They're scattered around town — on buses, trains, cabs, in restrooms, bars, left along with the tip; stuffed into a stranger's back pocket. Whatever. Wherever. Small poems in small booklets half the size of a business card. A project of the 24th street irregular press, which cranks them out to be taken by the handful and scattered like seeds by those who want to see poetry grow in a barren cultural landscape.
Hot diggity, I like the sound of that. Rhian's the kind of person who will stop and pick up every piece of printed refuse she sees, in the hope that it will contain something good. It hardly ever does. Projects like these can bring a little balance to the vast meaningless logorrhea of the world--let's hear it for guerilla publishing.