I have accepted it—to live in forgetfulness of myself, For nothing here tries to remember me. I mean, each time I try to live here, the country calls me by a name, forgetfulness— Our ancestors were never called less of the earth and her world.
Alternating between the voices of expert bricklayers, hurt children, frank parents, and an omniscient third-person narrator who, in italics, ties the collection together, Mortar pushes past discomfort:
He insisted on going his own way. In a ferry made of stone. King of the mountain, he yodeled again and again. Snow is a hoax. Goats make good cheese. Bury me inblue.
No regrets, without all I would have never become the emotionally disturbed person who called herself Pantifesto’s Pornastic Phunhouse on MySpace where I was encouraged to do open-mics.
We interrupt our regularly scheduled program to bring you a statement of reassurance to the American public. America has not fallen. I repeat: America has not fallen.
Sampsell is fully involved in Tony’s perspective, imagining how a two year old (the book goes until age five) will interpret what he sees, given limited experience with the world and its contents...
A fish leaps through a forest of trees. A kid cavorts - parades on the black plain. A small girl arrives at what she believes is a wedding, absorbed in herself- and burns.
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