My name is Podry O'Tumour and one of the things that's so intriguing about poetry is that

often poetry is written in the first person.

Somebody is speaking, I this, I that.

Your voicing words that they've written, but it's not your own words.

So space is brought into play between the voice of the poem and the voice of the person

is reading the poem out.

And especially when that space is wide part of the art of the poem is to step into that

space and to allow that space to challenge you.

What is the space between me and the speaker of this poem?

What are the ways within which our lives are nothing I like, but they're allowing me

by reading the poem out, to read the poem out in the first person in order for me to use

the imagination to map out the space of power and challenge between me and them?

When I was in Las Vegas and saw a warhole painting of Geronimo by B. William Bearhart, when

I was in Las Vegas and saw a warhole painting of Geronimo I thought we could be related

Andy and I, where both blue walls and yellow cows in a gallery of pristine white, where

both screen prints, offset and layered, under exposed, where both silver clouds filled

with helium and polluted rain, where both white and blonde and scared of hospitals.

Actually I'm not really any of those things.

And then I thought we could be related to Geronimo and I, where both code names for assassinations,

where both first names you yell when you jump from a plane, where both gamblers and dead

and neon acrylic brushstrokes on a screen printed image.

Finally I'm more like a neon beer sign, spottering in a tavern window, burned out, broke, a heart

...