]] [[Mayer also collaborated with poets Anne Waldman, Alice Notley, Lee Ann Brown, and Jen Karmin.]]

You scroll down to the second section and begin to read about Mayer’s poetics and creative practice.\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Mayer's record-keeping and use of stream-of-consciousness narrative]] [[are two trademarks of her writing.]] [[In addition to the influence]] [[of her textual-visual art and journal-keeping,]] [[Mayer's poetry is widely acknowledged]] [[as some of the first to speak accurately and honestly]] [[about the experience of motherhood.]] [[Mayer edited the journal 0 TO 9 with Vito Acconci,]] [[and, until 1983, United Artists books and magazines with Lewis Warsh.]] [[Mayer taught at the New School for Social Research,]] [[where she earned her degree in 1967,]] [[and, during the 1970s, she led a number of workshops]] [[at the Poetry Project at St. Mark's Church in-the-Bowery in New York City.]] [[Writers who attended or sat in on her workshops included]] [[Kathy Acker, Charles Bernstein, John Giorno, and Anne Waldman.]] [[From 1980 to 1984, Mayer served as director of the Poetry Project.]] [[Her influence in the contemporary avant-garde is felt widely.]]\n\n[[Mayer received a Foundation for Contemporary Arts Grants to Artists award (1995).]] [[She was also a 2015 Guggenheim Fellowship Recipient,]] [[a 2009 Creative Capital Awardee,]] [[and received a National Book Critics Circle Nomination]] [[for her most recent book, 2016's Works and Days.]]\n\n[[In 2016, the critic Stephanie Burt characterized Mayer's work]] [[as showing "by effusive, charming, sometimes hyperbolic example]] [[how to reject any model of poetry that requires perfection and uptight isolation."]]

You scroll down to the third section and begin to read about Mayer’s involvement with the long-standing NYC poetry institution, The Poetry Project.\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Like many younger poets,]] [[Mayer found a home in the community surrounding The Poetry Project at St. Mark's Church.]] [[The workshops Mayer taught there were]] [["renowned for the variety of textual approaches deployed,]] [[and for their emphasis on nonliterary, or not primarily literary, texts,"]] [[according to a history of the project published online in 2012.]] [[She taught regularly from 1971 to 1974]] [[and sporadically during the later 1970s.]] [[From 1972 to 1973, Mayer co-edited the publication Unnatural Acts,]] [[a "collaborative writing experiment" that arose from one of her workshops.]] [[Only two issues were published, though a third]] [[postcard issue with work by visual artists was planned.]]\n\n[[Mayer was elected director of The Poetry Project in 1980]] [[and served until Eileen Myles took over in 1984.]] [[As director, Mayer retooled the marathon reading]] [[and worked to get more funding for The Project's programming,]] [[including a $10,000 donation from The Grateful Dead.]] [[Mayer was partly responsible for starting a lecture series and a Monday night reading series.]]

Climbing the stairs, you come face-to-face with a closed door. There are three hefty iron latches, all shut, securing the door to its frame from this side.\n\nYou wonder how this door could have been locked from the inside...\n\n[[I unlock the door.]]\n

Against your better judgment, you brace yourself and pop open the container.\n\n...\n\nOh no.\n\n...\n\n[[Your vision starts to get a little blurry.]]

You read the eighty-fourth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Lineups.]] [[From Charles North's invented form]] [[based on baseball lineups,]] [[e.g.,Wittgenstein lf,]] [[Heidegger 2b,]] [[Aristotle 1b,]] [[Kant rf,]] [[Hegel cf,]] [[Hume ss,]] [[Sartre 3b,]] [[Plotinus c,]] [[Plato p.]]

You read the thirty-third experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Write a poem with each line filling in the blanks]] [[of "I used to be _____]] [[but now I am ______."]] [[("I used to write poems, but now I just do experiments";]] [["I used to make sense, but now I just make poems.")]]

You peel the first three pages of Sorenson's chapbook open. After moving past the title and contents pages, this still brings you right to page one. It's the chapbook's first poem!\n\nWhich line do you add to your poem?\n\n[[BANG]]\n\n[[I won't be held accountable]]\n[[for my hair-line]]\n[[trigger. Don't bother asking]]\n[[where you might kiss the wall.]]\n[[Any brick will do.]]

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\n\s\nYou grab a solidly bound white book from the floor. The all-caps title is printed in a bold, sans-serif font: CONTEMPORARY AMERICAN POETRY. The cover art is a painting of an American flag on a rectangular canvas that's misaligned to the flag's typical landscape format -- the flag itself only takes up the upper two-thirds of the canvas, and below it is a smaller expanse of white, yellow, and brown brushstrokes resembling the texture of dirty plywood. \n\nThe flag's stripes are painted roughly, you notice, with uneven lines and dark splotches scattered throughout. After counting a few times, you also realize the flag only has 48 of the usual 50 stars. Briefly turning the book over in your hands, you read a contextualizing note on the back cover printed parallel with the book's spine:\n\n//The cover shows 'Flag above White,' 1954, by Jasper Johns, in the collection of Ileana Sonnabend, Paris.//\n\nFlipping the book back to the front, you see the you see the two little penguin feet of the Penguin Books logo sticking out from beneath a Half Price Books price sticker in the top-right corner. Looks like someone purchased this book on April 3rd, 2020, for $2.98 (plus tax).\n\nYou hold the book's yellowed pages up to your nose and give a sniff: it smells like the dusty basement stacks of a midwestern campus library. A quick flip to the copyright page reveals it's a second edition. This one was printed in 1972. The first was printed in 1962. \n\nYou marvel at the weight of time bearing down on the book's usage of "CONTEMPORARY" in the title.\n\n\nHow do you open this book?\n\n[[I open it to a random page three times and stop at the third.|donhall1]]\n\n[[I open it to a random page five times and stop on the fifth.|donhall2]]\n\n[[I open it to a random page seven times and stop on the seventh.|donhall3]]

A half-second of darkness. Maybe less.\n\nWhen you return, you are on page thirty four.\n\n\nWhich line do you add to your poem?\n\n[[she unbuttons at the fractal & all the light goes stuttering]]\n\n[[sour-cherried she speaks]]\n[[burnt through her murmurous & unmathable problem]]\n\n[[{a complete disfigurement of the line}]]

You take some time to learn more about hackberry.\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[HACKBERRY]]\n[[(Celtis)]]\n[[Found: North America ]]\n[[Berries: can be eaten raw.]]\n[[Pits: the white kernels in the pits can be eaten]]\n[[and taste like dates.]] [[The dried pits can be ground]]\n[[and used as flavoring on wild game.]]

You read the ninth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Acrostic chance:]] [[Pick a book and use title as acrostic key phrase.]] [[For each letter of key phrase go to page number in book that corresponds (a=1, z=26)]] [[and copy as first line of poem from the first word that begins with that letter to end of line or sentence.]] [[Continue through all key letters, leaving stanza breaks to mark each new key word.]] [[(Cf.: Jackson Mac Low's Stanzas for Iris Lezak.)]] [[Variations include using author's name as code for reading through her or his work,]] [[using your own or friend's name,]] [[picking different kinds of books for this process,]] [[devising alternative acrostic procedures.]] [[Or use the web Mac Low diastic engine.]] [[Or try the mesostic engine.]]

You read the fiftieth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[List poem 2:]] [[write a poem consisting entirely of a list of "things", either homogenous or heterogeneous]] [[(common lists include shopping lists, things to do, lists of flowers or rocks, lists of colors, inventory lists, lists of events, lists of names, ...).]]

You open Lockwood's book to the final page, which is blank.\nFrom there, you flip two pages backward, finding two more blank pages.\n\nDo you confine yourself to the rigidity of the constraint and include a moment of nothingness -- a "pause" -- in your poem?\nOr do you "cheat" and flip back two more pages in order to find some concrete language?\n\n[[A constraint with bent rules is no constraint at all. I choose the void.]]\n\n[[A constraint is a structure for creativity, not a prison sentence. I'll keep flipping.]]

You scroll down to the sixth comment. It was posted by the username "robbercarry."\n\nWhich line do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[on our way out. ]]\n\n[[& latch it to ]]\n\n[[our long dusk drives ]]\n[[Without anguish, quietly drifting. ]]\n[[— or do like my yiayia does ]]\n[[when the zucchini ]]\n[[(it's a long story) ]]\n[[suck, for the sake of our emptiness, the sweet ]]\n[[Senga Sengana Strawberries ]]\n[[I drink sunrise thoughts, ]]\n[[distances traveled ]]\n[[Over the fence — ]]\n[[A valid receipt is required for all returns. ]]\n[[So now we wait. ]]

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\n\s\nYou pick up a slim book of poetry off of the floor. The cover is sky blue. A herd of beasts with the faces and arms of Popeye The Sailor Man but the lower bodies of plump horses stampede across the cover. Several of the strange centaurs clench corncob pipes in their teeth. All of them are flexing.\n\n\nHow do you open this book?\n\n[[I turn to the first third.|the first third]]\n\n[[I attempt to split the book right in the middle.|halfway]]\n\n[[I flip all the way until there's only two pages from the end.|two pages from the end]]

You scroll down to the bottom of the page, where you find a thread of comments left by previous players. Scanning through them, it appears as if various users have used their comments as opportunites to post the poems they've created within the game itself.\n\nThere's a handful of comments, arranged in reverse chronological order and posted by the username of each player. Next to each username is a small avatar image. Most of them look like little smiling frogs, which you sense serves as the default image for the platform's users. Some of the frogs have red skin and blue mouths, while others have blue skin with darker blue mouths. All of the frogs seem to be having an excellent time on this website.\n\n\nWhich of the comments do you read?\n\n[[The eleventh comment.]]\n[[The tenth comment.]]\n[[The ninth comment.]]\n[[The eighth comment.]]\n[[The seventh comment.]]\n[[The sixth comment.]]\n[[The fifth comment.]]\n[[The fourth comment.]]\n[[The third comment.]]\n[[The second comment.]]\n[[The first comment.]]

After cautiously glancing around for any Oulipian guards, you flip back another two pages furtively like the debased criminal you are. You reach the eighty-fifth page. Finally, poetry! You breathe a sigh of relief.\n\nWhich line do you add to your poem?\n\n[[and it runs itself to death]]\n[[on the family piano:]] [[it plays high to low and low to high]]\n[[and then races up and past the keyboard and keeps]]\n[[playing for a moment in the air--even shapes]]\n[[of chickens don't know when they're dead.]]\n\n[[It's the year of the smallest statehood, the people lie down]]\n[[on the floor to sleep,]] [[the states sneak in through any crack]]\n[[and draw faithfully around them]] [[while they dream, draw]]\n[[North on one and South on the other,]] [[and then the states]]\n[[crawl into their mouths]] [[and draw where they will wake up]]\n[[tomorrow, and stand with one state]]\n[[in each foot of you,]]\n[[laughing, and North wakes]] [[and sees that South has been bitten,]]\n[[and she bends down]] [[and sucks the green boundary out.]]

You read the poem printed on the inside of the fold’s crease.\n\n\nWhich line do you add to your poem?\n\n[[“AN EXISTENTIAL HUNGER FOR NARRATIVE”]]\n\n[[quite a laundry list]]\n[[quite an attitude]]\n[[lately]]\n[[you’re just making little piles,]]\n[[aren’t you, little]]\n\n[[did you know it’s insulting]] \n[[to use the word]]\n[[“just” when you’re trying to teach someone]] \n[[how to do something simple]]\n[[it suggests that they’re stupid]]\n[[for not just]]\n[[changing the position not just]]\n[[getting up and moving your little]]\n[[body, shifting]]\n[[focus]]\n[[of the still]]\n\n[[every few days you make a new little pile]]\n[[making their work your own –]]\n[[do you even have a clue about]]\n[[astrophysics? hospice care? yourself?]]\n[[yeah, that’s what i thought]]\n[[really too much to ask to tell you]]\n[[about little piles in a garden we]] \n[[share,]] \n[[that’s just]]\n[[making work]]\n[[change]]\n[[work]]\n[[position]]\n[[attitude]]\n[[still]]\n\n[[clearing out]]\n[[speech balloons]]\n[[jars of]]\n[[“this is the hardest]]\n[[thing I’ve ever had to” okay]]\n[[mayonnaise]]\n[[googling]] \n[[the smell of oil on]]\n[[the phone with you]]\n[[love an agenda]]\n[[intestines shifting on]]\n[[the table we made up]]\n\n[[every few days]]\n[[buy flowers]]\n[[pour it out]]

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nYou reach gingerly between the assorted papers and dead plant matter and grasp the small glass jar. Waxy residue clings to your fingers. As you turn the jar over in your hands, you notice that the bottom of the jar isn't perfectly round--rather, the glass has been molded into a twelve-sided polygon. A //dodecagon//, you think to yourself, calling upon a thorn of arcane knowledge implanted back in high school geometry. For some reason you've simply never dislodged the name of this particular shape from your brain.\n\nSplotted by dots of wax, you note a thin turqoise label that runs around the upper lip of the jar that's decorated with a simple illustration of a leaved vine--one or two leaves sprout along the drawing every half inch or so. \n\nYou turn the jar completely upside down and find a label on the bottom that explains basically anything you might need to know about the act of lighting a candle.\n\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[BASIL SCENTED SOY CANDLE]]\n[[35 HOUR BURN TIME]]\n[[CONTAINS: Hydrogenated Soybean Oil, Stearyl ALcohol,]]\n[[Behenyl Alcohol, Hydrogenated Coconut Oil, Fragrance,]]\n[[Ocimum Basilicum]] [[(Basil) Oil,]]\n[[Carum Petroselinum]] [[(Parsley) Seed Oil,]]\n[[Piper Nigrum]] [[(Black Pepper) Seed Oil,]]\n[[Arachidyl Alcohol, Glycerol Oleate, C7-9]]\n[[Esters of Benzotriazolyl-Dimethylethyl-p-Hydroxybenzenepropanoic Acid,]]\n[[Pentaerythrityl Tetra-di-t-butyl Hydroxycinnamate,]]\n[[Contains Fragrance Allergens.]]\n\n[[To prevent fire or injury:]]\n[[WARNING:]] [[Burn within sight.]] [[Never burn a candle]]\n[[on or near anything that can catch fire.]] [[Keep out of reach]]\n[[of children and pets.]] [[Do not use if glass is chipped or cracked.]]\n[[Trim wick to 1/4'' before each lighting.]] [[Keep candle free of]]\n[[matches and all materials.]] [[Do not burn on cold, wet, or unstable surfaces.]]\n[[Burn away from drafts.]] [[Never touch or move when lit,]] [[or until wax hardens.]]\n[[Do not extinguish]] [[with lid or water.]] [[Do not reuse.]]\n[[Discard glass after use.]] [[Contains Lead Free Wick.]]

You take some time to learn more about hawthorn.\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[HAWTHORN]]\n[[(Crataegus Laevigata)]]\n[[Found: United States and Southern Canada]]\n[[Fruit: looks like tiny apples.]] [[Colors can be reddish,]]\n[[yellow, black or bluish.]] [[They can be eaten fresh or]]\n[[dried to be ground and mixed with pemmican.]] [[The fruit makes]]\n[[excellent jams and jellies.]] [[The fruit contains flavonoid]]\n[[glycosides, organic acids, tannins, an essential oil,]]\n[[Vitamin C, B complex, and pectin.]]

...\n\n...\n\n...\n\nAfter some time, you realize you've passed out.\n\nAs you come to, you find yourself lying upon the red couch in the [[living room]]. Someone has left you a glass of water, and it's sitting on the coffee table, no coaster to be found.\n\nSuddenly you don't feel so hungry anymore.

You peel the book open to its core with both hands, and both halves of the book offer resistance. Before you can catch yourself, you hear a sharp crack -- after which the two halves of the book fall open limply.\n\nThe pages remain firmly glued for now, but you've accidentally inflicted irreparable damage to the book's spine.\n\nStill, the book is open to page seventy-three.\n\nWhich line do you add to your poem?\n\n[[Many questions were left]] [[in the clearing we built our shared life in.]]\n[[Later sheer size left no room for imagining]] [[myself standing outside it,]]\n[[on the edge of an empty day.]] [[I knew I didn't want to part from this]]\n[[whole which could be said to carry]] [[its foundation as much as resting on]]\n[[it, just as a family tree grows downward,]] [[its branches confounding]]\n[[gravitation and gravidity.]] [[I wanted to continue lying alongside you,]] \n[[two parallel, comparable lengths of feeling,]] [[and let the stresses of the structure]]\n[[push our sleep to momentum and fullness.]] [[Still, a fallow evening]]\n[[stretches into unknown elsewheres,]] [[seductive with possibility,]]\n[[doors open onto a chaos of culs-de-sac,]] [[of could-be,]] [[of galloping off on the]]\n[[horse in the picture.]] [[And whereto?]] [[A crowning mirage or a question]]\n[[like What is love?]] [[And where?]] [[Does it enter with a squeeze, or without,]]\n[[bring, like interpretation, its own space]] [[from some other dimension?]]\n[[Or is it like a dream corridor forever extending]] [[its concept toward]]\n[[extreme emptiness,]] [[like that of atoms?]]

You move your eyes slightly to the left and read page fifty-four.\n\nWhich line do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Near Crailsheim]]\n\n[[Precisely undulated fields]]\n[[little globular trees]]\n[[sculpted and dark green]]\n[[pedantically aligned]]\n[[rows of maize]]\n\n[[Thereabove to the west]]\n[[God's pleasure]]\n[[pink candyfloss]]\n[[from the recent funfair]]\n\n[[Mumbling the enigma of their]]\n[[crosswords pensioners sit]]\n[[on the express, limbs benumbed]]\n[[in the quicksilver of their angst]]\n\n[[Already the shadows are smoking]]\n[[in the valley of Jehoshaphat]]\n[[Here comes the railwayman]]\n[[his lamp bouncing on his bib]]

There are no page numbers in this book, and there are quite a few pages. Let’s say you’re on a page in the last sixth of the book.\n\n\nWhich line do you add to your poem?\n\n[[a mall of process emerges]]\n\n[[a mall receives light twice-live-sized]]\n\n[[Marginal Shield Fern]]\n\n[[method freed to think without hate]]\n\n[[Naiad light]]\n\n[[nomadic, then gradually building to free upsurge]]\n\n[[of water fountains, the next iteration]]\n\n[[on periodic ground,]]\n\n[[or whatever isn’t isolated]]\n\n[[Owlleaf Arrowhead]]\n\n[[Panic Grass]]\n\n[[Quaking Aspen]]\n\n[[a richer, unthwarted mode]]\n\n[[a rollercoaster,]]\n\n[[savoring the elegant expanse]]\n

There are no page numbers in this book, and there are quite a few pages. Let’s say that you’re on a page in the first third of the book.\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[A more accurate comparison, though, might be]] [[the temple ruins in the]]\n[[game Myst,]] [[one of the first computer games I played as a child.]]\n[[In the game, you are placed in a largely silent, empty world]] [[tasked with]]\n[[figuring out what to do, what happened.]] [[The game’s difficulty and]]\n[[lonely design became for me synonymous with depression.]]\n[[The sadness brought on by the death of imagined gods is still sadness.]]\n[[Like the field in Bliss,]] [[the rendering of a tree or a temple was too]]\n[[frictionless, a space without space.]] [[I wandered lost through the eerie]]\n[[gamescape,]] [[like someone who realizes they’ve forgotten why]]\n[[they came to the store,]] [[only to realize they’ve lost their mother’s hand.]]

There are no page numbers in this book, and there are quite a few pages. Let’s say that you’re on a page slightly before the middle of the book.\n\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[XIV.]]\n\n[[By the fall of 2020, I felt more like]] [[one of the Fevered than ever before.]]\n[[Days arrived in loops, iterations.]] [[One indistinct night, after]]\n[[watching Paul Blart: Mall Cop,]] [[I found myself in the shower, turning in]]\n[[slow circles.]] [[I often did this in the shower:]] [[stepping slowly in a circle,]]\n[[writing in my head.]] [[This time, the water had begun to grow cold;]]\n[[I realized I’d been standing there for almost an hour,]] [[drafting an essay]]\n[[about Blart.]] [[I laughed, abandoned the idea.]] [[The more time passed]]\n[[the harder it was to remember what the joke was.]] [[When Kings Plaza,]]\n[[the mall nearest me in Brooklyn,]] [[finally reopened, I went.]]\n\n[[In the phantasia of urban space, something felt restored, perfectly,]]\n[[a vital need for all its artifice.]] [[The massive stability of the structure,]]\n[[the legible arrangement of expectation and surprise – an illuminated,]]\n[[riskless finitude.]] [[Such civic touchscreen fountains.]] [[Like standing in an]]\n[[atrium, lost and separated from your mother,]] [[and somehow still almost]]\n[[a body again that could ride a series of escalators]] [[upward until it found]]\n[[a t-shirt too brightly colored to wear,]] [[and could buy it nonetheless,]]\n[[on sale for $4.50.]]

<<set $lines to 0>>\s\n\s\n<<set $line1 to 0>>\s\n<<set $line2 to 0>>\s\n<<set $line3 to 0>>\s\n<<set $line4 to 0>>\s\n<<set $line5 to 0>>\s\n<<set $line6 to 0>>\s\n<<set $line7 to 0>>\s\n<<set $line8 to 0>>\s\n<<set $line9 to 0>>\s\n<<set $line10 to 0>>\s\n<<set $line11 to 0>>\s\n<<set $line12 to 0>>\s\n<<set $line13 to 0>>\s\n<<set $line14 to 0>>\s\n\s\n<<set $dickinson to 0>>\s\n<<set $trash to 0>>\s\n<<set $kitchen to 0>>\s\n<<set $pantry to 0>>\s\n<<set $bathroom to 0>>\s\n<<set $hallway to 0>>\s\n<<set $basement to 0>>\s\n<<set $slam to 0>>\s\n<<set $lock to 1>>\s\n<<display "Start">>

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nResting on top of the stack is a small but sturdy book with a soft white cover. A sliver of sunlight sneaking past the window curtain streaks across it.\n\nThe cover boasts a profile photo of a man with dark wavy hair, thick round glasses and, honestly, an enormous ear that faces the camera. He's dressed in a dark jacket that flanks a white dress shirt and a striped satin tie. He looks you dead in the eye with an exacting expression.\n\nYet, something's not quite right. The image is cut into twelve rectangular pieces and jumbled up, just slightly. The left side of his face is actually situated to the right, his forehead floats off in the uppermost left corner, the knot of his tie doesn't match up with his throat. The arrangement of the pieces isn't perfect, either -- the sliver with his left eye, for example, is especially cocked askew. The whole image carries the sense of a hasty assemblage, laid out on the table for a collaged rearrangement. Or a sliding tile puzzle. Or a surrealist windowpane. Or a passport photo, shredded by corrupt authorities. Or...\n\nRaymond Queneau's name is scrawled in loopy red pen above the cut-up image. Beneath it, you see "Exercises in Style" in the same script. Every letter's right corners have been replaced with a loop-de-loop. Finally, in tiny black italic script beneath the title, you also see //"Now with many new exercises!"//\n\n\nHow do you open this book?\n\n[[Curtly.]]\n\n[[Floridly.]]\n\n[[Onomatopoeically.]]

You read the fifty-fifth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Write a series of ten poems]] [[going from one to ten words in each poem.]] [[Reorder.]]\n

<<if $lock is 0>><<display "basement">><<else>>You turn the knob and attempt to open the door, but it doesn't budge. \n\nInvestigating further, you're unable to find a keyhole anywhere. \n\n\n[[I try the knob again.]]\n\n[[I knock politely.]]\n\n[[I put my shoulder into it.]]\n<<endif>>\n

You read the thirty-seventh experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Nonliterary forms:]] [[Write a poem in the form of an index, a table of contents, a resume, an advertisement for an imaginary or real product]] [[(see Nicolàs Guillén (Penn only)]] [[& Tan Lin and Paul Violi "Index" poems,]] [[an instruction manual, a travel guide, a quiz or examination, etc.]] [[See Nick Thurston's Historia Abscondita (pdf), an appropriated index work.]]

You climb the stairs. They lead to a small landing, beyond which is a closed door.\n\n\t<<if $upstairsdoor is 2>>\s\n[[I open the door.|Okay, I clearly need to see what's going on in there.]]\n\n[[I head back downstairs.|hallway]]\n\t<<elseif $upstairsdoor is 3>>\s\n[[I open the door.|It's too late to turn back.]]\n\n[[I head back downstairs.|hallway]]\n\t<<elseif $upstairsdoor is 4>>\s\n[[I open the door.|upstairs bedroom]]\n\n[[I head back downstairs.|hallway]]\n\t<<else>>\s\n[[I knock on the door.]]\n\n[[I head back downstairs.|hallway]]\n<<endif>>

Good call. Who knows what horrors you might have seen.\n\nDo you continue rooting around in the [[fridge]] or turn back to the [[kitchen]]?

You read the fifty-second experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Transcription:]] [[Tape a phone or live conversation between yourself and a friend.]] [[Make a poem composed entirely of transcribed parts.]]

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nLifting the camp stove with one hand, you slide the book out. It's heavier than expected, and the binding feels a little...weird?\n\nLooking closer, you realize its binding and pages have all been treated with a water-resistant coating, presumably to prevent rain damage. It's hard to imagine lugging this thing on a backpacking trip though -- it's big and heavy, at least five pounds. \n\nThe front cover depicts two rectangular photos, ringed by various illustrations and diagrams of wilderness activities. The upper photo depicts a lone hiker crossing a wooden bridge. Taken from a distance, you can only see the hiker's shadow -- clad with a sizable backpack -- outlined against the sun's glow as it streams through the treetops. In the depths beneath the bridge, you can just make out the rapid current of a waterfall. The second photo, a landscape shot, shows a snowy mountain peak in the distance, dotted with alpine trees. From the photo's perspective, the branches of a nearby tree frame the wider shot, its needles clumped with wet snow. The tableau is treacherously pristine.\n\nStarting from the upper-left corner and moving counter-clockwise, the following illustrations and diagrams surround the two photos: A small brown fish halfway through the gutting process, its delicate bones framed by pink flesh. A diagram for starting a friction fire with a bow drill. Another small brown fish, this time ringed with leaves upon a flat stone, primed for campfire cooking. Two hand-made snowshoes fashioned from pine tree branches. The side profile of a young person's head wrapped with a medical bandage. A dutch oven dangling over a pit fire, suspended by wooden stakes. A Swiss Army knife with at least fifteen tools splayed out simultaneously. A pressure gauge. A dandelion. A copperhead snake. And, in the upper-right corner, a foldable compass with its needle pointing northwest.\n\n\nHow do you open this book?\n\n[[Slightly overstimulated from the cover, I simply open to the introduction.]]\n\n[[I shoot for the middle.]]\n\n[[I would like to learn more about edible plants. I turn to the section titled "Edible Plants."]]

<><<display AddLine>>\s\n<>\n<<if $lines is 1>> <<set $line1 to passage()>> <<endif>>\n<<if $lines is 2>> <<set $line2 to passage()>> <<endif>>\n<<if $lines is 3>> <<set $line3 to passage()>> <<endif>>\n<<if $lines is 4>> <<set $line4 to passage()>> <<endif>>\n<<if $lines is 5>> <<set $line5 to passage()>> <<endif>>\n<<if $lines is 6>> <<set $line6 to passage()>> <<endif>>\n<<if $lines is 7>> <<set $line7 to passage()>> <<endif>>\n<<if $lines is 8>> <<set $line8 to passage()>> <<endif>>\n<<if $lines is 9>> <<set $line9 to passage()>> <<endif>>\n<<if $lines is 10>> <<set $line10 to passage()>> <<endif>>\n<<if $lines is 11>> <<set $line11 to passage()>> <<endif>>\n<<if $lines is 12>> <<set $line12 to passage()>> <<endif>>\n<<if $lines is 13>> <<set $line13 to passage()>> <<endif>>\n<<if $lines is 14>> <<set $line14 to passage()>> <<endif>><<endnobr>>\n<<endnobr>>

<<if $lines lt 14>>\s\nWhere would you like to continue your poem?\n\n[[The living room.|living room]]\s\n<<if $hallway is 1>> [[The hallway.|hallway]]<<endif>>\s\n<<if $bathroom is 1>> [[The bathroom.|bathroom]]<<endif>>\s\n<<if $kitchen is 1>> [[The kitchen.|kitchen]]<<endif>>\s\n<<if $pantry is 1>> [[The pantry.|pantry]]<<endif>>\s\n<<if $back is 1>> [[The back path.|back path]]<<endif>>\s\n<<if $basement is 1>> [[The basement.|basement]]<<endif>>\s\n<<if $bedroom is 1>> [[The upstairs bedroom.|upstairs bedroom]]<<endif>>\s\n<<if $desktop is 1>> [[The desktop computer.|desktop computer]]<<endif>>\s\n<<else>><<display "living room">><<endif>>

Using your right ring finger, you find a page and commit to it.\n\nYou are on page forty-four. Which line do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[UNDERWATER FLOWER]]\n\n[[Underwater Flower]]\n[[put your Thumbelina there]]\n[[where her winter of damage]]\n[[is dressed in chronic crap rags]]\n[[(underground with a mole man)]]\n[[ Teach your daughters]]\n[[the mad man stance]]\n[[Add accessories carry bath salts.]]

You take some time to learn more about hazelnuts.\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[HAZELNUT]]\n[[(Corylus Avellana)]]\n[[Found: North America]]\n[[Nut: the nut can be eaten raw or mixed into salads, etc.]]\n[[Do not pack them in plastic bags as they have to breathe]]\n[[during storage. They contain up to 60% fatty oils,]]\n[[plus proteins, sugars, and vitamins.]]\n[[Leaf: as a tea it has diuretic properties.]]\n[[Externally has been used in a bath to treat slow healing wounds.]]

<<if ($lines is 0) or ($line1 is 0)>> You haven't written anything yet! \n<<else>>\s\nYou refresh yourself on what you've written so far:\n\n''<<if $poemtitle is 0>> - - - - - - - - <<else>> <<print $poemtitle>><<endif>>''\n\n<<if $line1 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 0>> <<print $line1>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line2 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 1>> <<print $line2>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line3 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 2>> <<print $line3>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line4 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 3>> <<print $line4>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line5 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 4>> <<print $line5>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line6 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 5>> <<print $line6>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line7 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 6>> <<print $line7>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line8 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 7>> <<print $line8>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line9 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 8>> <<print $line9>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line10 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 9>> <<print $line10>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line11 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 10>> <<print $line11>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line12 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 11>> <<print $line12>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line13 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 12>> <<print $line13>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line14 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 13>> <<print $line14>> <<endif>>\n\n'' - - - - - - - -''\n<<endif>>\n\n<<if ($lines gt 2) and ($lines lt 10)>>''Your poem is starting to come together.''<<else if ($lines gte 10) and ($lines lt 13)>>''Your poem is nearly finished.''<<endif>> <<if ($lines is 13)>> ''One more line left.''<<endif>>\n\n<<if ($lines is 0)>> <<else>>[[I think I'm done.|Check poem status]]<<endif>>\n\n<<if previous() is "Credits">>[[Continue writing.|living room]]<<else>>[[Continue writing.|previous()]] <<endif>>

You read the fifty-first experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Chronology:]] [[Make up a list of dates with associated events, real or imagined.]]

You read the sixty-fourth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Diachronicity:]] [[Write a poem in which all the events occur in different places and at different times.]]

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\n<<set $animorphs to 1>>\s\nHow could you not be intrigued by a title like this one?\n\nYou move the cursor to click on the fourth tab from the left. You’re immediately greeted by a barebones, archaically designed webpage hosted by the University of Pennsylvania. It looks as if it was designed with only basic HTML functionality—aside from two gray boxes against a plain white background (one short, dark gray box at the top and one incredibly long, light gray box that extends far beyond the bottom of the page), there’s nothing else on the page. This is clearly space that hasn’t been updated in quite some time, as the top of the screen displays a navigational bar of broken links, each accompanied by a little symbol of a piece of paper torn in half.\n\nThe first box simply displays the name of the page’s author: ''Charles Bernstein.'' You recognize the name from an anthology of contemporary American poetry that you flipped through a few years ago, the last time you stopped by one of those just-off-campus university bookstores filled with well-used textbooks. You remember that one of the pages in that anthology, not so far from Bernstein’s section, started with an all-caps word: “LANGUAGE.” \n\nNow that you think about it some more… wasn’t there something strange about that word, grammatically speaking? Swarms of unexpected equals signs flit through your memory and squeeze themselves between each letter.\n\n“L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E” flashes in your mind. Hm.\n\n…\n\nThe second, longer box is crammed full of black text interspersed with the occasional bright blue hyperlinks. Reading for a little bit, you recognize an instructional tone, one not unlike the kind of half-formal/half-playful directions you might receive in a creative writing workshop. These are poetry writing prompts. And there are a LOT of them:\n\n<blockquote>\s\n[[1. Homolinguistic translation]]\n[[2. He Do the Police in Voices: Dialect & Idiolect]]\n[[3. Homophonic translation]]\n[[4. Bird song homophonics]]\n[[5. Lexical translation]]\n[[6. Try a variant of these four translation exercises…]]\n[[7. Do multiple translations…]]\n[[8. Misheard]]\n[[9. Acrostic chance]]\n[[10. Tzara’s Hat]]\n[[11. Burroughs’s fold-in]]\n[[12. General cut-ups]]\n[[13. Cento]]\n[[14. Serial sentences]]\n[[15. Substitution - 1 ]]\n[[16. Substitution - 2]]\n[[17. Substitution - 3]]\n[[18. Alphabet poems]]\n[[19. Alliteration (assonance)]]\n[[20. Recombination - 1]]\n[[21. Recombination - 2]]\n[[22. Collaboration]]\n[[23. Group sonnet]]\n[[24. Collaborative Surrealist Language Event - I]]\n[[25. Collaborative Surrealist Language Event - II]]\n[[26. Chinese Whispers (a.k.a. telephone)]]\n[[27. This experiment intentionally left blank.]]\n[[28. Modified Exquisite Corpse]]\n[[29. Write a poem in which you…]]\n[[30. Autopilot]]\n[[31. Dream work]]\n[[32. Write a poem made up of…]]\n[[33. Write a poem with each line…]]\n[[34. Write a poem consisting entirely…]]\n[[35. Take same sentence or stanza and cast…]]\n[[36. Write a poem consisting entirely…]]\n[[37. Nonliterary forms]]\n[[38. Imitation]]\n[[39. Write a poem without…]]\n[[40. Write a poem focusing on…]]\n[[41. Backwards]]\n[[42. Write an autobiographical poem…]]\n[[43. Attention]]\n[[44. Brainard’s Memory]]\n[[45. “Pits”]]\n[[46. Counting]]\n[[47. Write a poem just…]]\n[[48. Removed for further study]]\n[[49. List poem 1]]\n[[50. List poem 2]]\n[[51. Chronology]]\n[[52. Transcription]]\n[[53. Canceling]]\n[[54. Erasure]]\n[[55. Write a series of ten…]]\n[[56. Write a poem composed…]]\n[[57. Write a poem made up…]]\n[[58. Write a poem consisting only of opening lines…]]\n[[59. Write a poem consisting only of prepositions…]]\n[[60. Write a series of eight-word…]]\n[[61. Write a poem consisting of one-word…]]\n[[62. Pick 20 words…]]\n[[63. Synchronicity]]\n[[64. Diachronicity]]\n[[65. Anagrammatica]]\n[[66. Visual poetry]]\n[[67. Write a series of stanzas…]]\n[[68. Elimination]]\n[[69. Excuses list]]\n[[70. Spring Diary]]\n[[71. “Walking on Colors”]]\n[[72. Improvisation]]\n[[73. Negation/Opposites]]\n[[74. No longer available!]]\n[[75. Google poem, based on M. Silem Mohammad’s Deer Head Nation]]\n[[76. FLARF]]\n[[77. See also: The Apostrophe Engine]]\n[[78. Data mining]]\n[[79. Use the Googlism engine…]]\n[[80. Multilingual poem]]\n[[81. Pick several images…]]\n[[82. Graphic design 101.1]]\n[[83. Digital poems]]\n[[84. Lineups]]\n[[85. Take a poem, first another’s…]]\n[[86. From Stacy Doris]]\n[[87. Christian Bök’s lipogram…]]\n[[88. Proliferating styles]]\n[[89. Variations on a phrase]]\n[[90. Take phrases from…]]\n[[91. Modular poems]]\n[[92. Use any of these experiments…]]\n[[93. Use the “Meaning Eater” engine…]]\n[[94. Use a sound editor…]]\n[[95. Make a poem composed…]]\n[[96. Make up more experiments.]]\n</blockquote>\s\n\nYou finally scroll all the way until the end of the page (//phew//), where you find [[a few more attribution notes.]]\n

You read the eighty-ninth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Variations on a phrase.]] [[Take a common phrase and create as many variations as possible,]] [[as in Erasmus's version of "Your letter pleased me greatly" in De Copia.]]

You read the fourth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Bird song homophonics:]] [[Listen to a birdsong and transcribe what you hear]] [[in English words or alphaetic transcriptions.]] [[Large library of birdsongs here;]] [[additional audio here.]] [[For example, "chimp chimp" for the winter wren.]] [[See John Bevins, aaaaw to zzzzd: The Word of Birds (Cambridge, MA: M.I.T Press, 2010).]]

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nNow that you've dragged the webpage to the forefront of the screen, you see that its design is relatively simple. There's a thin purple bar at the top of the page, below which are several dropdown menus in a light, off-white color: "Browse," "Just In," "Community," "Forum," and "Betas."\n\nYou know where you are now. You haven't seen a page like this in years, but here it is, still thriving.\n\nIn the top left corner of the page, the website's name is displayed in a simple, sans-serif font: ''FanFiction.net | unleash your imagination''. \n\nYou assess the particular piece of fanfiction on the screen and take some time to read through the story's description:\n\n\n<blockquote>Books > Animorphs ''Tobias's Christmas'' By: Mimi-dudette The Animorphs try to take a break from fighting to Celebrate Christmas But Tobias is finding it hard to celebrate when the Hawk becomes over-powering and boy is isolated. Two-shot, First time writing Animorphs, Please read and reveiw! Tobias/Rachel Rated: Fiction K - English - Family/Romance - Tobias, Rachel - Chapters: 2 - Words: 9,533 - Reviews: 46 - Favs: 39 - Follows: 12 - Updated: Oct 12, 2008 - Published: Sep 29, 2008 - Status: Complete - id: 4566464 Yeah, I totally suck at titles, XD I'm having a total mental block on my other story so I decided to start this two-shot to get those creative juices flowing again. It's my first time writing Animorphs so I hope it's OK! Please R and R! Disclaimer: I own diddly squat.</blockquote>\n\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n''[[Tobias]]''\n\n[[My name is Tobias.]]\n\n[[If you ask a casual birdwatcher, they'd explain that I'm a red-tailed hawk, or buteo jamaicensis.]]\n\n[[If you ask Rachel, she'd insist that I'm a human.]]\n\n[[If you ask Ax, he'd inform you that I'm a northit.]]\n\n[[Or, if by some strange Ellimist-like power,]] [[you managed to talk to Elfangor the Andalite war prince,]] [[he'd say that I'm his only son.]]\n\n[[I just stick with 'freak of nature'.]]\n\n[[I spread my wings wide, trying to catch any evening thermals]] [[but pretty much failing.]] [[Stupid dead air...]] [[I sulked, though to be honest, the air was anything but dead.]]\n\n[[The wind whipped around me, trying to shove me in the opposite direction one second,]] [[then down to the ground the next.]] [[The air was full of heavy moisture and low flying clouds]] [[slightly impaired my laser-sharp vision.]] [[I swear I even heard thunder boom from the direction of the mountains.]]\n\n[[All in all, it was a day that would send any normal hawk scuttling back to their tree.]]\n\n[[But, as I may have mentioned, I'm not a normal hawk.]]\n\n[[Did I mention that I'm also trying to stop an alien invasion?]]\n\n[[Go figure.]]\n\n[[I tried to ignore my starving belly]] [[as I flapped and struggled my way to Cassie's barn]] [[to meet the other Animorphs;]] [[Prey had been non-existent today as warnings in the air of the storm]] [[had come early enough to keep half my food hiding;]] [[the other half was hibernating.]] [[Then again, I hadn't eaten the day before, or even the day before that.]] [[I could ask one of my friends for some food, as any of them would be happy to oblige,]] [[but one thing held me back; pride.]]\n\n[[I'm a hawk.]]\n\n\n...that's the end of what's visible on the page.

You read the fifty-seventh experiment prompt. It's only a single line, so you don't have much of a choice here. Looks like you're adding this language to your poem:\n\n\n\n[[Write a poem made up entirely of directions.]]

You open the stove by unfolding the flame guard's metal flaps. You catch a faint chemical whiff of lingering butane before it drifts away.\n\nTwo shriveled macaroni noodles fall out as you move the stove.\n\nYou find a small [[postcard]] tucked within, its bottom-right corner torn off. The paper is smudged with grime from the stove's innards. It looks like it might have accidentally fallen in here while unpacking from an old camping trip.\n\nOther than that, there's not much else to see.\n\n\nInvestigate the other [[shelves|metal shelves]]?

CentoQuest

You take some time to learn more about Iceland Moss.\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[ICELAND MOSS]]\n[[(Cetraria Islandica)]]\n[[Found: Northern United States up to Alaska]]\n[[and Northern Canada]]\n[[It is a lichen and not a moss]]\n[[Moss: this is an edible lichen that is a multifaceted food.]]\n[[To prepare the Iceland Moss it should be soaked in two changes]]\n[[of water and then dried. The soaking removes the bitter tasting]]\n[[organic acid.]] [[After drying crush the lichen into a powder.]]\n[[This powder can be stored in a dry dark location]]\n[[and used as required.]] [[When gently boiled and cooked]]\n[[it makes a nutritious jelly.]]\n[[An excellent and easily obtainable survival food.]]

You click on the third entry from the top of the list.\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[• Updates:]]\n   [[◦ Added a range of new source texts to discover and incorporate into your own poetry.]]\n      [[▪ (Have you considered helping your host clean up? It's polite!)]]\n      [[▪ (There might be some EDIBLE PLANTS downstairs???)]]\n      [[▪ (Get your hands dirty.)]]\n   [[◦ Fixed a number of spacing issues that stemmed from old coding mistakes.]]\n   [[◦ Light textual edits for tone.]]\n\n[[• Overall note:]]\n   [[◦ I've thoroughly enjoyed puttering with this project for the past three years.]] [[(Three years? Three YEARS?)]] [[This whole game originally started out]] [[as simply a way to sidestep a frustrating bout of writer's block]] [[during my MFA years.]] [[Over time it became a real pleasure of a side-project,]] [[something that's provided me with much earnest curiosity and glee]] [[as I've learned/bumbled my way around]] [[a long-outdated copy of Twine 1. ]]\n   [[◦ It's not quite finished yet, but it's getting close. ]]

You scroll down to the seventh comment. It was posted by the username "robbercarry."\n\nWhich line do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[His father sits him down and recommends an anchor tattoo. ]]\n[[concomitant gaps, tie-offs and recommencements ]]\n[[or parchment paper is fine ]]\n[[I'm sorry I don't have more on hand ]]\n[[The coffee that's ]]\n[[drowned in the wake of our passing ]]\n[[Someone boiling a pot of water ]]\n[[without the expensive airfare, ]]\n[[Low in calories ]]\n[[The arc of stars ]]\n[[each in its different way an encounter with life's unresolved questions and mysteries, ]]\n[[not yet. ]]\n[[behold it well! ]]\n[[Keep your eyes on your beautiful dream. ]]

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\n\s\nYou give the book’s cover a closer inspection and still don’t learn anything – there’s no text whatsoever on the covers or spine, only the same repeating pattern of colored rectangles. You spend some time tracing the pattern. Small, thin rectangles are arranged in groupings of three, resembling tri-color flags. In turn, these groupings are arranged at right angles to one another, crossing diagonally across the cover from left to right, filling the entire frame. The majority of the flag-like groupings are made of light blue, cream, and soft pink rectangles, respectively. However, interspersed equally along diagonal lines are a smaller number of groupings in dark blue, yellow, and orange. The whole thing has a patchwork quilt vibe to it.\n\nStill, no title. No name. So you open the book.\n\nThe inner pages answer your question in a serifed font, printed in concentrated black and red ink. The letters are printed so densely that they even shine a bit in the light, almost as if they were still wet on the page, fresh off the press.\n\nThe black text reads:\n''PARTS OF SPEECH''\n\nThe red text reads:\n''KYLE SCHLESINGER''\n\nAt the very end of the page:\n''CHAX PRESS / 2014.''\n(The letters in black, the backslash in red.)\n\n\nHow do you open this book?\n\n[[I’ll never tell…|schlesinger1]]\n\n[[Perpendicularly.|schlesinger2]]\n\n[[With a 90-degree rotation.|schlesinger3]]

You take a moment to get your bearings.\n\nThe living room is comfortably sized--four to six people could probably relax in here with plenty of space. \n\nFurther along the nearest wall, you see a light red couch with soft-looking fabric. The middle of each cushion is well-worn but clean. You notice a faint pattern of parallel lines in the cushions' fabric, as if someone recently brushed the material with their hands.\n\nIn front of the couch there's a wooden coffee table with just enough room for someone to easily prop their feet. This, too, has been wiped clean, but you can tell nobody in the house uses a coaster. You see a few little dark rings interspersed on its surface, and two of them, you notice, intersect to form a splotchy Venn diagram. \n\nA small stack of clean, rectangular paper rests invitingly on the table--perforated notebook pages that have been carefully torn from their binding.\n\nAt the end of the same wall you notice an open doorway, beyond which you see a sliver of a [[kitchen]] counter. A bready, cinnamon smell wafts from its direction.\n\nThere is a [[hallway]] directly across the room from the couch. \n\nAnd, of course, there's the [[pile of books]] in the middle of the room, beckoning to you from the floor.\n\nYou feel like you could really hang out in here for a while.

How do you title your poem?\n\n<<textinput $poemtitle "[[Add title|Check poem status]]">>\n\n\n<<if ($lines is 0) or ($line1 is 0)>> You haven't written anything yet! \n<<else>>\s\n<<if $line1 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 0>> <<print $line1>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line2 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 1>> <<print $line2>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line3 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 2>> <<print $line3>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line4 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 3>> <<print $line4>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line5 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 4>> <<print $line5>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line6 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 5>> <<print $line6>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line7 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 6>> <<print $line7>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line8 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 7>> <<print $line8>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line9 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 8>> <<print $line9>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line10 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 9>> <<print $line10>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line11 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 10>> <<print $line11>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line12 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 11>> <<print $line12>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line13 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 12>> <<print $line13>> <<endif>>\n<<if $line14 is 0>> <<elseif $lines gt 13>> <<print $line14>> <<endif>>\n<<endif>>\s\n\n\n<<if $lines lt 14>>...on second thought, [[I'm not done writing my poem|living room]]<<endif>>

You read the sixty-third experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Synchronicity:]] [[Write a poem in which all the events occur simultaneously.]]

<<if $slam is 4>> <<display "I slam the door a fifth time.">> <<else>>\s\n<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $slam to ($slam + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\n\s\nYou slam the door a fourth time. Nada.\n\nRubbing your increasingly sore shoulder, you think about all the ways in which you might otherwise spend your time. There's all of the other rooms you've visited. Those were nice rooms, weren't they? Full of books of poetry. Snacks. Generously unlocked doors. Perfectly good rooms, those rooms. Very welcoming.\n\nYou think about the cento that you were ostensibly writing until this moment. Aren't there plenty of other books to investigate for source material?\n\nYou think about your host, who would likely have a gently-phrased objection to your current actions.\n\n...\n\nThen again, doesn't it seem like this goddamn door is taunting you?\n\n\n[[I try the knob again.]]\n\n[[I knock politely.]]\n\n[[I slam the door a fifth time.]]\n\n\nReturn to the [[hallway]]?\n<<endif>>

Your finger just-barely catches on a page, like a trick playing card. You open Dickinson's book to page four hundred and eighty-nine. Which line do you add to your poem?\n\n[[These are the rites of Nature's House --]]\n[[The Hospitality]]\n[[That opens with an equal width]]\n[[To Beggar and to Bee]]\n\n[[For Sureties of her staunch Estate]]\n[[Her undecaying Cheer]]\n[[The Purple in the East is set]]\n[[And in the North, the Star --]]\nc. 1866\n\n\n\t\t\t\t1078\n[[The Bustle in a House]]\n[[The Morning after Death]]\n[[Is solemnest of industries]]\n[[Enacted upon Earth --]]\n\n[[The Sweeping up the Heart]]\n[[And putting Love away]]\n[[We shall not want to use again]]\n[[Until Eternity.]]\nc. 1866\n\n\n\t\t\t\t1079\n[[The Sun went down -- no Man looked on --]]\n[[The Earth and I, alone,]]\n[[Were present at the Majesty --]]\n[[He triumphed, and went on --]]\n\n[[The Sun went up -- no Man looked on --]]\n[[The Earth and I and One]]\n[[A nameless Bird -- a Stranger]]\n[[Were Witness for the Crown --]]\nc. 1866\n\n\n\t\t\t\t1080\n[[When they come back -- if Blossoms do --]]\n[[I always feel a doubt]]

You open the book with an unknowable technique. To maintain maximum secrecy, I don’t even watch you do it.\n\nLooks like you’ve reached page fifty-two, somehow or other.\n\n\nWhich line do you add to your poem?\n\n[[Round the bend]]\n[[Ratchet it up]]\n[[In and out]]\n\n[[Like that]]\n[[Hours mirror]]\n[[Hours]]\n\n[[Keep passing]]\n[[Window blink]]\n[[Bon voyage]]\n\n[[Everything moves]]\n[[At a clip]]\n[[Brink purple]]\n\n[[Church nest]]\n[[Sheep all]]\n[[The things]]\n\n[[We do]]\n[[All day]]\n[[All things]]\n\n[[You can’t play]]\n[[By yourself]]\n[[Body breath]]

You rotate the book counterclockwise in your hands, shifting the cover from portrait to landscape format in your eyes. The book now opens from the top, its spine resting in your palms. You peel the pages toward you, like a banana.\n\nYou’ve peeled the book open to page twenty-four. You start to read the poem, but it’s all wonky.\n\nOh, that’s right. You still need to rotate it back to the correct orientation. You do so.\n\n\nWhich line do you add to your poem?\n\n[[FIRST PERSON]]\n//[[for Anna]]//\n\n[[Cronies love hoodies]]\n[[Vicodin blue afternoon]]\n[[Televised suffice to]]\n[[Say you know tomorrow’s]]\n[[Gonna be another day]]\n[[Mishap with friends]]\n[[Like that the riot act]]\n[[Tangerine dream just]]\n[[Kidding this shit’s]]\n[[Amazing beg to differ]]\n[[Be the wiser soul]]\n[[Searching sounds fishy]]\n[[Wish me well until we]]\n[[Meet again send my]]\n[[Regards to yesterday’s]]\n[[News like nobody’s]]\n[[Business that aside]]\n[[Six of one so many]]\n[[Words all in your head]]

You tilt the book away from you so that the pages’ bottom edges face you. The cover art disappears completely from your field of view. Using your pointer and middle finger, you prop up a few of the pages and tilt the book back towards you to see what you’ve found.\n\nYou’ve opened the book to page sixty-nine.\n\n\nWhich line do you add to your poem?\n\n[[LOST WALL]]\n\n[[I feel responsible]]\n[[In my pajamas]]\n\n[[I’ll never ever]]\n[[Wear pajamas again]]

You reach to the left, pinch a middle fold of the trash bag's knot with your thumb and middle finger, and tug gently. Like a docile snake uncoiling, the plastic knot unfurls as you pull, slowly revealing the bag's contents. Luckily for you, it seems like the top half of the bag is mostly dry materials. \n\nSifting around gently, you notice a [[greasy noodle container]] pinched between the halves of a broken curtain rod. Tucked further in, there's [[a few crumpled papers]] of varying textures mingling with curled, dried fronds of a long-dead houseplant. A [[glass jar]] coated with singed yellow-black wax jostles out of the mass.\n\nAs the trash bag gapes further, you catch a whiff of various scents--none of them overpower you, but they're not pleasant either. Spent cooking oil, sharp onion, soured tomato, curdled mozzarella... You're no detective, but you're pretty confident there's a spoiled pizza deeper down.

You open the collection to page one hundred and ninety-seven, which begins partway through a poem by Takahashi Shinkichi titled "Beach rainbow." Which line do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Not hearing the noise of the thundering waves,]]\n[[The shell lies down lightly.]]\n\n[[Some day, this beach too --]]\n[[The earth's crust shifting -- may turn into fields]]\n[[Or perhaps into the floor of the sea.]]\n\n[[The shell does not worry about the far future,]]\n[[Does not covet the form of the clouds drifting in the sky,]]\n[[Does not pine after its lost body parted by death.]]\n\n[[Idly, not sobbing, not scurrying,]]\n[[Resigned to the march of nature,]]\n[[Without anguish, quietly drifting.]]\n\n[[In a typhoon, bending its ear to the din:]]\n[[Baked on the sand in the burning sun:]]\n[[Picked up by a man in a daydream:]]\n[[Turned into a button, even. Unconcerned.]]\n\n[[Sea shell,]]\n[[Beach rainbow,]]\n[[Keep your eyes on your beautiful dream.]]\n\n\n\n//Birth//\n\n[[Did my hand ever touch your hair?]]\n[[Did my fingers ever feel your soft skin?]]\n\n[[Always between us a winter frost descended,]]\n[[A summer haze drifted, didn't it?]]\n\n[[Yet your belly, swollen with child,]]\n[[Twitches and jumps with the quickening.]]\n\n[[We slept between the same sheets, yet]]\n[[I don't know who you are.]]\n[[The child you will bear could be you]]\n[[Or it might well be me.]]\n\n[[And you, as well, don't know who I am.]]

Glancing through some of the loose papers on the workbench, you find a rectangular drawing of a raised bed with scribbled measurements for its dimensions: "3 ft x 12 ft x 10 ft."\n\n[[I open the book to page three.]]\n\n[[I open the book to page twelve.]]\n\n[[I open the book to page ten.]]

You open the collection to page ninety-three. Which line do you add to your poem?\n\n\n\nTAIRA TADANORI\n\n[[The capital at Shiga--]]\n[[Shiga of the rippling waves--]]\n[[Lies now in ruins:]]\n[[The mountain cherries]]\n[[Stay as before.]]\n\n[[Overtaken by the dark,]]\n[[The shade beneath a tree]]\n[[I make my inn;]]\n[[And tonight my host]]\n[[Shall be a flower.]]\n\n\n\nPRIEST SHUNE\n\n[[With the spring, now]]\n[[They huddle in the mist,]]\n[[The hills of Awaji,]]\n[[Seen over the waves]]\n[[Till yesterday.]]\n\n\n\nPRIEST SAIGYO\n\n[[Trailing on the wind,]]\n[[The smoke from Mount Fuji]]\n[[Melts into the sky.]]\n[[So too my thoughts--]]\n[[Unknown their resting-place.]]

You are on page twenty-four. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[MACARTHUR]]   [[Say farewell to sympathy.]] [[How much will it take to]]\n            [[make you a genius?]]\n[[MAGAZINES, SMALL]]   [[All fold the moment they accept subscription money.]]\n            [[Call them “Independent,” small is a value judgment.]]\n            [[Publish in them “on principle” but decry the typos and bad]]\n            [[reproduction: “They’ve ruined my poem!”]]\n[[MAINSTREAM]]   [[Perennial antagonist of the avant-garde.]] [[Hoards all]]\n            [[the funding.]] [[Alternately, contest the idea that there is a mainstream:]]\n            [[“There are only niches now.”]]\n[[MAKE IT NEW]]   [[Once thought important.]] [[Prefer “sampling.”]]\n[[MAKERS]]   [[Lament for them.]]\n[[MALLARMÉ]]   [[Un Coup de dés.]] [[Defended the book in the era of newsprint.]]\n            [[Compare any reading group to his Tuesday evening]]\n            [[“at homes.”]] [[Has no first name.]] [[Something about Fauns.]]\n[[MANIFESTO]]   [[Calling card of all avant-garde movements.]] [[Its gender]]\n            [[politics can be deduced from the first syllable.]] [[Acquaint yourself]]\n            [[with the various Futurist, Dadaist, and Surrealist manifestos,]]\n            [[but also search out some rarities:]] [[Loy’s Psychodemocracy,]]\n            [[Kaufman’s Abomumist and Spicer’s Unvert manifesto, for example.]]\n            [[“The era of manifestos has passed.”]]\n[[MAP]]   [[“The map is not the territory.”]] [[Persuade yourself that you are]]\n            [[drawing “a new map for poetry.”]]\n[[MARGIN]]   [[Where the action is.]] [[More exciting than the text itself.]]\n            [[Conflate textual with social margins.]]\n[[MARGINALIA]]   [[Treasure trove of hidden meanings.]] [[Indispensable for fetishists.]]\n            [[Annotate the margins of your own books with an eye]]\n            [[to your future fame.]]\n[[MARGINALITY]]   [[What used to be called poverty.]] [[Embrace it as a sign]]\n            [[of authenticity.]]\n[[MARGINALIZATION OF POETRY]]   [[Mainstream poets discuss the same]]\n            [[problem but refer to it as “the death of poetry.”]]\n[[MARKET]]   [[“Movements are just marketing devices.”]] [[Obsess about]]\n            [[the academic job market.]]\n[[MARRIED]]   [[Downplay or hide the fact that you are.]] [[(See ARTS COLONY)]]\n[[MARTYR]]   [[Synonym for poet.]]\n[[MATERIAL]]   [[With signifier, text.]]\n[[MATERIALISM]]   [[Always “vulgar.”]] [[Sometimes “crass.”]] [[Prefer to “Idealism.”]]\n[[MAUDIT]]   [[Convince yourself that rude and drunken behavior]]\n            [[makes you a “poète maudit.”]]\n

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\n\nYou pick up the bottle of squeezable mayonnaise. \n\n...\n\nIt's mayonnaise... that you can squeeze.\n\nEnraptured from holding a miracle of modernity in your very hands, you take some time to read the bottle's side label. You must learn more about this product!\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[EXCELLENT SOURCE OF OMEGA 3 ALA]]\n\n[[CONTAINS 720mg ALA PER SERVING]]\n[[WHICH IS 45% OF THE 1.6g DAILY VALUE]]\n[[SEE NUTRITION INFORMATION]]\n[[FOR FAT AND SATURATED]]\n[[FAT CONTENT]]\n\n[[WE ARE COMMITTED TO]]\n[[SOURCING OILS RESPONSIBLY]]\n\n[[MADE WITH CAGE FREE EGGS]]\n\n[[GLUTEN FREE]]\n\n\n[[KNOWN AS BEST FOODS]]\n[[WEST OF THE ROCKIES]]\n[[Learn more at Hellmanns.com]]

You read the sixty-seventh experimental prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Anagrammatica:]] [[Recombine an existing work via anagrams, or otherwise make a work driven by annagrams.]] [[See, for example.]] [[K. Silem Mohammad's anagrams of Shakespeare's sonnets.]] [[Use an anagram engine (or this).]]

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nThis mug. You know this mug.\n\nWhenever a poor soul on this planet earns an English degree, one of these mugs earns its wings.\n\nWhenever a poet receives a holiday gift from a disinterested second cousin, this mug materializes.\n\nWhenever a young actor, bemusedly reading //The Winter's Tale// for the first time, chuckles at ''"EXIT, PURSUED BY BEAR"'', this mug, the mug you see before you, the mug that holds some dark, murky coffee... it hounds the call. It comes to be.\n\nIt is the ur-mug. The mug of all-language. The mug that has been and will be, forever more, ever enduring. And now you hold its heft in your hand, simply as that.\n\n\n''The Shakespearean Insult Mug.''\n\n\nVarious sizes and shapes of typography are jam-packed onto every inch of the mug's soft white background, printed in dark blue, burnt orange, lime green, maroon. There's bold. There's italics. There's swirly curlicues. The designers, in order to fit even more lines on the mug, have printed several of the insults vertically. There's almost zero white space. It's visual-design chaos. But you already knew this. You've long known this.\n\nThere's a little green block print of Bill The Bard himself. His eyebrows have been digitally altered into a furrow. On the opposite side, you see a similar kind of illustration in orange, this time of two men clad in Elizabethan finery flinging their swords at one another.\n\nYou see it here, today. How soon before this mug rears its head in your life once more? Weeks? Days? Hours?\n\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[O GULL, O DOLT, AS IGNORANT AS DIRT]]\n[[Clod of wayward marl]]\n[[FALSE OF HEART,]] [[LIGHT OF EAR,]] [[BLOODY OF HAND]]\n[[INFINITE AND ENDLESS LIAR,]] [[AN HOURLY PROMISE-BREAKER]]\n[[lewdly inclin'd]]\n[[anointed sovereign of sighs and groans]]\n[[mountain of mad flesh]]\n[[light of brain]]\n[[YOU RAMPALLIAN!]]\n[[YOU FUSTILARIAN!]]\n[[FOOT-LICKER]]\n[[quintessence of dust]]\n[[BOLTING-HUTCH OF BEASTLINESS]]\n[[NOT SO MUCH BRAIN AS EAR WAX]]\n[[long-tongu'd babbling gossip]]\n[[canker-blossom]]\n[[THOU ART A BOIL,]] [[A PLAGUE SORE]]\n[[POISONOUS BUNCH-BACK'D TOAD]]\n[[FUSTY NUT WITH NO KERNEL]]\n[[lump of foul deformity]]\n[[highly fed and lowly taught]]\n[[all eyes and no sight]]\n[[ALL THE INFECTIONS THAT THE SUN SUCKS UP]]\n[[ELVISH-MARK'D ABORTIVE, ROOTING HOG]]\n[[Veriest varlet that ever chewed with a tooth]]\n[[I DO DESIRE WE MAY BE BETTER STRANGERS]]

<<display "living room">>

You open Ammons's book to page thirty-one. Which line do you add to your poem?\n\n[[crippled aluminium lawn chairs, lemon crates]]\n[[with busted slats or hinges, strollers with]]\n\n[[whacking or spinningly idle wheels: stub ends]]\n[[of hotdogs: clumps go out; rain sulls deep]]\n\n[[coals; wind slams flickers so flat they lose]]\n[[the upstanding of updraft and stifle to white]]\n\n[[lingo--but oh, oh, in a sense, and in an]]\n[[intention, the burning's forever, O eternal]]\n\n[[flame, principle of the universe, without which]]\n[[mere heaviness and gray rust prevail: dance]]\n\n[[peopling the centers and distances, the faraway]]\n[[galactic slurs even, luminescences, plasmas,]]\n\n[[those burns, the same principle: but here on]]\n[[the heights, terns and flies avoid the closest]]\n\n[[precincts of flame, the terrifying transformations,]]\n[[the disappearances of anything of interest,]]\n\n[[morsel, gobbet, trace of maple syrop, fat]]\n[[worm: addling intensity at the center]]\n\n[[where only special clothes and designated]]\n[[offices allay the risk, the pure center: but]]\n\n[[down, down on the lowest appropinquations, the]]\n[[laborsome, loaded vessels whine like sails in]]

You read the seventieth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?'\n\n\n[[Sprung Diary:]] [[Write a diary tracking and intercutting multiple levels of thoughts, experiences, anticipations, expectations, from minute to major.]] [[(Cf.. Hannah Weiner's Clairvoyant Journal.)]]

You read the tenth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Tzara's Hat:]] [[Everyone in a group writes down a word (alternative: phrase, line) and puts it in a hat.]] [[Poem is made according to the order in which it is randomly pulled from hat.]] [[(Solo: pick a series of words or lines from books, newspapers, magazines to put in the hat.)]] [[Cf.: a site for that randomizes: random.org (see below for more machines). ]]

Remembering that your host invited you to grab a snack, you head to the refrigerator. It's a standard two-door model, with the square freezer on top and the rectangular fridge below.\n\nDo you open the [[freezer]] or the [[fridge]]?\n\n[[On second thought, this feels a little rude.]]

With short breath, you take a moment to luxuriate in your surroundings. The soft, symmetrical tiles, the light scent of lavender mingling with a hint of toilet bowl cleaner, the pleasant drone of a hidden exhaust fan, the spotless sink (aside from a stray beard hair, balancing precariously on the edge of the basin's overflow protector.\n\nYou trace your fingers along the spine of Queneau's book and remark to yourself about the unexpectedly rough texture of its off-white texture. You don't know enough about bookbinding to name the material, but you wish you did. You imagine a roughly sanded eggshell. You imagine a shred of aspen bark.\n\nBefore opening the book, you first ensure that you've fully consulted the back cover for any necessary paratextual details. You note four blurbs on the back, written by Italo Calvino, Umberto Eco, //The Washington Post Book World//, and //The Chicago Sun-Times//. You ponder the invisible divide split between the first pairing and the second. You imagine purchasing the this book yourself for its original price: $15.95 (or $17.00 Canadian, should you be on a short sojourn to southern Ontario). Your host, for that matter, seems to have purchased it used--a steal at the new sticker price of $11.00 from a bookstore named "Biblioasis."\n\nFinally, you're ready to begin. You palm the spine gently with your right hand. Using your left thumb, you caress the pages apart, gently encouraging the leaves to separate from one another. A page here, a page there, you stop to graze from time to time. You note pages you'd like to return to later, ones that aren't quite right for your immediate exercise. A few jump out at you with wild and unexpected vocabulary, and you take plenty of time to reread them. Occasionally you even deign, surreptitiously, to look up an unfamiliar word on that black mirror you call a cell phone. \n\nThis goes on for quite some time. You pause, stroll back to the kitchen, get yourself a glass of water, and return to the bathroom refreshed. You could have taken the book with you, but that didn't seem right, for some reason. It belongs here. As do you.\n\nFinally, you steel yourself. You're prepared. You're ready. It's time to choose a page. After careful thought, debate, and introspection, you eventually decide on page one hundred and twenty-three. It's titled "Haiku." The H of Haiku is represented by a drawing of two figures riding a donkey--one straddles the donkey right below his neck while the other just barely perches on the donkey's haunches.\n\n\nWhat line do you add to your poem?\n\n[[Haiku]]\n\n[[Summer S long neck]]\n[[plait hat toes abuse retreat]]\n[[station button friend]]

You double-click the file in order to read--//let me remind you//--a private attachment sent in a private email to your host who, despite having unceremoniously fled out a second-story window, is in all likelihood baking you a snack in the kitchen at this very moment.\n\nAnyway.\n\nThe word document has three pages. Which do you read?\n\n[[I read the first page on the screen.|Carey1]]\n\n[[I scroll to the second page.|Carey2]]\n\n[[I scroll to the third page.|Carey3]]

You read the thirty-first experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Dream work:]] [[Write down your dreams as the first thing you do every morning for 30 days.]] [[Apply translation and aleatoric processes to this material.]] [[Double the length of each dream.]] [[Weave them together into one poem,]] [[adding or changing or reordering material.]] [[Negate or reverse all statements ("I went down the hill to "I went up the hill,"]] [["I didn't" to "I did").]] [[Borrow a friend's dreams and apply these techniques to them.]]

<<display "living room">>

You read the ninety-first experiment pronmpt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Modular poems.]] [[One example:]] [[Queneau's One Hundred Thousand Billion Poems]]

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nYou bend the curtain rod even futher, just enough to pry out the noodle container that was trapped in its clutches. The package slips out easily enough.\n\n//My hero!// you mumble, shaking the noodle container as if it's the worst puppet ever made.\n\n//I've been trapped in that deep, dark dungeon for centuries, abandoning all hope of rescue. Day after day, night after night, with nothing but the stench of my fellow prisoners to keep me company. I'd nearly forgotten the world out here, as it is.//\n\nA moldy noodle slips out of the container's innards and sticks between your knuckles.\n\n//But now... I'm free! Unshackled from my captivity, I shall rejoin the world in earnest grace. All thanks to you, my noble savior. Thank ye! Thank ye a thousand times!//\n\nCongratulations. This actually is the worst puppet ever made.\n\n...\n\nAfter you finish your scene, you turn the container over in your hands and find some copy written on the back.\n\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[Versatile, easy to cook and delicious with]]\n[[any sauce, rice noodles add that memorable]]\n[[Thai touch to any meal. With Thai Kitchen]]\n[[Stir-Fry Rice Noodles, you can now make]]\n[[authentic restaurant-style Thai dishes such as]]\n[[Pad Thai or steaming bowls of rice noodle]]\n[[soup. We use only the highest quality rice and]]\n[[traditional processing methods for our signature]]\n[[rice noodles--every batch is steam-cooked and]]\n[[slowly dried. The result is a noodle that is]]\n[[wheat-free, gluten-free and egg-free.]]\n[[Toss noodles with your favorite sauce, serve as a]]\n[[side dish with grilled chicken, or stir-fry with]]\n[[any meat or vegetable for a delicious all-in-one noodle meal!]]

You take some time to learn more about highbush cranberries.\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[HIGHBUSH CRANBERRY]]\n[[(Viburnum)]]\n[[Found: United States and Canada ]]\n[[Berries: are a very important survival food in the winter]]\n[[as they remain frozen on the branches.]] [[These berries can be]]\n[[eaten off the branch]] [[or cooked and eaten as a compote.]]\n[[They are very rich in vitamin C.]]\n

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\n<<set $animorphs to 1>>\s\nYou click on the sixth tab from the left in order to read your host's email, because you have absolutely no shame. Frankly, I'm no longer surprised at your actions.\n\nYour host's Gmail is open to an email thread. At 2:38 PM on July 19, 2024, they recieved the following message from someone named Robert Carey:\n\n\n//Merlin Brendo,\n\nAttached are a couple revisions of sonnets that were part of that sequence that I shared with you I guess last year maybe? But just didn't seem to fit.\n\nFeel free to use all three, just a couple, or none! And in whatever way makes the most sense with the quest. Sorry they're not recent per se, but recent business has been leaning more prose-y unfortunately. These seemed like better fits to the format.\n\nYours,\nMe//\n\n\nBelow the email, you see that there's an included attachment.\n\nThe Gmail preview suggests that it's a word document titled [["3 for Brendan.docx."]]

You do your best impression of airplane while opening the book.\n\n"brrrrrrrrrrrrrr...."\n"brrrrrrrrrrrrrr...."\n"tuckatuckatuckatuckatuckatucka"\n"BRRT"\n"tuckatuckatuckatucka"\n"vrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrRRRRRRRRRR-"\n"RRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWWWWWW"\n"WWWWRWWRWRWRWRRRRRRWRWRRRRRRRRrrrrrrrr"\n"rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrtuckatucka"\n"rrrrrrr......."\n\n...\n\nIt's a pretty good impression!\n\nAs the plane reaches cruising altitude, you open up the in-flight reading materials and find yourself on page fifteen.\n\nWhich line do you add to your poem?\n\n[[of what you said]]\n[[at the end:]]\n[["Love, forever."]]

You turn to face the basement's slim window, a rectangular gap crowded against the ceiling. From the angle of your subterranean perspective, you see tufts of grass framing the sky. In it, a small cloud drifts slowly. \n\nBeneath the window is a series metal shelves, their steel frame firmly bolted to the wall with diagonal supports. It looks like the metal was originally painted a light green but much of the color has chipped off by now -- you can only tell by the few paint flecks that remain along the shelves' sides. On one of the middle shelves, you see a [[slim, rectangular-patterned book]] sitting alone. Unlike its surroundings, the book's cover is entirely clean of dust.\n\nAlong with the various gardening and home repair supplies, you find some outdated camping gear. A couple of dark orange sleeping pads are rolled tight and bound with thin, leather straps. They look like they might burst and unfurl at any moment. Behind them, you see a pillowy cloth bag that you assume holds a stuffed-up sleeping bag or two.\n\nA single silver-blue tent pole juts from a hole in a wide, canvas sack. Further to the right, there's a wide-mouthed Mason jar containing a menagerie of mismatched tent stakes: you see a few bright yellow plastic hooks mixed with simple metal rods bent into rough L-shapes. \n\nYou also notice a [[rectangular camp stove]] with a dark green collapsible flame guard folded over the burners. Resting on top of the stove is a wide, grubby-white book: [[Camping & Wilderness Survival: The Ultimate Outdoors Book -- Paul Tawrell]].\n\n\nTurn back to the [[basement]]?

<<if $slam is 1>> <<display "I slam the door again.">> \s\n<<elseif $slam is 2>> <<display "I slam the door a third time.">>\s\n<<elseif $slam is 3>> <<display "I slam the door a fourth time.">>\s\n<<elseif $slam is 4>> <<display "I slam the door a fifth time.">>\s\n<<elseif $slam gt 4>> <<display "I slam the door a sixth time.">>\s\n<<else>>\s\n<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $slam to ($slam + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nThis door feels like it hasn't been opened in a while.\n\nYou consider the possibility that it may have swollen in its frame. Sometimes these things just need a little extra "oomph."\n\nKeeping the knob twisted with one hand, you slam into the door with your shoulder.\n\n... it's, uh, a //polite// slam. The kind of slam that a //polite guest// would do in their host's home.\n\n...\n\nNothing. It's still shut tight.\n\n\n[[I try the knob again.]]\n\n[[I knock politely.]]\n\n[[I slam the door again.]]\n\n\nReturn to the [[hallway]]?\n<<endif>>

[[Read your poem|Check poem status]]\n\n[[Restart game]]\n\n[[Credits]]

You read the sixty-ninth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Excuses list:]] [[Write a poem made up entirely of excuses.]] [[(Or: apologies.)]]

<<if $slam is 2>> <<display "I slam the door a third time.">> <<else>>\s\n<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $slam to ($slam + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\n\s\nKeeping your hand firmly on the handle, you shoulder-slam the door a second time with a little bit more force.\n\nThere's a little bit of give to the wood in the center of the door, but other than that you're still right where you started. Luckily for you--or rather, for your relationship with your host--there's no visible damage to the door.\n\n\n[[I try the knob again.]]\n\n[[I knock politely.]]\n\n[[I slam the door a third time.]]\n\n\nReturn to the [[hallway]]?\n<<endif>>

You read the nineteenth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Alliteration (assonance):]] [[Write a poem in which all the words in each line]] [[begin with the same letter.]]

You read the sixty-eighth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Elimination:]] [[Cut out the second half of sentences.]]

You read the fifteenth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Substitution (1):]] [["Mad libs."]] [[Take a poem (or other source text) and put blanks in place of three or four words in each line,]] [[noting the part of speech under each blank.]] [[Fill in the blanks being sure not to recall the original context.]] [[You can use a random part of speech generator (or the random word generator) for this.]]

You scroll down to the fourth comment. It was posted by the username "robbercarry."\n\nWhich line do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[We only use ]]\n[[(VERY IMPORTANT) ]]\n[[Her undecaying Cheer ]]\n[[BRENDAN, ]]

<<set $dickinson to 1>>\s\n<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nEven from a distance, you recognize this hefty tome: the maroon outline of Dickinson's side profile against a deep violet background, the cream-colored font on the cover, the swirl of Dickinson's collar like a quill's flourish, or a half-unraveled fiddlehead. It's surprisingly light for its size, owing to its shaved-thin pages. Flipping through it, you see the messy annotations of a dozen different //Intro to Poetry// students from over the past few decades. Dog-eared pages, a weathered spine -- this book has moved through many, many hands. \n\nBut now, it's here, with you.\n\n\nHow do you open this book?\n\n[[As quickly as possible, before I have time to think about it.]]\n\n[[I run my index finger along the book's top right corner, stopping at the most deeply folded page.]]

<<if $lines gte 14>><<display "living room">><<else>>\s\n<<set $hallway to 1>>\s\n<<if previous() is "bathroom">>You step back into the hallway.<<else if previous() is "set of stairs">>You descend back into the hallway.<<else if previous() is "I knock on the door.">>You descend back into the hallway.<<else if previous() is "basement">>You climb the stairs back into the hallway.<<else>>You walk down the hallway.<<endif>>\n\nMidway down, you find the [[bathroom]]'s half-open door to your right.\n\n<<if $lock is 1>>To your left, there is a [[similar door]], shut tight.<<else>>To your left, there's the [[basement]] door, now unlocked.<<endif>>\n\nAt the end of the hallway, there is a [[set of stairs]] leading up. \n\nReturn to the [[living room]]?\n<<endif>>

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nFries's text is balanced precariously atop two of the shelf's tallest jars. After some twisting and reaching, you just manage to tap the edge of the book with your fingers, which sends it tumbling down. Moving your arm in the nick of time, you manage to catch it before it can smack you in the face.\n\nHolding the chocolate-brown book out into the light of the kitchen, you see the cover illustration: a wooden bust of woman has been carved into a set of specimen drawers. The drawer second-from-the-top emerges from heart-height on the bust. Ajar, a speckled bird perches on its edge, adding another branch to a nest that it's building within. Beneath, a young fox slumbers in the bottommost drawer. An ant crawls out of another. A frog comes up for air in a nearby jar of water. Though each of these creatures is tagged with a museum label, they all seem alive. Comfortable, even.\n\nHow do you open this book?\n\n[[I flip the pages in small increments, counting down from six.]]\n\n[[I turn to the final poem.]]

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nYou lift the long, rectangular box from the shelf, and, as you tilt the box, you feel the few remaining swabs roll towards your hand. The underside of the box is made of clear plastic. As you lift it to eye level, you see that only about 20 swabs remain.\n\nThe top of the box is made of cardboard, and has a little perforated hole from which one might remove a single swab. The cardboard is bent upward but not fully removed, leaving a space through which one might pinch a swab with two fingers.\n\nYou see several color images in sleek oval frames on the cardboard, each depicting pristine cotton swabs in action: Delicately blurring eyeshadow, dabbing at a cut finger, stroking a baby's toe, caressing the "Y" key of a computer keyboard. Notably, there isn't an ear to be found anywhere on the box.\n\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[Q-tips cotton swabs are]] [[the Ultimate Home and Beauty Tool.]]\n[[With the most soft cotton at the tip]] \n[[(from the end of the stick to the top of the swab)]]\n[[and a gently flexible stick,]] [[Q-tips cotton swabs]]\n[[are perfect for a variety of uses.]]\n\n[[BEAUTY]]\n[[Apply or remove eyeliner & eye-shadow]]\n\n[[FIRST AID]]\n[[Gently apply ointments and creams]]\n\n[[BABY CARE]]\n[[Delicately care for sensitive areas]]\n\n[[HOME & ELECTRONICS]]\n[[Clean and dust hard-to-reach spaces]]\n

You read the eighteenth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Alphabet poems:]] [[make up a poem of 26 words]] [[so that each word begins with the next letter of the alphabet.]] [[Write another alphabet poem but scramble the letter order.]]

You read the fourteenth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Serial sentences:]] [[Select one sentence each from a variety of different books or other sources.]] [[Add sentences of your own composition.]] [[Combine into one paragraph, reordering to produce the most interesting results. ]]

You push the window inward as far as it can go. The hinges are rusty, but you're able to ease it further with a soft crunching sound.\n\nYou take a deep breath and squeeze yourself tight before sliding your feet through the window. As your hips pass through, you feel cool grass find the gap between your shirt and pants, tickling your lower back. After some slight maneuvering of your shoulders, you just barely make it through.\n\nAfter that, it's a short drop down to the basement floor.\n\n<<display "basement">>

You read the sixtieth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Write a series of eight-word lines]] [[consisting of one each of each part of speech.]]

You scroll down to the eighth comment. It was posted by username "katiegarth."\n\nWhich line do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[I'm sorry I don't have more on hand ]] \n[[that makes people wonder ]]\n[[for the sake of our starving hearts, ]]\n[[nature ]]\n[[I picture whole streams, new currents, ]]\n[[Any brick will do. ]]\n[[Lacquered over ]]\n[[... ]]\n\n[[And yet, there's still so much to be done ]]\n[[in the house ]]\n[[If nothing else, it at least gives me a chance ]]\n[[to think ]]\n\n[[RUN ]]

In this game, you'll have the power to write a patchwork poem, also known as a "cento." \n\nCentos have been around for a long time. In a nutshell, think of them as poems assembled entirely out of lines borrowed from others' work. I've set out a few of my favorite books to help you get started, but feel free to take a look around if you'd like more material. Sometimes exciting language shows up where we least expect it.\n\n\nCome on in whenever you're ready. You can toss your coat on the couch, or wherever. I'm working on a couple of things myself, so just make yourself at home--I'll stay out of your way. If you're hungry, I've got a loaf of zucchini bread in the oven. Should be ready pretty soon.\n\nOh, and before I forget--I left you a stack of scrap paper on the living room table. I think you could probably squeeze about fourteen lines onto each sheet, if you're a tidy writer.\n\n...\n\nWell, I'll leave you to it. I'll just be upstairs if you need anything.\n\n[[Enter.|living room]]

You read the seventy-ninth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Use the Googlism engine]] [[to create a poem based on a name or word.]]\n

You read the fifty-eighth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Write a poem consisting only of opening lines]] [[(improvise your own lines, then use source texts).]]

You read the forty-second experiment prompt. There's only a single line of instruction, so you go ahead and add it to your poem.\n\n\n[[Write an autobiographical poem without using any pronouns.]]

You open the book to page twelve.\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[whatsoever to do with endeavoring]] [[to shock an audience.]]\n[[There was an awful lot of violence]] [[you see in the work of]]\n[[the playwright the conference]] [[was reputedly reassessing]]\n[[and by and large that violence]] [[had hitherto been widely]]\n[[interpreted as nothing more]] [[than a dramatic strategy]]\n[[designed to shock,]] [[which I could never quite accept because]]\n[[how on earth is there anything]] [[shocking about violence?]]\n[[Anyway, I must confess,]] [[in order to establish a perennial]]\n[[language of love that testified]] [[to the abominable emancipation]]\n[[that is brought on by want of another]] [[I did in fact reference]]\n[[not only Sappho, Seneca, Novalis, Roland Barthes, Denis de Rougement]]\n[[and Dutch historian Johan Huizinga,]] [[I also included lyrics]]\n[[by PJ Harvey and Nick Cave,]] [[with the somewhat misplaced intention]]\n[[of demonstrating that it just never stops.]] [[That the desire]]\n[[to come apart irrevocably]] [[will always be as strong as,]] [[if not]]\n[[stronger than,]] [[the drive to establish oneself.]] [[As deep as ink]]\n[[and black, black as the deepest sea.]]\n\n[[Afterwards, when people were milling about]] [[and nodding]]\n[[in little groups,]] [[and I wasn't sure which of the several]]\n[[exits to make immediate use of,]] [[one of the academic big guns]]\n[[approached me and commented upon my paper.]] [[This all happened]]\n[[several years ago by the way]] [[--and I'm not absolutely sure why]]\n[[I'm recounting it here]] [[since it hardly]]\n

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\n\s\nShuffling the books, you find Ammons's book at the bottom of the pile. The cover must have once been pristine white, but the binding is now a discolored light brown, the texture grubby beneath your fingers. On the front, a long strand of delicate, pink flowers grows from the book's spine. Turning the book in your hands reveals that the flowers' stem continues on the back, leading to the trash-mingled soil from which they grow. You see broken terra cotta, a spent banana peel, what might be discarded stale takeout noodles. Lifting the book to your face, you smell a faint mixture of ash and decaying peaches. \n\n\nHow do you open this book?\n\n[[I set it back on the ground and cautiously prod it open with a pencil.]]\n\n[[I use both of my pinkies to open it like a tiny briefcase.]]\n\n[[I open it with my nose while I continue smelling the pages.]]

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nYou pinch the edge of the paper with your fingers and slowly ease it out from beneath the cans. There’s a particularly harrowing moment where the whole stack wobbles gently. \n\n...\n\nAgainst all odds, you extract the sheet unscathed.\n\nIt’s a single piece of white printer paper, folded hamburger-style. You can see half of a poem, printed in black ink, that runs across the fold. It looks like the printer might have been running low--there’s an almost-imperceptible gradient marking the printer’s stutter at the end of each line. As you hold the paper up to the kitchen’s light behind you, you notice that there’s also a second poem printed on the inside fold, its backwards letters barely outlined through the thin material.\n\nAs you unfold the sheet to reveal the full poems, you also notice a signature scrawled at the top, one whose owner makes judicious use of loop-de-loops: //Alexa Smith//.\n\nWhich side of the paper do you read?\n\n[[Inside the fold.|alexa1]]\n\n[[Outside the fold.|alexa2]]\n

You scroll down to the first comment. It was posted by the username "robbercarry."\n\nWhich line do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[A room, empty: ]]\n[[I'm sorry I don't have more on hand ]]\n[[Everything else remained the same. ]]\n[[Over the fence — ]]\n[[Cell phones, cellular tablets, and cellular ]]\n[[that's all that's left, ]]\n[[for my hair-line ]]\n[[And in the morning her trails are washed away. ]]\n[[into a valley, too thin a stream to cut its ]]\n[[nature ]]\n[[the exact moment ]]\n[[PASTA ]]\n[[If you want to transport yourself ]]\n[[With the spring, now ]]

The game's opening cutscene begins. A small, rickety boat is battered by the waves of an ocean storm. Wood and rope strain against the force of a tattered sail. Two hooded figures flail in the boat, powerless against the forces of nature that batter their craft.\n\nAnd then--a gasp, an awakening. A tiara-adorned princess awakens from her dream. She gazes out a window from her castle at the city below. Doves fly by. The music swells. The camera pans out, and a massive ship--this time sailing imposingly through the sky--approaches the city, coasting through calm clouds.\n\nShortly after, the game puts you in control of a humanoid figure with a shock of blonde hair, the clothing of a Victorian-era stripper, and a monkey-like yellow tail. You sit down and play for a bit. You wander through a dark room. There's a sudden battle, a thrumming bassline, an archaic menu aesthetic, a roguish cast rapidly introduced.\n\nYou reach the game's first section of extended dialogue. A motley crew sits around a dirty table in the airship's hold. They stare meaningfully at a small model of the very city seen in full earlier.\n\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[Baku: "Alright! Let's start this meeting already!"]]\n[["Here's the plan!"]]\n[["Tantalus, the infamous band of daring thieves (that's us),]]\n[[is headin' to the Kingdom of Alexandria..."]]\n[["Our mission: to kidnap the heir to the throne, Princess Garnet!"]]\n\n[[Cinna: "I'll take it from here, so listen up!"]]\n[["Our ship's about to dock at Alexandria..."]]\n[["And when it does, we're gonna put on our costumes..."]]\n[["...and perform 'I Want to Be Your Canary,']]\n[[the most popular play in Alexandra!"]]\n[["Break a leg, Marcus! 'Cause you're playin' the lead!"]]\n\n[[Marcus: "Leave the actin' to me! Of course, the real]]\n[[kidnappers'll be Blank and Zidane!"]]\n\n[[Blank: "I'll distract the audience from backstage]]\n[[with these little buggers."]]\n[["I can't stand oglops..."]]\n[["But I'll manage, so don't worry about me."]]\n[["And that'll be your cue, Zidane!"]]

You read the thirty-fifth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Take same sentence or stanza and cast it as if said to oneself silently,]] [[half-whispered, said to an intimate,]] [[said to a small group, said to a large group.]]

For the sake of the exercise, you flip another two pages backward, which brings you to Lockwood's "Acknowledgements" page.\n \nYou consider the strange merits of adding someone else's paratextual publishing language to your poem. Or you could always just keep flipping backward until you find an actual poem to use. \n\nWhat do you do?\n\nAdd the following notes to your poem: [[I would like to thank the editors of the following magazines, in which versions of these poems originally appeared: AGNI, Everyday Genius, Hayden's Ferry Review, MAKE, New Orleans Review, PANK, Poetry, Poetry Northwest, Rattle, Seattle Review and West Wind Review.]]\n\n[[I've already broken the rules once, there's no going back now. I keep flipping backward until I find an actual poem.]]

You start from the top of the page, and the beginning of Mayer’s life.\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Bernadette Mayer was born]] [[in a predominantly German part of Brooklyn, New York, in 1945.]] [[Her parents were, as she writes in the autobiographical piece,]] [["0–19,"]] [["a mother-secretary & father draft dodger WWII electrician".]] [[Mayer's parents died when she was in her early teens]] [[and her uncle, a legal guardian after the passing of her parents, died only a few years later.]] [[She had one sister, Rosemary Mayer,]] [[a sculptor who was a member of similar conceptual art communities]] [[during the 1970s and 1980s,]] [[in addition to being a founding member]] [[of the feminist art space A.I.R. Gallery.]] [[Mayer attended Catholic schools early on,]] [[where she studied languages and the classics,]] [[and she graduated from the New School for Social Research in 1967.]]\n\n[[Mayer's work first caught public attention with her exhibit Memory,]] [[a multimedia work that challenged ideas of narrative and autobiography in conceptual art]] [[and created an immersive poetic environment.]] [[During July 1971, Mayer photographed one roll of film each day,]] [[resulting in a total of 1200 photographs.]] [[Mayer then recorded a 31-part narration]] [[as she remembered the context of each image,]] [[using them as "taking-off points for digression" and to "fill in the spaces between."]] [[In the first full-showing of the exhibit]] [[at the 98 Greene Street Loft,]] [[the photographs were installed on boards in sequential rows]] [[as Mayer's seven-hour audio track played a single time]] [[between the gallery's open and close.]] [[Memory asked its observer to be a critical student of the work,]] [[as one would with any poetic text,]] [[while putting herself into the position of the artist.]] [[An early version of Memory, remembering,]] [[toured seven locations in the U.S. and Europe from 1973 to 1974]] [[as part of Lucy R. Lippard's female-centric conceptual art show, "c. 7,500".]] [[Memory's audio narration was later edited and turned into a book]] [[published by North Atlantic Books in 1976.]] [[Memory served as the jumping off point for Mayer's next book,]] [[a 3-year experiment in stream-of-conscious journal writing Studying Hunger]] [[(Adventures in Poetry, 1976),]] [[and these diaristic impulses would continue to be]] [[a significant part of Mayer's writing practice]] [[over the next few decades.]]

You read the fifty-sixth experiment prompt. It's only a single line. What language do you add to your poem? //(...not like you have an option...)//\n\n\n[[Write a poem composed entirely of questions.]]

You scroll down to the fifth comment. It was posted by the username "alexasmith."\n\nWhich line do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Like all braises, ]]\n[[I won't be held accountable ]]\n[[until every branch hangs sopping, ]]\n[[And I tip — drunken — ]]\n[[on the edge of an empty day. ]]

You read the seventy-fourth experiment prompt. It looks like Bernstein must have made a (relatively) recent revision to this webpage, as the online tool it references has since disappeared from the World Wide Web. \n\nBut language is language. The text of the revision note itself is still fair game!\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[No longer available!:]] [[Google Poem: construct a poem using Leevi Lehto's engine]] [[(use the patterns feature).]] [[See also (if it comes back on line)]] [[Bill Luomo's Lizardo engine.]]

You read the forty-seventh experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Write a poem just when you are on the verge of falling asleep.]] [[Write a line a day as you are falling asleep or waking up.]]\n

You open Lockwood's book to page seven. Which line do you add to your poem?\n\n[[Eyebrows are his most expressive feature.]] [[He himself, straightened, is someone's eyebrow.]]\n\n[[In moments of grave danger, his bicep turns transparent,]] [[and reveals a sizable ink-clot,]] [[with small rivers of ink streaming away from it]] [[to form his outline, day after day, year after year.]] [[This is to reassure his viewers, who continually fear his death.]]\n\n[["Popeye," in his adolescence, goes through a period of]] [[floating off the page.]] [[His father sits him down and recommends an anchor tattoo.]]\n\n[[Although he is "drawn," and althrough his is a "a place,"]] [[he is not a map.]] [[If anything, he is a "cartouche":]] [[the area of a map that encloses information about the map itself.]]\n\n[[He is often captured and sentenced to slave labor,]] [[always the same: to row oars in other moving words,]] [[and be whipped within an inch by ascenders and descenders.]]\n\n[[Watching him works this way:]] [[he walks the length of your vision until he reaches the end.]] [[You gulp like a gangplank and he falls into the Drink.]]

Your left forearm strains to keep the book aloft while your right hand spreads the pages. You better hurry -- you feel like you might drop it at any moment!\n\nYou open the book to page one hundred and nine.\n\nDespite the book's immensity, the author has gone for a minimalist approach in her chapter titles.\n\nOr, considering the size of the single word on this page...could this actually be a maximalist approach?\n\n...\n\nEither way, there's only one word on this page.\n\nIt's printed in stark black capital letters.\n\nAgainst an equally stark white background.\n\nThe contrast burns into your retinas.\n\nThe word is fucking gigantic.\n\n...\n\n[[PASTA]]\n\n...\n\nYou weep.

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\n<<set $animorphs to 1>>\s\nYou decide to simply read the webpage that's already on display. There's certainly no harm in that, right?\n\nThe browser displays a page from Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia. In the top left corner, you recognize the familiar logo of the website: a spherical jigsaw puzzle that’s still missing a few pieces at the top. Within each piece, you see a character from one of the many, many languages across the planet. The Wikipedia logo is the only text in a serifed font on the page, lending further aesthetic alignment with the physically bound encyclopedias of yore (“yore,” in this case, referring to the distant years prior to 1990).\n\nThe Wikipedia page in question is the entry for the poet Bernadette Mayer. At the top of the page, you read her basic biographical overview:\n\n“Bernadette Mayer (May 12, 1945 – November 22, 2022) was an American poet, writer, and visual artist associated with both the Language poets and the New York School.”\n\nYou consider reading the whole page, but, then again, you’re in a hurry. You //are// writing a poem of your own, after all. You decide to limit yourself to a single section from the page. Which one do you choose?\n\n[[Early life and education|mayer1]]\n\n[[Writing|mayer2]]\n\n[[Involvement with The Poetry Project at St. Mark’s Church|mayer3]]\n\n[[Personal life|mayer4]]\n

You move your eyes slightly to the right and read page fifty-five.\n\nWhich line do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Poor Summer in Franconia]]\n\n[[The poster in the village shop]]\n[[recalls the yellowed terror]]\n[[of the Colorado beetle]]\n\n[[In the backroom behind her]]\n[[the shopkeeper's children sit glued]]\n[[to the nation's wooden eye]]\n\n[[Windfalls lie leaden in the garden]]\n[[and blue in the crayfish-stream]]\n[[flow the suds from the washing machine]]\n\n[[The Moor on the hill]]\n[[peeps from an American tank]]\n[[among the dying spruces]]\n\n[[In the afternoon]]\n[[my crazy grandfather]]\n[[torches the fields]]\n\n[[My last asprin]]\n[[dissolves gently]]\n[[in a glass]]\n\n[[As the pain subsides]]\n[[I hear once more]]\n[[the call of the distant posthorn]]

The book yields to your extremely powerful left pinky. Impressive!\n\nYou are on page two hundred and thirty-five. What line do you add to your poem?\n\n[[TOWELS]]\n\n[[Towels What of towels]]\n[[There are never enough]]\n[[of them with vomit sickness]]\n[[in the house]]\n\n[[Could I clean them in the creek?]]\n\n[[Mama?]]\n[[What-a?]]\n\n[[I need you I need something]]\n[[I can't do it alone Papa Mama]]\n\n[[What you]]\n[[I love you Pooh]]\n[[flying on the balloon]]\n[[and spitting out bees]]\n\n[[Triphala]]\n[[how long can I store Triphala]]\n[[to manage upper respiratory complaints]]\n[[before it becomes pneumonia]]

<<if $upstairsdoor is 1>> <<display "I knock again.">> <<else>>\s\nYou give the door a knock.\n\n...\n\nNobody responds. You hear, faintly, the single click of a computer mouse, then nothing. Complete and total silence.\n\n\n[[I knock again.]]\n\n[[I head back downstairs.|hallway]]\n<<set $upstairsdoor to 1>> <<endif>>

You take some time to learn more about groundnuts.\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[GROUNDNUT]]\n[[(Apios)]]\n[[Found: Florida, New Mexico to Southern Canada]]\n[[Tubers on roots: look like potatoes and can be eaten raw]]\n[[or cooked.]] [[When cooked they should be eaten hot for the best flavor.]]\n[[The tubers are found just below the surface]] [[and a stick can be used]]\n[[to probe and remove them.]]\n[[Seeds: are in bean-like pods]] [[and can be cooked in salty water, as peas.]]

As you flip through the pages, your fingers catch where a slip of paper has been inserted as a bookmark -- it's a receipt, with some handwriting in pen on the back.\n\nThe receipt is sandwiched between pages fifty-four and fifty-five.\n\n[[I read page fifty-four.]]\n\n[[I read page fifty-five.]]\n\n[[I inspect the receipt.]]

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nYou pull a slim, tightly pressed chapbook from the wreckage. Its dark yellow cover has a pleasantly tactile weight to it with a minimalist design. In the top-left corner, the chapbook's title: //IURDSTVO: Reflections on Foolishness//. In the bottom-right, the author's name: Ken Feit. Both are printed in tiny, crisp black lettering, no bigger than 10pt. font.\n\nIn the center of the cover is a multi-layered, oval-shaped print in faded red and blue ink. It's an abstract pattern that looks, simultaneously, like the block print of a mountain or a partial bird in mid-flight. Think blank lines radiate from the center, giving the image a sense of dynamism. \n\nOn the back, there's nothing but a very small barcode and a few simple descriptors in the bottom-left corner:\n\n''Philosophy | $7.50\nThe Economy Magazine + Press\ntheeconomypress.com''\n\n\nHow do you open this chapbook?\n\n[[Right at the beginning -- I want more context!|Feit1]]\n\n[[I skim for the page with the most amount of text on it.|Feit2]]\n\n[[I skim for the page with the least amount of text on it.|Feit3]]

You poke the power button with your index finger, and notice a certain amount of mechanical give to the button--there's a space of flux between the moment of your finger pressing the button and the moment of the button catching whatever internal trigger to which it connects. You hear a //click//, and, after a short pause, the disc drive whirrs to life.\n\nYou hurriedly turn on the television. Its audio and video flicker on just in time to catch the device's startup animation: A deep, synthetic bass note rumbles from the speaker while a polygonal diamond forms on the screen, colored in a gradient of red, orange, and yellow. When the words "SONY COMPUTER ENTERTAINMENT" appear, some synthy wind chimes tinkle as the held bass note shifts into a second, even deeper note. \n\nThe screen shifts to black, the bass note is replaced by a sound that reminds you of those musical glass bowls used for meditation sessions--the whole vibe suggests that this device is transporting you somewhere new, somewhere a little mystical, a place of your mind's own making.\n\nA three-dimensional rendering of the Playstation logo appears on the screen, as well as the language: "Licensed by Sony Computer Entertainment America."\n\n[[I wait for the disc to load.]]

You click on the fourth entry from the top of the list.\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[• Updates:]]\n   [[◦ Minor visual design adjustments.]]\n   [[◦ Display improvements for mobile screens and smaller windows.]]

With a sharp turn of your wrist, the pad's sheets shoot between your fingers with a sharp and satisfying //fwipp//. The adhesive backing keeps all of them together, but you do notice the pad's bend slightly worsen.\n\nBAM! As the sheets fan before your eyes, the stick figure wastes no time--they set off at a desperate sprint, closing the gap between the left and right margins at record speed. Their legs are a churning blur of scribble. In the blink of an eye, they reach the opposite end of the final sheet, their arms raised above their head triumphantly, ecstatically celebrating a speedy victory.\n\n\n[[I read the other sticky notes.|some bright pink sticky notes]]

You read the ninety-sixth experiment prompt. It's the very final prompt. You've scrolled long and hard to get to this point. Has Bernstein saved the best for last? Has this exercise in browsing endurance led you to the final key of poetic mastery? With this ultimate prompt, will you finally have the structure and courage to write ''The Poem''?\n\nOnly one way to find out. You narrow your eyes. You locate the text that sits just to the right of "96." There's not much, only a single line. \n\nWhatever it says, it's going in your poem. There's no turning back.\n\nThe final prompt reads as follows:\n\n\n\n[[Make up more experiments.]]

You read the twenty-eighth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Modified Equisite Corpse:]] [[Each person in the group writes down one line,]] [[folds paper so the line cannot be seen,]] [[and passes to the next.]]

You read the seventy-fifth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Google poem,]] [[based on M. Silem Mohammad's Deer Head Nation, an early Flarf work.:]] [[use Google search results as the source material for a poem:]] [[erase as much as you like, but don't add anything.]] [[Many variations possible.]] [[N.B.:Mohammed describes the compositional method of Deer Head Nation:]] [[“You punch a keyword or keywords or phrase into Google and work directly with the result text that gets thrown up.]] [[I paste the text into Word and just start stripping stuff away until what’s left is interesting to me,]] [[then I start meticulously chipping away at and fussing with that.”]]

You absent-mindedly slide a finger between the pages while reading the back cover -- this series always leaves a tantalizing amount to the imagination in their author biographies.\n\nTurning the book to your finger's location, you find yourself on page thirty-three.\n\nWhich line do you add to your poem?\n\n [[and when the dust settles,]]\n [[that's all that's left,]]\n [[just dust.]]\n\n[[I trace my sightline]]\n[[down Ajo Road,]]\n[[past the horizon,]]\n[[the dry bridge, the arroyo that I know well.]]\n\n\n[[along the asphalt that stitches]]\n[[our long dusk drives]]\n\n\n[[past the stucco church]]\n [[past the gas station and its neon]]\n[[past Kitt Peak, a slash against the new night]] \n\n[[past the rubble,]]\n\n\n [[past El Humo,]]\n [[El Pecas,]]\n [[Punta Prieta, El Marron,]]\n [[even past Isla de Cedros.]] \n\n[[There, I dip you beneath the waves: your whole body dripping cobalt.]]\n

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\n\nYou pick up the bag of baby carrots. It's a little damp with condensation, in that way that always seems to happen with bags of baby carrots. \n\nSince you're here anyway, you take some time to read the bag's label. It's got some neat facts about carrots.\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[Did you know?]]\n[[Carrots help support the immune]]\n[[system, maintain healthy skin]]\n[[and protect vision.]]\n\n[[They are naturally:]]\n[[Fat free]]\n[[Low in sodium]]\n[[Low in calories]]\n[[An excellent source of vitiamin A]]\n\n\n...Neat, huh?

Moving closer, you see that the copper bookends are shaped like exaggerated slices of sandwich bread. It's a book sandwich!\n\n...they look pretty cheap.\n\nThe whole row leans to the right, where the heaviest book is battling against the bookend next to it. The metal slice of bread gives slightly against the weight of the books. In fact, it's tilting slightly more than you'd expect for a hunk of copper that thick.\n\nUpon further inspection, the bookends look like they're not even real copper--it's just a textured vinyl sticker wrapped around a plastic base. You can see the seam and everything.\n\nBetween fake copper bread slices, you see the following books from left to right:\n\n[[Curves to the Apple -- Rosmarie Waldrop]]\n[[Against Gravity: Poems 1982-85 -- Donald Everett Axinn]]\n[[The Vegan Instant Pot Cookbook -- Nisha Vora]]\n[[Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude -- Ross Gay]]\n[[Cooking for Artists -- Mina Stone]]\n\nTurn back to the [[kitchen]]?

Carefully separating the back cover and the last few pages from the rest of the book, you turn to page six hundred and forty-five.\n\nThis edition seems to have a bulk of supplementary criticism and publisher's notes at the end -- a landscape in which you now find yourself, none of Whitman's own language to be seen. More specifically, you've landed in a section intended for student readers who may have been assigned the book for their Intro to Poetry courses.\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Questions for Discussion]]\n\n[[Compare one of Whitman's accounts]] [[of an historical event--]]\n[[for example, the massacre at Goliad]] [[in section thirty-four]]\n[[of "Song of Myself"]] [[or the Johnstown flood]] [[in "A Voice from Death"--]]\n[[with another account of the same incident.]] [[In what ways do the two]]\n[[accounts differ?]] [[Does Whitman seem to have changed the story]]\n[[or left out anything important?]]\n\n[[Poet Muriel Rukeyser,]] [[in her essay "Whitman and the Problem of 'Good,'"]]\n[[writes: "Whitman is a 'bad influence';]] [[that is, he cannot be imitated."]]\n[[Do you think that Whitman wanted]] [[to be an influential poet?]]\n[[Why or why not?]] [[Support your answer with examples from the poems.]]\n\n[[In the same essay,]] [[Rukeyser likens Whitman's "catalogs"]]\n[[to motion-picture screenplays,]] [[even though he was writing]]\n[[almost fifty years before]] [[the invention of movies.]] [[In]]

<<set $lock to 0>>\s\nYou unfasten the three latches running across the door's opening edge: One at the top, one at the middle, and one at the bottom.\n\nOnce that's done, the door glides effortlessly open, revealing the [[hallway]]. Directly across is the [[bathroom]].\n\nDown the stairs behind you is the [[basement]].\n\n<<if visited("I slam the door a seventh time")>>Now, was that so hard?<<endif>>

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nLifting the two books above it with one hand, you slide Sebald's book out from beneath. The cover is made of a soft, matte texture. A photo encompasses the entirety of the front and back covers, and spreads over the spine as well. \n\nThe cover depicts an expansive body of water that stretches, uninterrupted, to the horizon. It's in a faded, sepia tone: The water, while blue at the very bottom of the cover, quickly fades into the sky's blurry eggshell tone. You get the sensation of multiple fogs laid over one another: The fog of the ocean's mist. The fog of a photograph, left too long in the sun. The fog of time, how memory blurs. The fog of your own eyes' limited capacity for sight. \n\nAt the very hinge between water and sky, you can make out the grey outline of an anonymous landmass, its small hill punctuating both scene and title. Above it, "Across the Land" hovers in the sky. Below, "And the Water" floats on the gentle waves.\n\nYou wonder... was the photographer finally spotting home after a long voyage away? Or was this their last glimpse, as they faced the boat's rear, of their history fading into the horizon?\n\nHow do you open this book?\n\n[[I sit on the edge of the tub and start from the beginning.]]\n\n[[I scan until I find something quick and short.]]\n\n[[I let my finger catch a small gap in the pages.]]

<<if $lines gte 14>><<display "living room">><<else>>\s\n<<set $basement to 1>>\s\nYou descend into the basement. A series of [[metal shelves]] line the walls, upon which you can see tools, ceramic pots, bags of soil, and various other gardening and home-repair supplies.\n\nIn the middle of the room is a [[workbench]] with a few books lying on top.\n\nIn the far corner, you see a separate area of the room delineated by a thick, green rug and some furniture. From this angle, you see a loveseat facing an old CRT television. There's a [[rectangular grey device]] on the rug, from which black cords snake behind the television.\n\n<<if $lock is 1>>At the far end of the room, you see some [[wooden stairs going up|behind door]].<<else>>A set of wooden stairs leads back to the [[hallway]] upstairs.<<endif>>\n<<endif>>

You scroll down to the ninth comment. It was posted by the username "halo.rossetti."\n\nWhich line do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[just dust. ]]\n\n[[Behold this compost! ]]\n\n[[lane, trail, stone fence, narrative, coffee ]]\n\n[[whatsoever to do with endeavoring ]]\n\n[[I am looking for the coffeeshop? ]]\n\n[["My medium is prose," W.G. Sebald once declared ]]\n\n[[of "Song of Myself" ]]\n\n[[—and, compared to the other fountain pen I have, ]]\n\n[[trigger. Don't bother asking ]]\n\n[[And in the North, the Star — ]]\n\n[[Fed all vegetarian diet ]]\n\n[[This is why, you said, ]]\n\n[[in the house ]]\n\n[[THE BERRY PICKERS ]]

You read the thirteenth exercise prompt.\n\n...Hey, you recognize this one!\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Cento:]] [[Write a collage made up of full-lines of selected source poems.]] [[(Or see Kate Fagin's short form centos.)]]

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nYou remove Waldrop's book easily from the row, slightly reducing the weight pressing against the rightmost bookend. The bookend tilts slightly less now.\n\nYou hold a faded book with a black cover. In the upper left-hand corner, you see a framed grayscale photo of four objects, arranged as a still life tableau: the head of a Greek sculpture, an oval mirror, a shallow silver bowl, and a smooth sphere of indeterminate material. Though the sculpture's body is not displayed, the angle of the head and neck suggest that the subject is looking back over their shoulder. Their gaze runs parallel with the mirror's angle -- while it shows the face's reflection, the mirrored eye follows the same sightline leading off the right of the cover. Beneath the sculpture's chin, both the shallow bowl and the sphere within reflect a glint of bright light. Compared to the other objects, the sphere is roughly the size of a softball, but with the texture of a marble.\n\nIt looks like this book is a collection of three of Waldrop's previously published books: //The Reproduction of Profiles//, //Lawn of Excluded Middle//, and //Reluctant Gravities//.\n\nHow do you open this book?\n\n[[With my left hand.]]\n\n[[With my right hand.]]\n\n[[With both hands.]]

You read the thirty-sixth experiment prompt. There's only one line. Without any other options available, it's the one that you add to your poem.\n\n\n[[Write a poem consisting entirely of overheard conversation.]]

<<if $lines gte 14>><<display "living room">><<else>>\s\n<<set $pantry to 1>>\s\nThe door slides easily to the right, and behind it you find a well-stocked pantry. There's just enough room for you to step inside. As you do so, a thin, white string dangles in your face. Tracing it upward, you see that it extends from a naked light bulb fixed to the ceiling.\n\nMoving your eyes down, you see three wire shelves, laden with provisions.\n\nThe highest holds many glass jars filled with dried beans, lentils, pumpkin seeds, rice, pasta, and [[various staples]]. You notice two slim books poking out between the glass containers: \n[[Red Juice -- Hoa Nguyen]]\n[[little terrarium -- Hannah Fries]]\n\nOn the middle shelf, you see several cylindrical [[tins of coffee]] with bright yellow labels and green checkerboard lettering. You've seen these iconic tins repurposed in all kinds of manner elsewhere--holding pencils, loose change, small succulents. These might actually be the first you've ever seen still containing coffee beans.\n\nOn the third, there's four rows of [[cans]]. Wedged behind the rear cans, you barely notice the corner of a [[rectangular tan notebook]].\n\n\nReturn to the [[kitchen]]?\n<<endif>>

You read the forty-sixth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Counting:]] [[Write poems that conform to various numeric patterns for number of words in a line or sentence,]] [[number of lines in a stanza or paragraph,]] [[number of stanzas or paragraphs in a work.]] [[Alternately, count letters or syllables.]] [[Use complex numeric series or simpler fixed-number patterns.]]

You read the eighty-first experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Pick several images from the internet]] [[or a magazine]] [[and make an arrangement with them;]] [[then write an accompanying poem for each. ]]

You remove the tupperware from the fridge for a closer look.\n\nEven without opening it, you can tell it's been in the fridge for months.\n\nThe lid looks... fuzzy. Through the container's semi-translucent plastic, you note an unsettling shade of blue. It's probably best to put this back and let your host deal with it.\n\n[[I make a hasty retreat.]]\n\n[[I pop the lid open.]]

You read the twenty-sixth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Chinese Whispers (a.k.a telephone)]] [[(version ecriture):]] [[one person writes a line, phrase, sentence, paragraph, or stanza]] [[and passes it on to the next person,]] [[who transforms it in some way]] [[and passes it on to the next.]] [[Traditionally done orally,]] [[as a written exercise this can be done in a group setting]] [[or via email or txt chain.]] [[(Cf.: John Ashbery's "Chinese Whispers.")]]

You turn Axinn's book lengthways. Pinching the last several pages, you let the rest fall downward. The remaining pages, held by the front cover, bounce slightly. You hear a small strain occurring in the book's spine.\n\nYou've navigated to page sixty-four. Glancing at the poem, it looks like there's gonna be some more plane stuff.\n\nWhich line do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[STALLS]]\n\n[[A stall]]\n[[is a ritual]]\n[[of flying.]]\n\n[[Pilots need to test]]\n[[the exact moment]]\n[[when gravity leans on]]\n[[the plane's nose,]]\n[[pushes it down]]\n[[into a fall]]\n[[and us with it.]]\n\n[[To find]]\n[[that moment when]]\n[[change is in command,]]\n[[the wheel or stick]]\n[[is pulled back]]\n[[as if we were choosing]]\n[[to haul ourselves]]\n[[backward into our pasts.]]\n\n[[We point up and up and up]]\n[[until the instant when]]\n[[we cannot angle any higher.]]\n[[Forward speed staggers,]]\n[[time slushes,]]\n[[we meet that very]]\n[[second, and like]]\n[[an orgasm exploding,]]

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nCautiously, you step around the pile and take better stock of the collection. A beam of sunlight from the open window catches a glimmer from the pile: A glossy gold-and-crimson chapbook beckons at you with gaudy block letters. You pick it up. The title sparkles in a blocky pastiche of 16-bit video-game font: //PIXXXELS//, by SIG ERIKSON. Each X of the title is extra-embossed, and the three sharp letters jut out even further from their surrounding word.\n\nIt's pretty heavy-handed. You get it.\n\nBehind the effortful golden title is a blurry digital render of a bedroom, all cast in red and black. The bed is too big. The bed has two pixelated, heart-shaped pillows at its head. Again, you get it.\n\nOn the chapbook's back cover there's there's a text box formatted to evoke the dialogue screens found in retro video games. Inside is a blocky question that apes the shoddy Japanese-to-English translations of early 90's games: "ARE YOU TUFF ENOUGH TO WIN... HEART???" \n\nFinally, in the bottom-right corner is the publisher's imprint, printed in a font that really doesn't match any of this vibe: "Aged Raconteur Press."\n\n\nHow do you open this chapbook?\n\n[[Chastely.|erikson1]]\n\n[[Lasciviously.|erikson2]]\n\n[[I just open it, okay. Let's not make this weird.|erikson3]]\n

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nYou pick up the jam. The glass jar is small and squat, with a cheery turquoise-colored lid. The jam itself is a dark pink, and you can feel a little bit softly crusting around the lid's lip. \n\nOh, great. Now your fingers are going to be all sticky.\n\nThere's no going back now. While it's in your hand, you figure you might as well read the label.\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[Trader Joe's Organic Strawberry spread]] [[is sweetened with the highest]]\n[[quality grape juice concentrate.]] [[It is cooked in small batches.]] [[We only use]]\n[[Senga Sengana Strawberries]] [[because they are simply superior in color]]\n[[and flavor to any other variety.]] [[The result: an honestly good product.]]\n[[Use as a spread for toast, bagles or sandwiches.]]\n\n

<<set $back to 1>>\s\nHaving safely descended the bedsheet rope, you're now standing outside, along a small brick path that runs along the side of the house.\n\nThere's a large, deep green container sealed with a jet-black flippable lid. You see two plastic wheels at the bottom, connected by a metal bar where someone might gain leverage before pulling the whole thing to the curb. \n\nOn top of the lid you read a bright white label printed in all-caps: [["TRASH."]] Some of the lettering's edges have eroded from exposure to the elements--after another month or two, this container may end up simply reading "lPASh."\n\nAs you look around, you notice the [[house's rear door|kitchen]], and a [[small, ground-level window]] along the house's foundation. It's about shoulder-width, flush against the grass and bricks.

You open the book to page ten.\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[every day in the premature heat.]] [[I often stopped and stood]]\n[[quite still, wondering what hopes]] [[my mind had just then]]\n[[been taken up with,]] [[but I could seldom recall.]] [[However,]]\n[[in spite of my own bemusement,]] [[for the first time in my adult life]]\n[[other people knew exactly what I was doing.]] [[It was as plain]]\n[[as day to them.]] [[I'd come back with the tools and lean]]\n[[them against the house wall]] [[and go inside to wash my hands]]\n[[and it would be quite clear to anyone]] [[who saw me what I]]\n[[had been doing that day.]] [[I believe during that period]] [[people]]\n[[were, notwithstanding two or three]] [[specific incidents,]]\n[[conspicuously more agreeable towards me.]]\n\n[[As with most mensurable areas of life]] [[I demonstrated no ambition]]\n[[whatsoever as a grower]] [[and selected to cultivate low-maintenance]]\n[[crops only.]] [[Potatoes, spinach and broad beans.]] [[That was it.]]\n[[That was enough.]] [[People told me what a cinch it was to grow]]\n[[courgettes, squash, marrow, carrots,]] [[but nothing had changed really]]\n[[--I hadn't suddenly become a gardener,]] [[and I resented being spoken to]]\n[[as though I had.]] [[The plants were coming on quite nicely when]]\n[[I received an invitation to speak]] [[at a very eminent university]]\n[[across the water upon a subject]] [[I was very interested in indeed--]]\n[[though not necessarily in a meritorious way.]] [[That's to say]]\n[[my interest was far too personal]] [[and not strictly academic]]\n[[and so my methodology came across as nostalgic]] [[and my]]\n

With one quick motion, you flick open the entire book. Other than the pages pinched between your fingers, the rest of the book flops downward, helplessly.\n\nYou've flippity-flopped this book open to page fifty-two, on which a poem continues from the previous page. \nWhich line do you add to your own poem?\n\n\n[[the most satisfying and addictive of all entertainment,]]\n[[the man pauses to look at the camera]]\n[[and we know him as one of the greats.]]\n\n[[I'd kill for another TV gig,]]\n[[a spool of cable lashed across town,]]\n[[a general animation of laughter piped into every room.]]\n\n[[Somewhere higher, an astronaut]]\n[[sees the static glow on our faces,]]\n[[all one oily landmass,]]\n[[and thinks:]]\n[["The Satellite Of God Is With Me."]]\n[["I Am The Satellite Of God."]]\n

You pinch the book’s spine and give it a few polite shakes, sliding your thumb between the pages in transit. It opens to page thirty.\n\n\nWhich line do you add to your poem?\n\n[[armpit]]\n\n[[First it’s the balm]]\n[[of light sifting]]\n[[through the rafters]]\n[[of the old church]]\n[[from the neighborhood]]\n[[I’d break into not for ruckus]]\n[[but to sit and write]]\n[[my name in the dust on the pews]]\n[[and watch the pigeons]]\n[[roost beside the dozing]]\n[[and crooked eye of the stained-]]\n[[glass window the racket]]\n[[somehow of the street]]\n[[softened but that]]\n[[maybe is another poem because]]\n[[I’m trying to get]]\n[[to the awkward flock]]\n[[of flamingoes soaring]]\n[[somewhere below my navel or]]\n[[in the back of my throat]]\n[[or the small house]]\n[[behind my eyes suddenly]]\n[[lit up]]\n[[when sitting in the library’s]]\n[[silent reading room]]

You hold the book to your mouth, purse your lips, and exhale sharply.\n\nIt doesn’t really budge. The book’s perfect binding puts up enough resistance against the short burst of air. Still, as you reflexively twist your wrist, the movement shakes the book just enough to reveal the first poem, just for a moment. You are on page one.\n\n\nWhich line do you add to your poem?\n\n[[to the fig tree on 9th and christian]]\n\n[[Tumbling through the]]\n[[city in my]]\n[[mind without once]]\n[[looking up]]\n[[the racket in]]\n[[the lugwork probably]]\n[[rehearsing some]]\n[[stupid thing I]]\n[[said or did]]\n[[some crime or]]\n[[other the city they]]\n[[say is a lonely]]\n[[place until yes]]\n[[the sound of sweeping]]\n[[and a woman]]\n[[yes with a]]\n[[broom beneath]]\n[[which you are now]]\n[[too the canopy]]\n[[of a fig its]]\n[[arms pulling the]]\n[[September sun to it]]\n[[and she]]\n[[has a hose too]]\n[[and so works hard]]

You open to page fifteen.\n\nThere is [[a small paragraph of prose.]]\n\nThere is also [[a square sheet of card stock]].

<<if $slam is 3>> <<display "I slam the door a fourth time.">> <<else>>\s\n<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $slam to ($slam + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\n\s\nYou pause, considering your options. You wonder, briefly, if the door might be locked from the other side.\n\n...\n\nAnd then that thought flits away, like an ephemeral wisp of steam.\n\nYou slam the door a third time.\n\n\nThe door remains shut. From behind you, you sense the bathroom door--a witness to your brutality--wincing sympathetically.\n\n\n[[I try the knob again.]]\n\n[[I knock politely.]]\n\n[[I slam the door a fourth time.]]\n\n\nReturn to the [[hallway]]?\n<<endif>>

The knob turns easily, but the door continues to sit firmly in place.\n\n\n[[I try the knob again.]]\n\n[[I knock politely.]]\n\n[[I put my shoulder into it.]]\n\n\nReturn to the [[hallway]]?

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nThis sticky note hangs from the top-right corner of the monitor's frame. It covers a little bit of the screen -- someone using the computer might need to peel this note off in order to see the date and time of the desktop's display.\n\nIt looks like... well, it's hard to say, really. Who knows where the daily non sequiturs of our brains emerge from? Perhaps this is your host's attempt to jot them down, however unusable.\n\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n//[[delicate mannequin]]\n[[stuffed tigerlily]]\n[[dog bust]]\n[[noodle mascot]]\n[[drift ache]]\n[[locked pepita]]\n[[even now, a salve]]//

You read the forty-third experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Attention:]] [[Write down everything you hear for one hour.]]

You read the twenty-first experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n\n[[Recombination (2) -- Doubling:]] [[Starting with one sentence, write a series of paragraphs]] [[each doubling the number of sentences in the previous paragraph]] [[and including all the words used previously.]] [[(Cf. Ron Silliman's Ketjak)]]

This game was made by your host, Brendan Allen.\n\nYou can find some of my other games at bibliomancer.itch.io. My website's brendan-allen.com.\n\nThis game owes much of its shape and spirit to the generous support, extensive feedback, and diligent playtesting of Mollie Caffey, Robert Carey, Theo Ciccarelli Cornetta, Jazmyn Crosby, Zan de Parry, Katie Garth, Halo, Melissa Hohl, J Hughes, Joohyun Kim, Jena Osman, Alex Pulliam, Kayla Hale, Alexa Smith, and Austen Weymueller. \n\nI would also like to earnestly thank the educators and students who have brought earlier versions of this game into their creative writing classrooms. I hope that playing around in this house helped you, in however small a way, generate some pleasing poems of your own.\n\nOf course, this game simply could not exist without the many source texts by talented writers that I've sampled throughout. If you found a chunk of a new poem, novel, or promotional toothpaste copy that you enjoyed, I recommend tracking down the original source at your local bookstore, library, or 24/7 Convenience Mart and giving it a full read.\n\nThis game was created with Twine and is powered by TiddlyWiki. \nHandwriting on Itch.io cover image by J Hughes.\n\n\n\nYou've been a wonderful guest, and you're welcome back any time. \n\n<<if previous() is "Check poem status">>[[Return.|living room]]<<else>>[[Return.|previous()]] <<endif>>

You read the thirty-ninth experiment prompt. It's just a single line. Looks like you're adding it to your poem either way.\n\n\n[[Write a poem without mentioning any objects.]]

<<set $kitchen to 1>>\s\n<<set $back to 1>>\s\nYou decide to spare your host the labor of cleaning up. <<if $trash gt 5>>(... it's about time...)<<endif>>\n\nYou tug the plastic liner out of the wastebasket, giving it a little shimmy as the material clings to the inner can. After tying the bag's hole into a tight knot, you walk through the kitchen and out the back door. There's a small patio with two wooden steps down to the backyard. \n\nYou follow a brick path that winds around the side of the house, eventually leading you to a large, deep green container sealed with a jet-black flippable lid. You see two plastic wheels at the bottom, connected by a metal bar where someone might gain leverage before pulling the whole thing to the curb. \n\nOn top of the lid you read a bright white label printed in all-caps: [["TRASH."]] Some of the lettering's edges have eroded from exposure to the elements--after another month or two, this container may end up simply reading "lPASh."\n\n<<if $trash gt 0>>You dispose of your poem scraps.<<else>>You throw out the indoor trash.<<endif>> \n\nAs you turn back to the [[house's rear door|kitchen]], you notice a [[small, ground-level window]] along the house's foundation. It's about shoulder-width, flush against the grass and bricks.

You give the bottom corner of each page a gentle tug. Although their outer edges fail to evenly align with one another, nearly all of the pages hold fast thanks to the taut black thread stitching them together. Whoever bound this book -- perhaps Sorenson herself -- was skilled with a needle.\n\nHowever, on the second-to-last page, you notice a slight give. There's a small tear close to the inner spine, seemingly from the thread binding the paper a little too sharply. In order to prevent any further damage, you ease up. \n\nYou are on page twenty-eight. Which line do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[losing oneself, quickly]]\n[[all hands along the corridor]]\n\n[[I watch you flail in the lamplight, alone.]]\n\n\n[[RUN]]\n\n[[The house is on fire!]]\n[[I repeat,]]\n[[The house, it is on fire!]]\n\n[[And yet, there's still so much to be done]]\n[[before everyone arrives.]]\n\n[[I grab your waist, our cats,]]\n[[a few worthless things,]]\n[[and leave the door open]]\n[[on our way out.]]

You take some time to learn more about Live-Forever.\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[LIVE-FOREVER]]\n[[(Sedum)]]\n[[Found: North America ]]\n[[Young leaves: as a salad.]]\n[[Leaves: cooked in a stew.]]\n[[Tubers: can be added to salads.]]

You walk over to the far corner of the room and squat down to inspect the device. On top, there's three circular buttons and a large circular disc tray that opens on a hinge. Two of the buttons are to the left of the tray: a large one that reads "POWER" and a small one that reads "RESET." The third button is to the right of the tray: it reads "OPEN." On top of the tray itself, you can read the maker and brand of this device: it's a Sony Playstation. \n\nBetween the two words there's a multicolored logo that incorporates the letters P and S: a pure red P stands straight up, folded on a right angle and extending continuously from a flat letter S, rendered in three stripes of yellow, teal, and blue.\n\n\n[[I press the POWER button.]]\n\n[[I turn back to the basement|basement]]

You read the eighty-second experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Graphic design 101.1:]] [[Take a poem, first another's then your own,]] [[and set it ten differnet ways,]] [[using different fonts and different page sizes.]] [[Make a web version of the poem.]]

You turn the knob and push the door inward, but it only moves a couple inches before meeting some resistance. There's something blocking the door. In the doorframe's slight open crack you see a cardboard flap extend from the other side. A box?\n\nWith another gentle push you feel the weight shift slightly. Whatever's there was put there in a hurry--less to completely block the door and more to simply slow down any intruder... that is, //you//. \n\nGathering yourself, you give the door a final, forceful shove. There's a //shuffff// noise as the weight drags against the floor. You feel something catch and realize, too late, that whatever you're pushing against is just about to topple over. It's too late to catch it--there's no way for you to reach around the door in time.\n\nThis split-second--this tiny moment before the crash--hangs in the air. You inhale, sharply. Your momentum passes through the threshold.\n\nYou're curious, aren't you.\n\n[[It's too late to turn back.]]\n<<set $upstairsdoor to 3>>

<<display "I slam the door a seventh time.">>

You read the forty-first experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Backwards:]] [[Reverse or alter the line sequence of a poem of your own or someone else's.]] [[Next, reverse the word order.]] [[Rather than reverse, scramble.]]

You open Ammons's book to page ninety-seven and move it away from your face.\n\nYour nose tingles. You feel the impending need to sneeze.\n\n[[Let the sneeze out.]]\n\n[[Fight the sneeze.]]

You take it a bit more slowly. Hand after hand. Foot after tentative foot. There's a moment where you feel the sheet give a little more than expected. You hear the slightest rip. You brace yourself for catastrophe.\n\n...\n\nAnd nothing. Somehow, miraculously, the bedsheet holds.\n\nYou descend, gingerly, all the way to the bottom of the sheet. Unlike the mystery person who came before you, you take the time to dangle yourself toward the ground as far as possible and drop gently. A clean landing. Terra firma.\n\nYour ten-year-old self rolls their eyes.\n\n\n[[Phew. Glad I got that out of my system.]]

You read the seventh experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Do multiple translations of a single poem,]] [[working in groups or indivdually.]] [[See Caroline Bergvall's poem setting of mutliple translations]] [[of the opening of Dante's Divine Comedy,]] [[from PennSound.]]

You skim through the well-bound pages before realizing this strategy will be slightly harder than you expected--most of the pages are quite brief.\n\nIt's a tight competition, but eventually you realize that the final page of Feit's writing is also the shortest. On the adjoining page, there's a grainy greyscale photo of a man's side profile, presumably Feit. He's wearing an outline of clown makeup, a blank white T-shirt, and jeans. He's sitting with his arms casually crossed over a raised knee, his head lifted beatifically, his eyes closed, his tongue out, and drops of some liquid are either bouncing out or pouring into his mouth. The drops catch the camera's flash. They're perfect white circles against the photo's black background.\n\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[Basically, I am concerned with celebration as a]]\n[[subversive activity.]]

The entire notebook bends easily in your hand, and the pages unfurl with barely any prodding on your end. You turn to a page near the middle. It's filled with lines of heavy black handwriting, thick letters that press up against one another. You guess that the author must have been writing in a hurry -- most of the letters have thin tails of ink that curve upward, merging with the next letter's downstroke.\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[the only other campers are two cyclists,]] [[so no jump for us.]]\n[[Luckily, they're biking to the Polebridge Mercantile today]]\n[[and we're sending a note with them.]] [[Somewhere down the chain]]\n[[of contact,]] [[our office will pick up the trail.]] [[God bless]]\n[[the Polebridge Merc.]] [[May they save us one more time]] [[and jump]]\n[[this dirty rig]] [[and we shall repay them]] [[by purchasing as many]]\n[[huckleberry bear claws and mediocre espresso shots]] [[as we can stomach.]]\n[[So now we wait.]] [[If nothing else, it at least gives me a chance]]\n[[to write.]] [[After a full day of work, the brain is drained]] [[and the body]] \n[[wants nothing more than a warm mash of food]]

The door gives way to an avalanche of paper and card stock as a mass of small booklets spill onto the floor, all pouring from the box that had recently blocked your entry. They swirl into a large pile, their spines and edges scrambled into one another, some pages folding beneath the weight of others. \n\nYou notice that many of these booklets were created with fine and detailed handcraft. You notice some of their ornate bindings, their saddle-stitched spines adorned with delicate thread. You notice a few with the telltale dappling of handmade paper, and a couple others wrapped in gossamer sheets. They flap like wind-battered moths as they fall. You notice the telltale signs that these are much-treasured objects. You notice the loved labor that their makers poured into their existence--and the careful preservation employed by their current owner.\n\nUnfortunately, you notice each of these things simultaneous with your tumble into the room, knocked off balance by the door's shift, unable to stop your own feet from stomping all over huge patches of these beautiful chapbooks. \n\n...\n\nDid you take off your shoes when you came in the house? I don't think you did.\n\n\n[[I sheepishly gather myself and look around the room.|upstairs bedroom]]\n<<set $upstairsdoor to 4>>

...\n\nYou do what you need to do.\n\n\nWashing your hands afterwards, you notice a light mint scent from the bar of soap. It tingles your hands pleasantly. \n\nAs you dry your hands, you notice a [[small white tag]] nestled in the folds of an olive-colored hand towel. \n\nDirectly in front of you is the mirrored [[medicine cabinet]]. Your reflection meets your gaze.\n\n\nTurn back to the [[bathroom]]?

You open the book to page three.\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Morning, Noon & Night]]\n\n[[Sometimes a banana with coffee is nice.]] [[It ought]]\n[[not to be too ripe]][[--in fact there should be a definite]]\n[[remainder of green along the stalk,]] [[and if there isn't,]]\n[[forget about it.]] [[Though admittedly that is easier said than done.]]\n[[Apples can be forgotten about, but not bananas, not really.]]\n[[They don't in fact take at all well to being forgotten about.]]\n[[They wizen and stink of putrid and go almost black.]]\n\n[[Oatcakes along with it can be nice,]] [[the rough sort.]] [[The rough]]\n[[sort of oatcake goes especially well]] [[with a banana by the way]]\n[[--by the way, the banana might be chilled slightly.]] [[This can]]\n[[occur in the fridge overnight of course,]] [[depending on how prescient]]\n[[and steadfast one is about one's morning victuals,]] [[or, it might be,]]\n[[and this in fact is much more preferable,]] [[there's a nice cool windowsill]]\n[[where a bowl especially for fruit can always be placed.]]\n

You read the twenty-second experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Collaboration:]] [[Write poems with one or more other people,]] [[alternating words, lines, or stanzas]] [[(chaining or renga),]] [[writing simultaneously and collaging,]] [[rewriting, editing, supplementing the previous version.]] [[This can be done in person, via e-mail, or via regular mail.]]

You take some time to learn more about lamb's quarter.\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[LAMB'S QUARTER]]\n[[(Chenopodium)]]\n[[Found: North America on former farmlands]]\n[[Leaves: can be eaten as a spinach.]]\n[[Seeds: dried and ground for flour]] [[or can be cooked in water]]\n[[as a porridge.]] [[Very nutritious containing calcium,]]\n[[vitamin A, thiamin, riboflavin, and niacin.]]

Honestly, you end up flipping past a number of deliciously glossy pages. There's the hollowed-out apples filled with ice cream. The delicate mango sticky rice. The carrot soup so creamy you could float a quarter on its surface.\n\nEventually, however, you end up on page one hundred and eighty-nine: A recipe for "Jamaican Jerk Jackfruit Tacos." \n\nThe excessive alliteration gives you some pause, but it's quickly overridden by your stomach. It growls, wolf-like, at the photo of juicy mango chunks, crisply diced cucumbers, and pull-apart pseudo-pork (the jackfruit), all openly arranged on eight grill-charred tortillas.\n\nWhat language...*growl*...do you...*gurgle*...add to your poem?\n\n[[If you want to transport yourself]] [[to a Caribbean island]]\n[[without the expensive airfare,]] [[I highly recommend making]]\n[[these jackfruit tacos.]] [[Canned jackfruit is shredded until]]\n[[it has the consistency]] [[of pulled pork (gasp!)]] [[and then]]\n[[quickly cooked in a blend of Jamaican jerk spices.]]\n[[Don't let the habanero pepper]] [[dissuade you from making]]\n[[this dish, as]] [[its citrusy, floral heat]] [[is well balanced]]\n[[by the juicy sweetness of mango]] [[and creaminess of]]\n[[avocado in the salsa.]] [[And a touch of liquid smoke]]\n[[adds a rich but subtle smokiness]] [[reminiscent of barbecue,]]\n[[making this the perfect dish]] [[to make for meat eaters, too.]]\n

Laying the book flat, you open the book to page forty-three, which ends up being the title page for Chapter 1. On the left, you're greeted with a high-definition close-up of a white, metal colander, filled with an assortment of dried beans. You quickly identify the black beans and the great northern beans, but there's a couple other types of beans you've never seen before.\n\nYou marvel at these exotic dried beans.\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[PANTRY BASICS,]]\n[[SAUCES,]]\n[[AND DIPS]]\n\n[[This chapter is filled with what I call flavor-boosters.]]\n[[There are pantry basics and sauces]]\n[[that give life to other dishes,]] [[from a hearty]]\n[[vegetable broth]] [[to a creamy cheesy sauce,]]\n[[as well as stand-alone dips that pack a lot more]]\n[[flavor than store-bought condiments and will]]\n[[take your snacking game to the next level.]]\n

When you crouch to the right, you find some slightly outdated camping gear. A couple of dark orange sleeping pads -- the thick, fabricky kind -- are rolled as tightly as possible and bound with thin, leather straps. They look like they might burst and unfurl at any moment. Behind them, you see a pillowy cloth bag that you assume holds a stuffed-up sleeping bag or two.\n\nA single silver-blue tent pole juts from a hole in a wide, canvas sack. Further to the right, there's a wide-mouthed Mason jar containing a menagerie of mismatched tent stakes: you see a few bright yellow plastic hooks mixed with simple metal rods bent into rough L-shapes. \n\nYou also notice a [[rectangular camp stove]] with a dark green collapsible flame guard folded over the burners. Resting on top of the stove is a wide, grubby-white book: \n[[Camping & Wilderness Survival: The Ultimate Outdoors Book -- Paul Tawrell]].\n\n\nInvestigate the other [[shelves|metal shelves]]?

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nYou notice a very slim booklet that just barely pokes out beneath the other books on the window sill. Unlike the other, perfect bound books, this one has two staples in its spine, indicating a simple saddle stitch method.\n\nYou slide it out and read the title, printed in sharp white text on the front: //ACHIEVEMENTS OF THE UNLOCKED//. A few line breaks below, you read the author's name: ZAN de PARRY. \n\nThe cover is made of smooth, glossy paper and has an oversaturated image of a shaggy yellow dog profiled against a bright orange floor. The dog looks up at the camera, but its face is fully washed out by a combination of the camera's flash and the photo's overall brightness. There's a wooden barrel planter next to the dog, from which sprouts a bounty of long-petaled yellow flowers. \n\nOn the back, there's a vintage wooden chandelier fully lit up. In the glow of the light, you see thin, pastel green italics that reveal the book's publisher: //b l u s h//.\n\n\nHow do you open this book?\n\n[[From the front.|zan1]]\n\n[[From the back.|zan2]]

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nYou root around in the pile of chapbooks for a little bit, marveling at the diversity of textures that greet your hands. Smooth inkjet paper, matte card stock, ribs and crannies of hand-pressed stamps, the occasional snag of a loose staple...\n\nYou brush against something rough and pull it from the stack. You hold a small, rectangular book bound in rough, handmade paper--flecks and bumps of pulp swell beneath the cover's surface, which has the color of clean concrete. Feeling the texture beneath your fingers reminds you that this paper was once a liquid, a particulate slurry. The texture keeps that flux alive.\n\nBelow Carleen Tibbetts's name, you see the book's title, //dossier for the postverbal// printed repeatedly, in varying opacities of sky blue, across the entire middle third of the cover. The words densely overlap one another and crowd the space, suggesting a kind of recognizable chorus that slips in and out of sheer noise. The interwoven text continues onto the back cover--though it parts, slightly, to allow space for a blurb from poet Joyelle McSweeney: "A work of lyric speculation, discipline, and discovery." Beneath McSweeney's blurb is a blink-and-you'll-miss-it publishing acknowledgement camouflaged with the rest of the text: "carrion bloom books #6."\n\nThe book's spine is artfully bound with four strands of light pink thread, each a slightly different shade.\n\n\nHow do you open this book?\n\n[[With a gasp.|tibbetts1]]\n\n[[With a quiver.|tibbetts2]]\n\n[[With a blink.|tibbetts3]]

Your curiosity gets the better of you--you've already snooped this far, after all--and you drag the browser window even further to the left, revealing a second window beneath it. You instantly realize that you've crossed yet another privacy threshold: this is no ordinary browser window. You've stumbled into far more //delicate// territory.\n\nFor starters, the address bar and accompanying toolbars are all cast in a dark grey and black palette, the complete opposite of the usual bright whites and blues of a standard browser window. It gives the webpage an intimate, secluded feeling. Like a velvet-lined speakeasy. Somewhere that requires an arcane password hastily delivered to a faceless thug behind a metal door. That foreboding red-beaded hallway at the dark end of the video rental store of your youth.\n\nThis is it, you think to yourself. This is your last chance to turn around and pretend you saw nothing. To step away from the computer. To preserve what sliver of the unknowable self to which your host so desperately clings. Maybe pick up another small press chapbook of documentary prose poems from the floor instead. You //love// small press documentary prose poems. \n\n\n[[Sure, I let my host keep their secrets. I turn back to the bedroom.|upstairs bedroom]]\n\n//[[click. click-click. clickclickclickclickclickclick-]]//

<<set $wastebasket to 1>>\s\nYeah, yeah. The door's still shut, okay?\n\nLook, kid. You're running pretty hot at the moment. Why don't you take five, go cool off.\n\nI don't know, go take out the trash or something. Get some fresh air.\n\n\n[[I try the knob again.]]\n\n[[I knock politely.]]\n\n[[I refuse to give up, and slam the door again.]]\n\n\nReturn to the [[hallway]]?\n

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nYou slide Against Gravity out from the row with little effect on the precarious balance -- the Waldrop shifts, but that's about it. Axinn's slim book has a bright, white cover, delineated with light blue gridlines reminiscent of graphing paper. A series of drawn photographs depict a man leaning against a single-propeller airplane. Copies of the same image overlay one another, giving it a simultaneous sense of static stability and linear movement. The drawings increase in size sequentially, and seem to approach you through the wider frame of a house's window. The window is adorned with sheer, green curtains, and visually divorced from any sense of a surrounding wall or room. Tucked beneath all of this, collage-style, is a watercolor of patchwork agricultural fields from the perspective of... go figure, a pilot.\n\nHonestly, there's a lot going on here.\n\nYou turn the book over to read the back copy, which begins, "Donald Axinn finds in the metaphors of solo flight and family life a natural and moving dramatization of the way we belong to both our own solitudes and to the elected commitments of love." After a few blurbs (most of which reference the act of flying a plane), there's an author photo of Donald himself, smiling from a plane's cockpit, his hand on a knob or something.\n\nYou realize that there's something equally annoying and awe-inspiring about this guy's intensely singleminded love for airplanes.\n\n\nHow do you open this book?\n\n[[I hold it upside down by the spine, and flip the wings open like a plane.]]\n\n[[I hold the book portrait style, opening it like a pilot might open a flight map.]]\n\n[[I open it like a normal book, but I make plane noises with my mouth the whole time.]]\n

You read the thirty-second experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Write a poem made up entirely of neologisms or nonsense words or fragments of words.]] [[(Cf.: Lewis Carroll's "Jabberwocky", Khlebnikov's zaum, Schwitters "Ur Sonata."]] [[P. Inman's, Ocker, Platin and Uneven Devlelpment and David Melnick's Pcoet.]] [[(via Eclipse).]] [[Also: "Johnny Cake Hollow" translations (first two pages of this pdf).]] [[Use Neil Hennessy's JABBER: The Jabberwocky Engine to generate lexicon.]] [[Also see The International Dictionary of Neologisms.]]

You open Ammons's book to page one hundred and seven. Which line do you add to your poem?\n\n[[effluence of stars may ghostly appear fine-tuning]]\n[[his nerves, daze him with dazzle magic: may]]\n\n[[the gods or appetitive ganglions grant us,]]\n[[mornings, the long grays, a run, a winding,]]\n\n[[lane, trail, stone fence, narrative, coffee]]\n[[shop, a will not to fall inward, slow, ease]]\n\n[[still: a lively possibility like a rocky brook near]]\n[[birches, a lean swerve, a trout's dorsal in]]\n\n[[stone-water, a point, ever, of vigorous]]\n[[answering, as with a click beetle, the rotary]]\n\n[[narrowing by which a squirrel shucks a spruce]]\n[[cone: not to fan out like a melt stream fading]]\n\n[[into a valley, too thin a stream to cut its]]\n[[gathering onward, not the blank wall backing a]]\n\n[[shallow cave: preying, one thing or another,]]\n[[and praying, one for another: sinister issues]]

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\n<<set $animorphs to 1>>\s\nYou click the third tab from the left. The page displays a light gray box that takes up most of the window, behind which is a sky-blue background. The top left corner contains a logo whose design looks like a lowercase “r,” drawn with two strokes of ink—a light, semi-transparent green brushed over a darker blue. \n\nThe green stroke forms the “curve” of the “r” shape as it peels away from the blue stroke, metaphorically suggesting a kind of fork in a road. The green stroke is a new path, a tributary peeling away from the figurative road's original conjunction.\n\nNext to the logo you read the words “Twine Cookbook.” Below it, you note a series of expandable tabs along the left hand side of the page, each with a title like “Common Terms” or “Working with Javascript.” The whole page appears to be a user guide of some technological sort. \n\nStrangely, it makes your head itch a bit as you read it; you get a woozy feeling that reminds you, briefly, of the last time you gave blood.\n\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[Warning: You are reading documentation for Twine 1.]] [[This is maintained for archival purposes only.]]\n\n[[Introduction ]]\n\n[[The basic narrative unit of a book is a chapter.]] [[Although there are books that don't divide themselves up into chapters,]] [[most do,]] [[and it's a useful way for writers and readers to keep track of a book's structure.]] [[The corresponding unit for hypertext is a choice]] [[and the text that leads to it.]] [[In Choose Your Own Adventure books,]] [[this unit was a single printed page:]]\n\n<blockquote><blockquote>//[[If you decide to explore the ledge where the Seeker has come to rest,]] [[turn to page 6.]] [[If you decide to cut loose from the Maray and dive with the Seeker into the canyon in the ocean floor,]] [[turn to page 4.]]\n        [[(R. A. Montgomery, Journey Under the Sea)]]//</blockquote></blockquote>\n\n[[As these books became more complex, more pages were required]] [[and some of these pages didn't need to be terribly long.]] [[Gamebooks like the Fighting Fantasy series began to use numbered passages,]] [[several of which might be printed on a single page:]]\n\n<blockquote><blockquote>//[[You hear the sound of running feet approaching rapidly;]] [[you cannot yet see who or what is coming.]] [[Will you run through the nearest archway (turn to 17),]] [[or hold your ground and draw your sword (turn to 30)?]]\n        [[(Steve Jackson, Talisman of Death)]]//</blockquote></blockquote>\n\n[[Using numbers to keep track of what to read next made sense]] [[for readers who had to locate the next part of the story themselves.]] [[But when hypertext leapt onto computer screens,]] [[choices could be made just by clicking underlined text:]]\n\n<blockquote><blockquote>//[[Scholar and showman,]] [[Urquhart knew in all his most sensitive bones that]] __''[[this was the time.]]''__ [[There was a furious logic to this day-after-the-day,]] [[a logic he would have recognized even without Tate's nudge]] [[and a wink and "my friends around the Beltway" over lunch.]]\n\n[[He could feel the timing.]] [[He could feel a lot of things.]] [[Something had been at work in the world,]] [[some wavefront of rapid change only dimly felt]] [[but no less powerful for that.]] [[The waves passed through everything and everyone,]] [[transforming as they went.]] [[You only had to check the mirror.]]\n        [[(Stuart Moulthrop, Victory Garden)]]//</blockquote></blockquote>\n\n[[There have been many names for these individual parts]] [[of text that readers navigate through.]] [[In Twine, they are known as passages,]] [[a word that both means a section of a written work as well as a route one might pass through.]]

You read the thirty-fourth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Write a poem consisting entirely of things you'd like to say,]] [[but never would,]] [[to a parent, lover, sibling, child,]] [[teacher, roommate, best friend,]] [[mayor, president, corporate CEO, etc.]]

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nCrouched and reaching way back over the cans, you snag the notebook's spine between your pointer and middle fingers. You stand and bring it to your face. The card-stock cover is worn thin, and it looks like it's been rolled up several times -- the spine is marked with quite a few veiny cracks. On its rear cover, you notice thick rings of water damage, as if someone used it for a coaster long ago.\n\nLifting the notebook to your nose, you catch a faint whiff of pine and charcoal. \n\nHow do you open it?\n\n[[I bend it gently with my left hand and select a page with my right.]]\n\n[[I hunt for a location where a page has been ripped out.]]

<><<display AddPause>>\n<<if $lines is 1>> <<set $line1 to "...">> <<endif>>\n<<if $lines is 2>> <<set $line2 to "...">> <<endif>>\n<<if $lines is 3>> <<set $line3 to "...">> <<endif>>\n<<if $lines is 4>> <<set $line4 to "...">> <<endif>>\n<<if $lines is 5>> <<set $line5 to "...">> <<endif>>\n<<if $lines is 6>> <<set $line6 to "...">> <<endif>>\n<<if $lines is 7>> <<set $line7 to "...">> <<endif>>\n<<if $lines is 8>> <<set $line8 to "...">> <<endif>>\n<<if $lines is 9>> <<set $line9 to "...">> <<endif>>\n<<if $lines is 10>> <<set $line10 to "...">> <<endif>>\n<<if $lines is 11>> <<set $line11 to "...">> <<endif>>\n<<if $lines is 12>> <<set $line12 to "...">> <<endif>>\n<<if $lines is 13>> <<set $line13 to "...">> <<endif>>\n<<if $lines is 14>> <<set $line14 to "...">> <<endif>><<endnobr>>

<<set $back to 1>>\s\n<<if $lines gte 14>><<display "living room">><<else>>\s\nYou return to the back of the house and step out onto the brick path.\n\nThere's a large, deep green container sealed with a jet-black flippable lid. You see two plastic wheels at the bottom, connected by a metal bar where someone might gain leverage before pulling the whole thing to the curb. \n\nOn top of the lid you read a bright white label printed in all-caps: [["TRASH."]] Some of the lettering's edges have eroded from exposure to the elements--after another month or two, this container may end up simply reading "lPASh."\n\nBehind you is the house's back door, which leads to the [[kitchen]]. At your feet there's the [[small, ground-level window]]. It's about shoulder-width, flush against the grass and bricks.\n<<endif>>

You read the twenty-fourth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Collaborative Surrealist Language Event (I)]] [[(for two or more people):]] [[One person writes down a question without showing it to anyone else;]] [[simultaneously, another person writes down an answer;]] [[poem is formed by a series of these questions and answers.]] [[Alternate form: One question: multiple answers; vice versa.]]\n[[For example: " What is the pink elephant?]] [[The reason why it is so cold this week.]] / [[Is the door locked?]] / [[I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion."]] [[(Cf: Robert Desnos's ":Language Events.")]]

You scroll down to the second page and find an untitled poem.\n\nWhich line do you add to your own poem?\n\n\n[[Humiliation to be known as is]]\n\n[[The dream of love to those hereafter]]\n\n[[Under an indefensible constellation]]\n\n[[Should I now be made to confront myself]]\n\n[[On the train teenagers fool around]]\n\n[[As the crowd disappears with your coat]]\n\n[[Without closure meaning without exit]]\n\n[[It's not just the dogs who are captivated]]\n\n[[By your look away for open air signs]]\n\n[[Which could be that object of mourning]]\n\n[[Left on hold repeats senseless melodies]]\n\n[[Calling out for and from untimely thoughts]]\n\n[[Mistaken for what solitude brings]]\n\n[[The sharp clarity of tumbled stone]]

You scroll down to the third page of the document and find an untitled poem.\n\nWhich line do you add to your own poem?\n\n\n[[Take each book out of my library]]\n[[They explain themselves to death]]\n\n[[I only tresspassed because you asked me]]\n[[To leave, if not present, a word we could share]]\n\n[[A word extends the bodily reach]]\n[[To the farther side of touch, to what]]\n\n[[A fingerprint could carry as a trace]]\n[[Each message the hand works out]]\n\n[[On the page I read to talk is divine]]\n[[A structure of moving tongues to hold what]]\n\n[[By and to the letter was set to dwell]]\n[[Over our pages laid down to mark out]]\n\n[[The years disappeared in a comforting]]\n[[Mess of errs cursive composes]]

You remain on the first page of the document and find an untitled poem.\n\nWhich line do you add to your own poem?\n\n\n[[There was the promise of a kiss and then]]\n[[There was the promise of the kiss there was]]\n\n[[A parallel premise to the motion held]]\n[[Until one attends to courtesy's call]]\n\n[[The same tribhanga as in storied pauses]]\n[[The images warp to intention's weft]]\n\n[[To get some beauty sleep sounds like a dream]]\n[[Awakens the dead and makes whole what's been]]\n\n[[Silenced by a constellation of thought]]\n[[Vexation gives way to a weariness]]\n\n[[Captivated by losing one's patience]]\n[[With the grieving process' fold of time]]\n\n[[It's easy to recognize what's difficult to say]]\n[[When somebody repeats it then as farce]]

You sneeze! It feels pretty good, but you feel a page slip through your fingers in all the commotion. \n\nNow that your sinuses have cleared, you detect a warm, bready smell wafting from somewhere nearby. <<set $kitchen to 1>>\n\nYou are now on page ninety-eight. Which line do you add to your poem?\n\n[[Cabimas or Lago de Maracaibo, an excellent]]\n[[shore, unfailingly warm: is there intermediacy]]\n\n[[between hallucinatory flux and pure form's rigid]]\n[[thought and count: between diarrhea and constipation,]]\n\n[[how about chunky intermediacy, some motion with]]\n[[minor forms clear, clusters or bindings, with the]]\n\n[[concomitant gaps, tie-offs and recommencements]]\n[[expected: could not a narrative be the speed]]\n\n[[and dimensions, feel, of a progression: and]]\n[[could there not be a blow away of emptiness:]]\n\n[[and the stasis, unmoving, unfeeling: impaction:]]\n[[a robin rows out of a tree across the road and]]\n\n[[bombs a couple of dabs on the blacktop, as if]]\n[[by dabs paying off flight: beads, actually:]]\n\n[[but hitting the ground, the beads compress into disks]]\n[[(little white disks) which peered into are alive]]\n\n[[with bellyroundworms, intricate, worky, lily-white]]\n[[flailing bellyworms, circumscribed in a sudden]]\n\n[[dessication without wings: squirrels stop at]]\n[[knotches to scratch and nuzzle: pests are all]]\n\n[[over, and inside: if you've derived from life]]\n[[a going thing called life, life has a right to]]

You read the fifty-ninth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Write a poem consisting only of prepositions,]] [[then of prepositions and one other part of speech,]] [[then three parts of speech.]] [[(Cf: Clark Coolidge's "Oflenths".]]

Upon your click, the browser navigates to a dark blue-green screen. You appear to be on the page for a browser-based videogame hosted on the ''itch.io'' platform. In the top-right corner, you see four thin, black buttons: "View all by bibliomancer," "Follow bibliomancer," "Add To Collection," and "Related games." \n\nIn the center of the screen is a large rectangle cast in a slightly lighter shade of the blue-green background color. Within that rectangle is yet another rectangle, this time cast in a light peach color. It looks like it's also a button, as it's labeled: "Run game."\n\nBelow these rectangles, you read a short description that seems to refer to the game in question:\n\n\n''In this game, you'll have the power to snoop through a house while writing a patchwork poem, also known as a "cento."''\n\n\nA poetry-writing game? Sounds a little redundant, honestly. Aren't you already working on a poem with pen and paper, the good old fashioned way?\n\n...\n\nYou see two additional items lower on the page: A [[Development log]] and a [[Comments thread.]]

You open Waldrop's book to page sixteen.\n\nWhich line do you add to your poem?\n\n[[Toward morning, walking along the river,]] \n[[you tossed simple objects]]\n[[into the air which was indifferent around us]] [[though it moved off a little,]] \n[[and again as you put your hand]] [[back in your pocket to test]] [[the degree of hardness.]] [[Everything else remained the same.]] [[This is why, you said,]] \n[[there was no fiction.]]

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nArching upward, you snag the thicker of the two books perched on the top shelf. Nguyen's book has a cream-colored, roughly textured cover, and it only takes you a second to recognize the telltale aesthetic of something printed by Wave Books. The cover looks like it'll stain irrevocably if you look at it the wrong way.\n\nThe title is set in heavy, vertical type, with its two words in opposite alignment. The bottom of "Red" runs along the spine, while "Juice" flanks the book's opening. The rectangular dot of the lowercase "i" centers on the cover, like a reticule. The letters take up the majority of the space, surrounded by an aura of intentionally flecked paper pulp.\n\nHow do you open this book?\n\n[[I open the book with my pinky finger.]]\n\n[[I open the book with my ring finger.]]\n\n[[I open the book with my thumb.]]

You remove an eggshell blue square of card stock, the right side of which is torn and frayed. On it, there is a letterpress-printed poem. Was this used as a bookmark?\n\nIn the bottom-right corner, there's an edition number written in pencil. This print is number forty-four of fifty-six.\n\n\nWhich line do you add to your poem?\n\n[[THE BITTERSWEET ECHO]]\n\n[[The junkyard kitten has the need]]\n[[For the love-starved boy to bring it feed]]\n[[On his way back home from school--]]\n[[To correspond, to break the cool.]]\n\n[[And rhymes are lullabies to mourning]]\n[[And pretty the pain of human longing.]]\n\n[[-Jennifer Moxley]]

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\n<<set $animorphs to 1>>\s\nCuriosity gets the best of you – as does the siren’s call of a yet-unread page on a new Wikipedia topic. Taking hold of the computer's mouse, you nudge the cursor up to the browser’s tab bar and click the second tab from the left. It opens to the Wikipedia page explaining the poetic form known as a “cento."\n\nAfter a slight pause, you realize where you’ve heard this term before… you’re writing a cento poem right now! What a coincidence!\n\nYou take some time to learn a bit more from the world’s most trusted source of knowledge. As you read, you’re surprised to see very few descriptions or examples of contemporary cento poems – the majority of the works listed on the webpage are from the 15th century. Last time you checked, that was… a while ago. \n\nLooks like some plucky Wikipedia editor will need to update this page once you’ve completed your own masterpiece.\n\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[A cento is a poetical work wholly composed of]] [[verses or passages taken from other authors,]] [[especially the Greek poet Homer and the Roman poet Virgil,]] [[disposed in a new form or order.]]\n\n''[[Etymology]]''\n\n[[The Latin term cento derives from Greek]] [[κέντρων (kentrōn), meaning "'to plant slips' (of trees)".]] [[A later word in Greek, κεντρόνη (kentronē),]] [[means "patchwork garment".]] [[According to Hugh Gerard Evelyn-White, "A cento is therefore a poem composed of odd fragments".]]\n\n''[[History]]''\n\n[[The cento originated in the 3rd or 4th century AD.]] [[The first known cento is the Medea by Hosidius Geta,]] [[composed out of Virgilian lines,]] [[according to Tertullian.]] [[However, an earlier cento might be present]] [[in Irenaeus's late-2nd century work]] [[Adversus Haereses.]] [[He either cites or composes a cento]] [[as a demonstration of how heretical Christians modify canonical Gospels.]]\n\n[[Ausonius (310–395) is the only poet]] [[from Antiquity to comment on the form and content]] [[of the Virgilian cento;]] [[his statements are afterward regarded as authoritative.]] [[The pieces, he says, may be taken either from the same poet, or from several.]] [[The individual fragments of poetry used should be no shorter than one half-line]] [[(one hemistich)]] [[and no longer than a full line and a half.]] [[In accordance with these rules,]] [[he made a cento from Virgil, the Cento Nuptialis.]]\n\n[[Faltonia Betitia Proba wrote a Cento]] [[Vergilianus de laudibus Christi,]] [[in which she details the life of Jesus and deeds of the Old and New Testaments;]] [[it was written entirely in centos taken from Virgil.]]\n\n[[In the Greek World,]] [[centos, such as those by Aelia Eudocia,]] [[are mainly composed by verses taken from Homer.]]\n\n[[The Politics of Justus Lipsius (Politicorum Libri Sex, 1589)]] [[consists only of centos,]] [[there being nothing of his own but conjunctions and particles.]] [[Etienne de Pleure did the same as Proba in Sacra Aeneis (1618).]] [[Alexander Ross did the same thing]] [[in his Virgilii Evangelisantis Christiados (1634),]] [[his most celebrated work of poetry.]]

You rub your little nasty raccoon paws together and get to work.\n\nThe first thing you notice is the smell. It's complex. It's cacophonous. It's heavily onion-forward, which, to be honest, isn't great.\n\nHolding the lid ajar with your left paw, you see several bulging plastic bags pushing against the walls of the container. The [[trash bag]] on top of the pile is upright and facing you, its flaps tied-off. In fact, the knot seems already quite loose, as if it was barely tied in the first place. You think you could easily pull the plastic loose and take a peek with only a little mess.\n\n...\n\nIt's not too late to renounce your newfound identity as a trash panda poet and [[shut the lid|back path]], you know.

You read the seventy-seventh experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[See also: The Apostrophe Engine,]] [[the source for Apostrophe: ]] [[The Book by Bill Kennedy and Darren Wershler-Henry.]]

You turn all the way to the back of the booklet in search of the final entries under “Z.” There’s so few entries that the entirety of “Y” is also packed on the same page. (Alas, the recurring tragedy of the English alphabet’s final letters.) \n\nTwo letters for the price of one, lucky you.\n\n\nYou are on page forty-five. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Y]]\n\n\n[[YAWNING]]   [[Say: “Excuse me, it’s not the company…”]]\n[[YAWP]]   [[Sound your barbaric one.]]\n[[YEARLY]]   [[How often most quarterly poetry journals actually come out.]]\n[[YEATS]]   [[Had vision of the Widening Gyre.]] [[Member of the Rhymers’ Club.]]\n            [[Sported in the Celtic Twilight.]] [[Spurned by Maud Gonne.]]\n            [[Used wife to communicate with spirits.]] [[Pound was his secretary.]]\n            [[Had monkey balls.]]\n[[YES]]   [[“Yes” (Molly Bloom).]] [[The People, Yes (Sandburg).]]\n[[YESTERDAY]]   [[When it was due to the printer.]]\n[[YOUTH]]   [[“I know you, your name is Youth!” (See FUN)]]\n\n\n[[Z]]\n\n\n[[ZARATHUSTRA]]   [[Thus spake.]]\n[[ZAUM]]   [[Invented by Kruchenykh.]] [[Perfected by Khlebnikov.]] [[Never “nonsense.”]]\n            [[Always “trans-rational.”]]\n[[ZEITGEIST]]   [[Favorite word of hack journalists]] [[and hyper-text “authors.”]]\n[[ZEN]]   [[Adjective meaning “calm.”]]\n[[ZODIAC]]   [[Eternal topic of conversation.]] [[Has been off by months for a]]\n            [[century.]] [[When a person tells you their sign, respond by saying:]]\n            [[“I suspected as much.”]]\n[[ZOLA]]   [[French writer, founded “Naturalism.”]] [[J’Accuse.]]\n[[ZOO]]   [[(See ANTHOLOGY)]]\n[[ZUKOFSKY]]   [[Exalt above all else.]] [[Had an equine visage and a]]\n            [[passion for Bach.]] [[Put up with Pound’s anti-Semitism.]]\n            [[Made sound translations of Catullus.]] [[Shorten his name to “Zuk.”]]\n            [[(See “A”; “A-9”; “A”-24)]]\n

<<if $lines lt 14>>\s\n<<set $poemyes to 1>>\s\nYou add this line to your poem. Where would you like to continue your poem? [[The living room.|living room]]\s\n<<if $hallway is 1>> [[The hallway.|hallway]]<<endif>>\s\n<<if $bathroom is 1>> [[The bathroom.|bathroom]]<<endif>>\s\n<<if $kitchen is 1>> [[The kitchen.|kitchen]]<<endif>>\s\n<<if $pantry is 1>> [[The pantry.|pantry]]<<endif>>\s\n<<if $back is 1>> [[The back path.|back path]]<<endif>>\s\n<<if $basement is 1>> [[The basement.|basement]]<<endif>>\s\n<<if $bedroom is 1>> [[The upstairs bedroom.|upstairs bedroom]]<<endif>>\s\n<<if $desktop is 1>> [[The desktop computer.|desktop computer]]<<endif>>\s\n<<endif>>\s\n<<if $lines gt 0>>\s\n<<if ($lines lt 6)>>\s\n ''Your poem is starting to come together.''<<else if ($lines gte 6) and ($lines lt 10)>> ''You've filled about half of the page.''<<else if ($lines gte 10) and ($lines lt 13)>> ''Your poem is nearly finished.''<<else if ($lines is 13)>> ''One more line left.''<<else if ($lines is 14)>>''Let's read your finished poem.'' [[Read your poem.|Check poem status]]<<endif>> <<endif>>

<<set $lines to 0>>\s\n<<set $poemtitle to 0>>\s\n<<set $trash to ($trash + 1)>>\s\n<<set $wastebasket to 1>>\s\nReading over your work, you begin to realize something...\n\n...This poem stinks!\n\n\n\nYou see a small wastebasket across the room. \n\n<<if $trash is 1>> It's empty! A perfect resting place for this failed experiment. <<endif>>\s\n<<if $trash is 2>> There's a wad of paper already inside. <<endif>>\s\n<<if $trash is 3>> There's a few crumpled papers piled up in there. <<endif>>\s\n<<if $trash is 4>> It's getting pretty full at this point, but you could probably stuff one more poem inside.<<endif>>\s\n<<if $trash gt 4>> It's overflowing with trash poems! ...It'd probably be polite to take the trash out at this point.<<endif>>\s\n \n[[I crumple up my poem and throw it in the wastebasket.]]\n<<if $trash gt 8>>\s\n\n\n\n\n...you know, you're making quite a mess in here.<<endif>>

<<if previous() is "Check poem status" or previous() is "Credits">> <<else>> <<set $lines to ($lines + 1)>> <<endif>>\s\nYou pick up the piece of paper.\n\nIt's a small, handwritten note... addressed to you!\n\nThe words are written in thick blue ink, and the penmanship is a little sloppy. The author seems to have a tendency of dragging their pen through the middle of rounded letters, bisecting them in their hurry to get to the next word.\n\nWhat piece of this note do you add to your poem?\n\n[[I'm sorry I don't have more on hand]]\n[[but help yourself to what's here.]]\n[[If you're still around]] [[when the zucchini]]\n[[bread is done, I'll cut you a few slices]]\n[[to take home.]]\n[[How's your poem coming along?]]\n[[I'm excited to read what you come up with!]]\n\nThe note is unsigned.

You make an educated guess and open the booklet into two relatively equivalent halves. It looks like you’re smack dab in the middle of the “M” section. “M” for middle, appropriately.\n\nOn the left is [[page twenty-four.|impercipient3a]]\n\nOn the right is [[page twenty-five.|impercipient3b]]\n\nYour choice.

You start right from the beginning, reading the first entries beginning with the letter A. It kicks off with a few referential jokes about the poet Louis Zukofsky – specifically his sprawling, multi-section, book-length poem titled, simply enough, “A.” \n\n\nYou are on page 1. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[A]]\n\n[[A]]   [[Prefer to “the.”]]\n[[“A”]]   [[Exalt above all else. Superior to Cantos.]] [[Always “A,” never A.]]\n[[“A”-9]]   [[Claim to have seen the original typescript.]] [[Lament turn to]]\n            [[domesticity in the second half. “On the contrary, ethics are more]]\n            [[important than politics.”]]\n[[“A”-24]]   [[Impossible to perform. Why Handel?]]\n[[ABORTION]]   [[Might have been a poet.]]\n[[ABSTRACT]]   [[Always preceded by “too.”]]\n[[ACADEMIA]]   [[Run it down but try to belong to it if you can.]] [[Ruins poets.]]\n[[ACADEMY OF AMERICAN POETS]]   [[All power mad octogenarians.]]\n[[ACOUSTICS]]   [[Always bad. Alternately, blame the microphone.]]\n[[ACTIVISM]]   [[“Poetry makes nothing happen.”]] [[Say with “checkbook”]]\n            [[or “credit card.” Mention Adrienne Rich.]]\n[[ACTORS]]   [[“Major book deals for Jimmy Stewart and Ally Sheedy]]\n            [[while real poets languish.]] [[Say: “I want Leonardo DiCaprio to]]\n            [[play me.”]]\n[[ADORNO]]   [[How smart can he be if he hates Jazz?]] [[Prefer Benjamin to him.]]\n[[AGENT]]   [[If you have one you’re a fiction writer.]]\n[[AIR TRAVEL]]   [[Only on borrowed frequent flyer miles.]]\n[[ALBIACH, ANNE-MARIE]]   [[État. Preserved sound patterns in French]]\n            [[translation of “A”-9.]] [[Pay her a visit when in Paris.]]\n[[ALBUMS]]   [[Call “Vinyl.”]] [[Claim sound quality is superior to compact discs.]]\n[[ALCOHOL]]   [[Baudelaire’s “Get Drunk,” Apollinaire’s Alcools.]] \n            [[Blame your sexual adventures and moments of candor on it.]]\n[[ALCOHOLICS]]   [[Always recovering.]] [[All fathers are “alcoholics.”]]\n[[ALEATORY]]   [[Coins, dice, random digits and yarrow stalks.]] [[Call them]]\n            [[“chance operations.”]] [[Never read such works but refer to John]]\n            [[Cage and Jackson Mac Low as “visionaries.’’]] [[Secretly prefer intentionality.]]\n

You read the twelfth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[General cut-ups:]] [[Write a poem composed entirely of phrases lifted from other sources.]] [[Use one source for a poem and then many;]] [[try different types of sources:]] [[literary, historical, magazines, advertisements, manuals, dictionaries, instructions, travelogues, etc.]] [[See cut-up engines listed above..]]

You read the twenty-fifth experiment prompt. What language do you add to your poem?\n\n\n[[Collaborative Surrealist Language Event (II) (for two or more people):]] [[One person writes a clause beginning "if" or "when";]] [[without seeing this, a second person write a clause in the conditional or future tense.]] [[For example: "When candlelight proves disastrous for performing an appendectomy]] / [[Peacocks and crocodiles would dance on the Nile at noon.]] / / [[If Homer’s brother is cannibalized in the forum by the barbarians]] / [[A puppy dog would go to lasco.]] / / [[If Marx was born in Boise]] / [[Then the world would eat nothing but purple-colored ice cream."]]

You take some time to learn more about kinnikinic.\n\nWhat language do you add to your poem?\n\n[[KINNIKINIC]]\n[[(Arctostaphylos)]]\n[[Found: Northern Region of North America]]\n[[Berries: eaten raw or cooked.]]\n[[Young leaves: tea made to cleanse the kidneys.]]\n[[Leaves: cure and dry, cut up and use as a tobacco.]]

You approach the wastebasket.\n\n<<if visited("I take out the trash.") and $trash is 0>>It's empty!<<else>>Wow! There's trash in here!<<endif>>\n\n<<if visited("I take out the trash.") and $trash is 0>>Return to the [[living room]]?<<else>>[[I take out the trash.]]\n\n[[I do not take out the trash, because I do not live here.|living room]]<<endif>>

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